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OXFORD  EDITION 

.  ^oema  of 

ROBERT   SOUTHEY 

CONTAINING 

TIIALAEA,  THE  CURSE  OF  KEIIAMA 

RODERICK,  MADOC,  A  TALE  OF  RARAGUAY 

AND  SELECTED  MINOR  POEMS 

EDITED    BY 

MAURICE  H.  FITZGERALD,  M.A. 


LONDON: HENRY    FROWDE 

OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS,  AMEN  CORNER,  E.G. 

NEW   YORK  :    29-35   WEST   32ND   STREET 

TORONTO  :   25-27   RICHMOND   STREET   WEST 

MELBOURNE  :    CATHEDRAL   BUILDINGS 

1909 


fa 


OXFORD  :    nOUACE   HAKT 
PRINTER  TO  THE   UNI^•£RSITY 


EDITOR'S   PREFACE 

•  Few  people,'  it  has  been  said,  '  have  ^^Titten  so  much  and  so  well  as 

Southey,  and  have  been  so  little  read.'     The  remark  refers  to  his  work  as 

a  whole — in  prose  as  well   as  in  verse — but  it  is  singularly  applicable  to 

his  poetry.     As  a  poet  Southey  is  now  scarcely  known,  save  as  the  author 

of  the  lines  beginning:    '  My  days  among  the  Dead  are  past,'  and  of  a  few 

ballads  such  as  The  Battle  of  Blenheim  and  The  Inchcape  Rock,  which  are 

learnt  by  children  in  the  nursery.     The  general  estimation  in  which  he  is 

held  may  be  illustrated  by  the  obiter  dictum  in  a  recent  review,  that  'it 

is  impossible  to  take  Southey  as  a  poet  seriously ' ;  and  he  is  usually  con- 

jdemned  as  unreadable  without  a  trial.     But  it  is  surely  impossible  to  accept 

iso  summary  a  verdict — a  verdict,  be  it  remarked,  which  is  in  direct  contra- 

idiction  to  that  pronounced  upon  Southey's  poetry  by  the  most  competent 

judges  of  his  o%vn  day.     No  one,  indeed,  would  pretend  that  Southey  was 

3ne  of  the  greatest  of  English  poets.     His  position  in  our  poetical  hierarchy 

s  far  more  modest.     But  a  man  may  attain  to  an  honourable  place  on 

he  roll  of  Parnassus,  although  he  fall  considerably  short  of  the  highest 

ink,  and  in  his  lifetime  Southey  had  no  cause  to  fear  the  judgement  of 

lis  peers.     The  praise  bestowed  upon  his  poetry  by  S.  T.  Coleridge,  and  by 

A'.  S.  Landor,  might  perhaps  be  discounted  on  the  ground  that  each  of  these 

wo  critics  was   influenced  by  close  personal    friendship  for    its   author. 

Uit  we  may  cite  the  opinions  of  other  men  free  from  any  suspicion  of  such 

ias  and  equally  well  quahfied  to  speak.     In  1813  Sir  Walter  Scott  declined 

hf  laureat^ship  which  had  been  offered  him,  (though  without  the  Regent's 

mowledge  or  approval),  by  Lord  Liverpool  ;   and  in  declining  he  suggested 

o  Croker  that  the  post  should  be  offered  to  Southey.     On  September  4 

'f  that  year  he  ^\Tites  to  Southey  to  explain  what  he  has  done,  and  to 

ke  it  clear,  as  he  expresses  it,  that  he  has  not  himself  refused  the  laurel 

r>m  any  foolish  prejudice  against  tlie  situation:    otherwise,  how  durst 

mention  it  to  you,  my  elder  brother  in  the  muse  ? — but  from  a  sort  of 

iiernal  hope  that  they  would  give  it  to  you,  upon  whom  it  would  be  so  much 

228566 


iv  EDITOR'S  PREFACE 


more  worthily  conferred.     For  I  am  not  such  an  ass  as  not  to  know  that 
you  are  my  better  in  poetry,  though  I  have  had,  probably  but  for  a  time, 
the  tide  of  popularity  in  my  favour '  (Lockhart's  Life  of  Scott,  chap.  xxvi). 
Now,  no  doubt  in  this  letter  Scott  was  anxious  to  say  pleasant  things  in 
a  pleasant  manner.     But  he  was  no  humbug.     He  would  never  have  gone 
out  of  his  way  to  coin  a  false  and  empty  compliment,  and  he  could  not  have 
written  as  he  did,  unless  he  had  felt  a  sincere  admiration  for  Southey's 
poetical  powers.     Byron,  again,  whose  principles  were  as  opposed  to  those 
of  Southey  in  poetry  as  they  were  in  politics,  morality,  and  religion,  was 
yet  constrained  to  admit  the  Laureate's  claims  to  admiration  as  a  poet. 
*  Of  his  poetry,'  he  TVTote  in  his  journal  for  November  22,  1813,  '  there  are 
various  opinions  :  there  is,  perhaps,  too  much  of  it  for  the  present  generation  ; 
— posterity   will   probably   select.     He   has   passages  equal   to   anything  * 
(Moore's   Life  of  Byron,  chap,  xviii).     And  at  a  later  date  he  spoke  of 
Roderick  as   '  the   first  poem   of   the   time  '.     To  this  testimony  we  may 
add  the  witness  of  another  political  adversary  of  Southey,  in  the  person  of 
Macaulay.     The  young  champion  of  the  Edinburgh  Remew  was  not  the  man  [ 
to  deal  tenderly  with  the  leading  writer  of  the  opposing  party.     He  mustl« 
have  felt  towards  Southey  something  of  that  desire  to  '  dust  the  varlet'a 
jacket  for  him  in  the  next  number  of  the  Blue  and  Yellow ',  which,  a  year  late] 
animated  his  notorious  attack  upon  John  Wilson  Croker.     And  in  his  revic 
of  Southey's  Colloquies  on  the  Progress  and  Prospects  of  Society  he  critic] 
his  opponent's  writings  both  in  prose  and  verse  with  unsparing  severit; 
Yet  in  the  midst  of  his  censure  he  makes  the  following  remarkable  admission 
'  His  poems,  taken  in  the  mass,  stand  far  higher  than  his  prose  wor! 
His  official  Odes,  indeed,  among  which  the  Vision  of  Judgement  must 
classed,  are,  for  the  most  part,  worse  than  Pye's  and  as  bad  as  Gibber's 
nor  do  we  thmk  him  generally  happy  in  short  pieces.     But  his  longer  poe 
though  full  of  faults,   are  nevertheless  very  extraordinary  productio 
We  doubt  greatly  whether  they  will  be  read  fifty  years  hence  ;    but  thai 
if  they  are  read,  they  will  be  admired,  we  have  no  doubt  whatever.'     Ani 
to  come  down  to  more  recent  times,  we  may  cite  in  conclusion  the  favourab! 
judgements  pronounced  upon  Southey  as  a  poet  by  men  so  eminent 
so  different  from  one  another,  as  Cardinal  Newman  and  Thomas  CarlyL 
The  influence  exercised  upon  the  former  by  Thalaba  is  well  known.    '  Thalaba 
he  -wTote  in  1850,  '  has  ever  been  to  my  feelings  the  most  sublime  of  Engli 
poems— (I  don't  know  Spenser)— I  mean  morally  sublime.     The  versificati 
of  Thalaba  is  most  melodious  too — many  persons  will  not  perceive  th( 
are  reading  blank  verse.'     (Quoted  in  Lord  Acton  and  his  Circle,  ed.  Abb 
Gaaquet,  O.S.B.,  p.  xix.)     Carlyle,  though  far  from  being  unquaUfied 


EDITOR'S  PREFACE 


his  praise,  tells  us  in  his  Remiyiiscences  how  his  early  prejudice  against 
Southey,  derived  from  the  Edinburgh  Revieic,  was  overcome  by  tlie  reading 
of  his  chief  poems.  '  It  must  have  been  a  year  or  two  later,'  he  says,  '  when 
his  Thalaba,  Curse  of  KcJiaina,  Joan  of  Arc,  &c.,  came  into  my  hands,  or 
;Some  one  of  them  came,  which  awakened  new  effort  for  the  others. 
II  recollect  the  much  kindlier  and  more  respectful  feeling  these  awoke  in  me, 
jwhich  has  continued  ever  since.  I  much  recognize  the  piety,  the  gentle 
deep  affection,  the  reverence  for  God  and  man,  which  reigned  in  these 
pieces  :  full  of  soft  pity,  like  the  wailings  of  a  mother,  and  yet  with  a  clang 
of  chivalrous  valour  finely  audible  too.'  (T.  Carlyle's  Reminiscences,  vol.  ii, 
Appendix,  p.  311  [1881].) 

Each  of  us  ought  doubtless  to  form  his  own  opinions  on  literary  questions, 
18  on  others,  without  a  slavish  deference  to  authority,  however  great. 
But  the  criticisms  quoted  above  from  men  so  well  qualified  to  judge  may 
it  least  give  us  pause  before  we  decide  to  condemn  Southey  to  oblivion 
IS  no  better  than  a  laborious  poetaster. 

Meanwhile  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  it  is  more  difficult  for  us  than  it 

vas  for  his  contemporaries  adequately  to  appreciate  such  a  writer  as  Southey. 

.Ve  are  under  the  influence  of  greater  and  very  different  minds.     We  shall 

ot  find  in  Southey  the  creative  imagination,  the  philosophic  insight,  of 

downing  or  of  Tennyson.     We  shall  miss  in  him  the  dramatic  power  of 

he  one,  and  the  mastery  of  diction,  the  curiosa  felicitas,  of  the  other. 

louthey  plumbs  no  depths  of  thought.     He  soars  to  no  heights  of  lyric 

pture.  .  The  sensuous  element  is  almost  wholly  absent  from  his  writings. 

t  is  not  his  to  stir  the  deepest  feelings  of  our  nature  ;    and  many  of  his 

oems  may  justly  be  charged  with  a  lack  of  human  interest.     Again,  his 

[nagination  is  not  always  completely  master  of  the  materials  with  which 

i  works.     He  can  construct  rather  than  create.     His  exuberant  fancy  leads 

at  times  unconsciously  to  cross  the  borderland  which  separates  what  is 

:range  and  striking  from  what  is  merely  strange  and  grotesque.     His 

iction  is  wanting  in  those  '  inevitable  '  touches  which  mark  the  work  of 

U  really  great  poets.     His  style  is  apt  to  be  diffuse;  and  he  has  a  tendency 

3  preach  too  obviously.     But,  when  full  allowance  has  been  made  for  all 

fects,  there  remains  in  Southey's  poetry  much  that  is  wholly  admirable. 

[e  may  utter  no  very  profound  message  to  the  world  ;  he  may  not  see  very 

r  into  the  mystery  of  human  life.    But  he  has  seen  enough  to  inspire 

im  to  high  and  unfaltering  action.     The  spirit  of  Christian  Stoicism  which 

nimated  his  whole  life  breathes  through  all  his  writings.     In  them  Southey 

as  given  noble  expression  to  the  power  of  the  human  will,  based  on  religious 

bith,  to  resist  evil  and  to  rise  superior  to  all  untoward  circumstance.     Hie 


vi  EDITOR'S  PREFACE 

poetry,  as  all  else  that  he  wrote,  reveals  a  firm  trust  in  the  ultimate  triumph 
of  good,  a  cheerful  courage  to  endure  suffering,  a  passion  to  resist  all  tyranny 
and  oppression,  an  unshakable  resolve  to  cleave  to  all  that  is  fair  and  pure 
and  true.  Such  a  spirit  is  far  removed  from  certain  tendencies  of  modern 
thought.  But,  while  it  is  content  to  leave  much  unexplained,  it  will  seem 
to  many  to  have  laid  hold  upon  the  larger  portion  of  the  truth. 

But  other  qualifications  go  to  make  a  poet  besides  nobility  of  thought 
and  aim  ;  and  in  such  qualifications  Southey  is  not  wanting.  He  commands 
a  flexible  and  ample  diction,  a  style  which  can  rise  and  fall  in  accordance 
with  its  subject.  His  imagination  is  rich  and  powerful,  if  at  times  somewhat 
undisciplined.  Many  of  his  characters  are  finely  conceived  and  clearly 
presented  to  the  reader's  mind.  This  is  more  especially  true  of  Roderick. 
Indeed,  there  are  few  scenes  in  English  poetry  of  a  more  intense  dramatic 
feeling  than  that  in  which  Florinda  confesses  to  the  guilty  king,  changed 
beyond  recognition  in  his  hermit's  garb,  the  story  of  their  common  fall. 
Add  to  this  that  Southey  is  a  master  of  spirited  narrative  ;  that  his  hoards 
of  curious  learning  furnish  him  with  a  wealth  of  exotic  and  picturesque 
ornament  and  illustration  ;  that  he  possesses  great  metrical  dexterity, 
and  a  vein  of  real,  if  somewhat  simple,  humour  ;  and  it  will  easily  be  under- 
stood that  he  commands  a  great  variety  of  range.  Nor,  in  trying  to  form 
a  just  estimate  of  Southey 's  poetry,  must  we  forget  to  take  into  considera- 
tion his  historical  importance  as  a  factor  in  the  development  of  our  literature. 
This  is  perhaps  generally  underrated.  Southey  did  far  more  than  is  usually  ; 
recognized  in  breaking  the  fetters  which  had  been  riveted  upon  our  poetry  ; 
by  the  genius  and  authority  of  Pope.  Cowper,  Crabbe,  and,  still  more, 
Burns,  had  already  begun  to  teach  men  to  admire  what  is  simple  and  natural 
instead  of  worshipping  exclusively  a  glittering  and  artificial  perfection  of 
form  ;  but  Southey  was  almost  the  first  to  strike  out  an  entirely  new  line. 
Joan  of  Arc  is  not  a  good  poem,  but  it  heralded  the  daAMi  of  the  romantic  \ 
school.  Thalaba  was  published  four  years  before  The  Lay  of  the  Last  : 
Minstrel.  At  that  time  Southey's  verse  was  far  more  widely  read  than  that  ' 
of  Wordsworth  or  Coleridge,  and  he  did  much  to  make  smooth  the  way 
for  greater  poets  than  himself.  His  English  Eclogues,  again,  and  his 
Monodramas — crude  and  uninspired  as  in  themselves  they  are — furnished 
the  rough  models  for  some  of  the  most  striking  work  of  Browning  and 
of  Tennyson.  And  in  some  of  his  Ballads  his  humorous  treatment  of 
mediaeval  fables  and  his  mastery  of  rhyme  and  metre  are  a  distinct  anticipa- 
tion of  the  Ingoldshy  Legends.  It  would  be  most  misleading  to  judge  of 
Southey's  historical  importance  as  a  poet  by  looking  solely  at  his  reputation 
to-day. 


EDITOR'S  PREFACE  vii 


One  further  caution  must  be  added.  All  poets — even  the  greatest — 
have  wTitten  a  quantity  of  verse  that  is  comparatively  worthless.  Southcy 
himself  frankly  admitted  that  many  of  his  shorter  pieces  were  fit  for  little 
but  the  flames.  But  lie  could  at  least  plead  in  excuse  that  ho  had  written 
them  under  pressure  of  sheer  necessity,  in  order  to  earn  money  wherewith  to 
maintain  his  own  family  and  others  dependent  upon  his  generosity.  For 
several  years  he  wTote  verses  for  the  Morning  Post  at  a  guinea  a  week  ; 
and  these  and  other  like  pieces  of  task-work  could  not  be  expected  to  reach 
a  very  high  level  of  merit.  The  necessity  for  doing  such  task-work  to  some 
extent  spoilt  Southey  as  a  poet.  But  those  who  have  learnt  to  know  and  to 
love  him  can  hardly  wish  that  it  had  been  otherwise.  For  the  noble  self- 
denial,  the  ceaseless  industry,  the  unfailing  cheerfulness  with  which  he  bore 
this  burden,  are  among  the  most  attractive  features  in  his  character.  If 
Southey  missed  greatness  as  a  poet,  he  attained  it  as  a  man  :  and  to  know 
him  as  a  man  is  to  gain  immensely  in  appreciation  of  his  poetry,  for  his  char- 
actor  is  stamped  upon  everything  that  he  wTote.  In  this  connexion  let  us 
listen  to  the  witness  of  Sir  Henry  Taylor,  himself  a  poet  and  a  man  of 
a  keen  critical  faculty.  He  had  been  the  intimate  friend  of  Southey's  later 
years  and  had  known  him  as  he  was  ;   and  this  is  how  he  WTites  of  him  : — 

'  If  he  expected  for  himself  a  larger  measure  of  attention  from  posterity 
than  may  now  seem  likely  to  be  accorded  him,  it  should  be  remembered  that, 
though  as  long  as  his  mind  lasted  he  "  lived  laborious  days  "  for  the  sake 
of  his  family  and  of  others  whom,  in  the  generosity  of  his  heart,  he  helped 
to  support,  yet  all  the  labours  of  all  the  days  did  not  enable  him  to  do  more 
than  make  preparations  for  the  three  great  works  which  it  was  the  object 
and  ambition  of  his  life  to  accomplish. 

'  Of  what  he  did  accomplish  a  portion  will  not  soon  be  forgotten.  There 
were  greater  poets  in  his  generation,  and  there  were  men  of  a  deeper  and 
more  far-reaching  philosophic  faculty  ;  but  take  him  for  all  in  all — his 
ardent  and  genial  piety,  his  moral  strength,  the  magnitude  and  variety 
of  his  powecs,  the  field  which  he  covered  in  literature,  and  the  beauty  of 
his  life — it  may  be  said  of  him,  justly  and  with  no  straining  of  the  truth, 
that  of  all  his  contemporaries  he  was  the  greatest  man.'  {The  English 
Poets,  ed.  T.  H.  Ward,  iv,  p.  164.) 

It  does  not  fall  within  the  scope  of  this  series  to  give  critical  estimates 
of  the  authors  whose  works  are  published  in  it.  But  it  seemed  worth 
while  to  say  so  much  in  order  to  justify  the  inclusion  of  Southey  among 
the  '  Oxford  Poets  '.  The  nature  of  the  present  volume  may  now  be  briefly 
explained. 


viii  EDITOR'S  PREFACE 

In  1837-8  Southey  published  his  collected  Poetical  Works  in  ten  volumes. 
That  edition  included  a  few  pieces  not  previously  printed,  and  all  those 
poems  already  published  which  Southey  thought,  for  any  reason,  worthy 
of  preservation.  It  was  originally  intended  to  reprint  in  the  present  volume 
all  the  poems  published  in  1837-8  together  with  the  following  additions  : — 

1.  ''Oliver  Newman:  a  New-England  Tale  (unfinished):  With  Other 
Poetical  Remains.'  A  volume  under  this  title  was  pubhshed  in  1845,  after 
Southey's  death,  by  Herbert  Hill,  his  cousin  and  son-in-law  ;  and  the 
poems  contained  in  it  were  subsequently  included  in  a  one-volume  reprint 
of  the  collected  edition  of  1837-8. 

2.  Rohin  Hood,  Part  I ;  The  Three  Spaniards  ;  and  March  ;  all  of  which 
appeared  in  1847  in  a  small  volume  published  by  Mrs.  Southey,  entitled 
'  Robin  Hood  :  .  . .  A  Fragment.  By  the  late  Robert  Southey  and  Caroline 
Southey.     With  Other  Fragments  and  Poems  by  R.S.  and  C.S.' 

3.  The  Inscription  for  a  Coffee-Pot  and  the  Lines  to  Charles  Lamb 
(see  pp.  378  and  402). 

It  was  discovered,  however,  that  such  an  edition  would  demand  a  volume 
of  no  less  than  1,100  pages.  It  therefore  became  clear  that  some  system 
of  selection  must  be  adopted.  The  loss  involved  in  this  change  of  plan 
was  the  less  important  since,  as  has  been  noticed  above,  Southey  was  impelled 
by  the  stern  necessity  of  winning  his  daily  bread  to  wTite  for  the  newspapers 
great  quantities  of  verse  admittedly  of  very  little  merit.  Such  productions 
of  uninspired  drudgery  may  safely  be  disregarded  in  forming  an  estimate 
of  a  poet's  true  worth.  Again,  while  in  the  case  of  a  Shakespeare  or  a  Milton 
there  may  be  some  justification  for  gathering  together  every  line  of  verse 
that  the  author  ever  wrote,  the  same  argument  does  not  apply  to  the  works 
of  lesser  men.  The  office  of  a  literary  Resurrection  Man  has  little  to 
recommend  it.  And  a  poet  may  fairly  claim  that  the  reputation  due  to 
the  best  that  he  has  given  us  should  not  be  buried  beneath  a  mass  of  wTitings 
which  he  would  himself  wish  forgotten.  Further,  it  should  be  remembered 
in  the  present  instance  that  Southey  himself  set  the  example  of  making 
a  selection  from  his  own  poems  :  for  there  were  many  of  his  early  pieces 
which  he  dehberately  did  not  republish  in  1837-8. 

The  necessity  of  selection  once  admitted,  it  was  clear  that  the  only  rational 
principle  on  which  that  selection  could  be  based  was  the  hterary  merit 
of  each  particular  poem.  Upon  that  principle  I  have  tried  to  act  in  prej^aring 
the  present  volume.  I  have,  indeed,  retained  a  few  pieces  which  have  no 
great  claim  to  survival  except  as  they  serve  to  illustrate  Southey's  own 
personality  or  the  development  of  his  art.  And  no  poem  here  printed 
appears  in  a  mutilated  form.     But  I  believe  that  I  have  omitted  nothing  of 


EDITOR'S  PREFACE  ix 


l>crmancnt  value  as  literature.  Indeed,  I  doubt  whether  Southey  himself 
would  have  fought  very  strenuously  for  the  retention  of  any  of  the  poems 
excluded,  apart  from  the  Vision  of  Judgement.  In  that  particular  instance, 
it  must  be  admitted,  we  should  probably  have  failed  to  convince  him  : 
i!id  we  should  have  been  reduced  to  retort  upon  him  his  own  reply  to  certain 
!  itics  of  the  Vision,  that  '  de  gustibus  non  est  disputandum  '.  A  word, 
iiowever,  should  perhaps  be  said  as  to  the  omission  of  Joan  of  Arc.  On 
grounds  of  historical  interest  I  wish  it  had  been  possible  to  retain  the  poem 
l>y  which  Southey  first  made  his  name.  But  considerations  of  space 
clomanded  its  sacrifice,  and  no  serious  plea  could  be  advanced  in  support  of 
its  lit€rary  excellence.  Even  the  historical  interest  of  Joan  of  Arc,  as  it 
appeared  in  1837,  is  comparatively  small.  The  poem  was  practically 
re-^\Tittcn  no  less  than  three  times  after  its  fu'st  publication,  and  in  its 
final  form  it  jjrcscnts  but  a  pale  reflexion  of  the  sentimental  ardours  which 
mark  the  original  version  of  179G.  Of  Southey's  longer  poems,  as  it  is 
the  earliest,  so  it  is  from  a  literary  standpoint  the  least  worthy  of  preserva- 
tion. And  it  may  therefore  be  the  more  readily  omitted  from  an  edition 
intended  for  lovers  of  poetry  in  general  rather  than  for  the  iiiofessional 
student.  Two  pieces  only  will  be  found  in  the  present  volume  which  have 
not  previously  appeared  in  any  collected  edition  of  Southey's  Poems — 
the  Lines  to  Charles  Lamb  and  the  Inscription  for  a  Co§ee-Pot.  The 
reasons  for  reprinting  these  verses  are  given  in  the  Notes. 

For  the  convenience  of  any  students  of  our  literature  who  may  wish 
to  gain  an  acquaintance  with  the  whole  extent  of  Southey's  verse  I  have 
added  in  the  Appendix  the  chief  sources  in  which  poems  not  reprinted  in 
this  volume  may  be  found.  But,  as  stated  above,  none  of  those  pieces 
can  be  regarded  as  making  any  serious  contribution  towards  Southey's 
poetical  reputation. 

The  poems  have  been  arranged  in  the  present  edition  upon  the  following 
plan.  In  the  first  378  pages  will  be  found  grouped  together  Thalaha,  The 
Curse  of  Kehama,  and  Roderick,  the  three  finest  of  Southey's  long  poems,  and 
also  a  small  selection  of  the  best  of  his  minor  pieces.  It  is  hoped  that  this 
arrangement  may  be  a  help  to  the  reader,  who  will  find  most  of  Southey's 
best  work  brought  together  in  a  convenient  form,  instead  of  having  to  hunt 
it  out  for  himself  from  the  entire  mass  of  the  poetry.  It  was  inevitable 
that  such  a  selection  should  produce  a  certain  elTcct  of  incongruity  ;  and 
this  is  more  especially  the  case,  since  one  or  two  lighter  pieces  have  been 
included  in  it,  rather  as  being  characteristic  of  the  writer  than  as  making 
any  claim  to  j^oetical  merit.  But  the  end  may  in  this  case  justify  the  means  ; 
and  the  very  variety  of  style  and  subject  serves  to  illustrate  the  extent 

a3 


EDITOR'S  PREFACE 


of  Southey's  range.  After  the  Selected  Minor  Poems  the  arrangement 
is  that  adopted  by  Southey  in  1837-8 — with  the  addition,  as  mentioned 
above,  of  the  Lines  to  Charles  Lamb. 

The  editor  of  Southey's  poems  finds  himself  free  from  one  great  difficulty 
common  to  editors  ;  he  is  called  uj^on  lo  decide  no  question  of  variant 
readings.  The  text  of  the  poems  as  revised  by  Southey  himself  in  1837-8 
is  clearly  final.  In  reprinting  that  text  I  have  made  no  change,  apart  from 
the  correction  of  one  or  two  plain  misprints,  and  of  certain  obvious  inad- 
vertencies in  punctuation.  I  have  not  thought  it  worth  while  to  alter 
a  few  archaisms  of  spelling.  Such  forms  as  '  chuse  ',  '  controul ',  or  'gulph ', 
can  confuse  no  one  ;  and,  as  Southey  preferred  to  use  these  forms,  there 
seems  no  good  reason  why  we  should  revise  them  for  him. 

It  may  here  be  noted  in  passing  that,  while  Southey  spared  no  pains  in 
correcting  his  earlier  poems,  when  once  he  had  mastered  his  craft,  he  \\TOte 
little  which  he  afterwards  saw  cause  to  alter.  Thus  Joan  of  Arc 
was  practically  rewritten  at  least  three  times  ;  the  second  edition  of  Thalaba 
is  an  immense  improvement  on  the  first,  and  is  in  its  turn  far  inferior  in 
symmetry  and  polish  to  the  final  version  of  the  poem  as  it  appeared  in 
1838  ;  and  many  of  the  early  minor  pieces  were  recast  after  their  first 
publication  in  almost  every  line.  On  the  other  hand,  the  variations  between 
the  first  and  later  editions  of  Madoc  are  comparatively  few  and  unimportant, 
and  the  latest  text  of  The  Curse  of  Kehanm  and  of  Roderick  differs  scarcely 
at  all  from  that  originally  published.  In  such  cases  as  Joan  of  Arc  and 
Tlmlaha  it  is  not  without  interest  to  trace  the  alterations  introduced  by 
Southey  into  successive  editions  of  the  poems ;  but  to  have  cumbered  the 
present  volume  with  an  Apparatus  Criticus  would  have  been  only  to  annoy 
the  general  reader  in  order  to  gratify  the  Hterary  pedant.  I  have,  however, 
reprinted  Southey's  Prefaces  to  the  first  nine  volumes  of  the  ten-volume 
edition  of  1837-8,  both  on  account  of  the  light  which  they  throw  upon 
the  composition  of  many  of  the  poems  and  for  their  great  personal 
interest.  But  the  Preface  to  the  tenth  volume  has  been  omitted,  as 
it  is  wholly  concerned  with  a  discussion  of  criticisms  directed  against 
the  Vision  of  Judgement — a  poem  which  is  not  included  in  the  present 
edition. 

Southey  usually  printed  at  the  beginning  of  his  shorter  pieces  fuU  quota- 
tions from  the  sources  whence  the  subjects  of  the  different  poems  had 
been  dra^\•n.  In  a  few  instances  I  have  preserved  these  quotations  in 
extenso,  but  for  the  most  part,  in  order  to  save  space,  I  have  contented 
myself  with  givhig  the  reference.  I  have  been  able  in  many  cases  to  give 
the  date  and  place  of  the  first  publication  of  particular  poems,  but  I  have 


EDITOR'S  PREFACE  xi 


not  attempted  to  do  so  in  all.  Probably  it  would  not  be  possible  to  attain 
completeness  in  this  respect  ;  nor  would  any  important  object  be  served 
by  doing  so.  But  I  have  endeavoured  to  trace  the  first  publication  of  all 
the  more  notable  of  the  shorter  pieces  ;  and  I  regret  that  in  one  or  two 
such  instances  my  search  has  not  met  with  success.  For  all  those  notes 
which  are  enclosed  in  square  brackets  at  the  beginning  of  particular  poems 
I  am  responsible.  The  date  appended  at  the  foot  of  any  poem  is  that 
of  its  original  composition,  as  printed  by  Southey  in  1837-8. 

Southey  published  with  his  poems  an  immense  mass  of  illustrative  notes, 
consisting  for  the  most  part  of  extracts  from  different  authors  collected 
in  the  course  of  his  wide  and  varied  reading.  These  notes  iU'e  full  of  curious 
information,  but  are  not  always  particularly  relevant  to  the  poems  to  which 
they  are  attached.  From  considerations  of  space  they  have  been  almost 
entirely  omitted  in  the  present  edition.  Some  of  them,  however,  will  bo 
found  quoted — in  whole  or  in  part — in  the  Notes  at  the  end  of  this  volume ; 
the  substance  of  a  few  others  is  given  in  an  abridged  paraphrase.  The 
letter  (S.)  after  any  Note  shows  that  either  its  actual  words  or  its  substance 
may  be  found  in  Southey's  note  on  the  passage  in  question  ;  and  in  the 
case  of  actual  quotation  the  words  quoted  are  marked  by  inverted 
commas. 

For  those  Notes  which  are  not  followed  by  the  letter  (S.)  I  am  responsible. 
As  has  been  explained  above,  no  textual  questions  can  arise  in  connexion 
with  Southey's  poetry.  I  have  therefore  confined  myself  to  inserting 
a  few  Notes  in  order  to  explain  various  allusions,  to  give  information  as 
to  the  composition  and  publication  of  certain  poems,  or  to  add  a  touch  of 
personal  or  critical  interest  connected  with  them.  In  so  doing  I  can  hardly 
hope  to  escape  the  charge  of  having  on  occasion  either  inserted  or  omitted 
too  much.  But  I  trust  that,  in  spite  of  mistakes,  my  object  has  been  in 
great  measure  attained. 

The  Chronological  Table  of  Southey's  life  on  pp.  xxi-xxviii  may  perhaps  be 
found  useful.  In  preparing  it  I  have  been  much  indebted  to  a  similar  Table 
in  Mr.  T.  Hutchinson's  edition  of  Wordsworth  in  the  present  series. 

Of  the  imperfections  of  this  edition  of  Southey's  Poems  I  am  very  sensible. 
They  may  be  explained  in  part  by  the  fact  that  I  have  been  obliged  to  prepare 
it  at  a  distance  from  libraries  and  in  the  occasional  intervals  of  other  and 
very  different  work.  Under  these  circumstances  I  am  the  more  grateful 
to  those  friends  without  whose  help  my  task  could  hardly  have  been  com- 
pleted. In  particular  my  thanks  are  due  to  the  Reverend  Canon  Ra^^^lslcy 
for  kindly  allowing  me  to  see  his  Southey  MSS.  ;  to  Miss  Geraldine  Fitz- 
Gerald  for  the  work  that  she  has  done  on  my  behalf  at  the  British  Museum, 


xii  EDITOR'S  PREFACE 

and  also  for  her  help  in  reading  through  some  of  the  proofs  ;  and  to 
Mr.  E.  H.  Coleridge  for  his  great  kindness  in  answering  my  requests  for 
information  on  various  points  and  in  making  many  useful  suggestions. 
But  above  all  I  desire  to  express  my  gratitude  to  Professor  Dowden.  In 
preparing  this  edition  I  have  received  from  him  most  generous  help  in 
counsel  and  encouragement.  But  I  owe  him  a  debt  of  far  longer  standing  ; 
for  it  was  he  who,  by  his  delightful  volume  in  the  '  English  INIen  of  Letters  ' 
series,  first  taught  me  to  know  and  to  love  Robert  Southey. 

M.  H.  F.  G. 


CONTENTS 


TAOE 

Editor's  Preface iii 

List  of  Authorities,  &c xix 

Biographical  Table.         .         . xxi 

Southby's   Prefaces  to  the   Collected   Edition  in  ten  Volumes, 

PUBLISHED  IX  1837  and  1838          c 1 

THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 23 

Preface          ...........  23 

Book         I 23 

Book       II 33 

Book      III 39 

Book      IV 47 

Book        V 57 

Book      VI 65 

Book     VII 71 

Book  VIII 78 

Book     IX 85 

Book       X 93 

Book      XI 101 

Book    XII 108 

THE  CURSE  OF  KEHAMA 117 

I.  The  Funeral 118 

II.  The  Curse 121 

III.  The  Recovery 124 

IV.  The  Departure 120 

V.  The  Separation 129 

VI.  Casyapa 133 

VII.  The  Swerga 130 

VIII.  The  Sacriftce 141 

IX.  The  Home-Scene 144 

X.  Mount  Meru 148 

XI.  The  Enchantress 153 

XII.  The  Sacrifice  Completed 158 

XIII.  The  Retreat 100 

XIV.  Jaga-Naut 105 

XV.  The  City  of  Baly 109 

XVI.  The  Ancient  Sepulchres ,         .  173 

XVII.  Baly 179 

XVIII.  Kehama's  Descent 182 

XIX.  Mount  Calasay 184 

XX.  The  Embarkation 188 

XXI.  The  World's  End IW 

XXII.  The  Gate  of  Padalon 193 

XXIII.  Padalon 197 

XXIV.  The  Amreeta 202 


XIV 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS 

208 

I.  Roderick  and  Romano 

209 

II.  Roderick  in  Solitude 

215 

III.  Adosinda .... 

220 

IV.  The  Monastery  of  St.  Felix 

227 

V.  Roderick  and  Siverian 

233 

VI.  Roderick  in  Times  Past    . 

240 

VII.  Roderick  and  Pelayo 

244 

VIII.  Alphonso. 

247 

IX.  Florinda  .... 

251 

X.  Roderick  and  Florinda 

254 

XI.  Count  Pedro's  Castle 

261 

XII.  The  Vow .... 

265 

XIII.  Count  Eudon   .... 

269 

XIV.  The  Rescue       . 

274 

XV.  Roderick  at  Cangas  . 

277 

XVI.  Covadonga 

282 

XVII.  Roderick  and  Siverian       . 

288 

XVIII.  The  Acclamation 

293 

XIX.  Roderick  and  Rusilla 

299 

XX.  The  Moorish  Camp    . 

302 

XXI.  The  Fountain  in  the  Forest 

307 

XXII.  The  Moorish  Council 

316 

XXIII.  The  Vale  of  Covadonga    . 

320 

XXIV.  Roderick  and  Count  Julian 

326 

XXV.  Roderick  in  Battle   . 

331 

SELECTED  MNOR  POEMS 

343 

-The  Holly  Tree 

343 

-The  Dead  Fjiend 

344 

To  Mary 

344 

—Funeral  Song,  for  the  Princess  Charlotte  of  Vv'ales 

345 

*  My  Days  among  the  Dead  are  Past '  . 

347 

Imitated  from  the  Persian     ..... 

347 

—  The  Cataract  of  Lodore          ..... 

348 

Sonnets  :— 

1.  The  Evening  Rainbow       ..... 

349 

2.  Winter 

350 

Inscriptions  : — 

L  In  a  Forest      .          . 

350 

2.  Epitaph 

350 

3.  At  Barrosa 

351 

4.  Epitaph.     I 

352 

5.  Epitaph.     II 

352 

Dedication  of  the  Author's  Colloquies  on  the  Progress  an 

d  Prospects 

of  Society       ....... 

353 

*  Little  Book,  in  Green  and  Gold '   . 

356 

Lines  written  in  the  Album  of  Rotha  Quillinan 

.     357 

-Ode,  written  during  the  Negotiations  with  Buonaparte, 

in  January 

1814 

357 

CONTENTS  XV 


Si:LECrrED  mNOR  poems  {cojitinuedh- 

'•VLLADS    AND    METRICAL   TaLEH  : —  PACK 

The  March  to  Moscow  .........  3»)() 

Lord  William         ..........  :i(i2 

The  Well  of  St.  Keyno           ........  'MA 

The  Battle  of  Blenheim          ........  3«)r> 

The  Old  Woman  of  lierkeley          .......  :i()() 

Cio^ra  Judgement  on  a  Wicked  Bishop  ......  370 

-  The  Inchcape  Rock       .........  372 

Queen  Orraca  and  the  Five  Martyrs  of  Morocco     ....  374 

Brough  Bells         ..........  37G 

-  Inscription  for  a  Coffee-Pot 378 

SOXNETS 379 

LYRIC  POEMS 383 

To  Contemplation          .........  383 

Remembrance        ..........  384 

The  Widow 385 

The  Traveller's  Return 385 

—The  Old  Man's  Comforts        .  .  .  .       '  .  .  .  .385 

To  a  Spider 386 

The  Ebb  Tide 387 

The  Complaints  of  the  Poor 387 

To  a  Friend  inquiring  if  I  would  live  over  my  Youth  again  .          .          .  388 

OCCASIONAL  PIECES 389 

On  a  Landscape  of  Caspar  Poussin        ......  389 

Written  on  Christmas  Day,  1795 390 

W^ritten  after  visiting  the  Convent  of  Arrabida       .  .  ,         .391 

On  my  own  Miniature  Picture       .......  392 

Recollections  of  a  Day's  Journey  in  Spain     .....  393 

To  Margaret  Hill 394 

History 395 

Written  immediately  after  reading  the  Si)eech  of  Robert  Emmet    .  39G 
Verses  spoken  in  the  Theatre  at  Oxford,  upon  the  Installation  of 

Lord  Grenville 397 

Thanksgiving  for  Victory       ........  399 

Stanzas  written  in  Lady  Lonsdale's  Album    .....  399 

Stanzas  addressed  to  W.  R.  Turner,  Esq.,  R.A 400 

On  a  Picture  by  J.  M.  W^right,  Esq 401 

To  Charles  Lamb 402 

THE  RETROSPECT 403 

!  HYMN  TO  THE  PENATES 400 

i  ENGLISH  ECLOGUES 411 

The  Old  Mansion  House 411 

Hannah 414 

The  Ruined  Cottage 415 

The  Alderman's  Funeral         ........  417 

i  'THE  DEVIL'S  WALK 420 


XVI 


CONTENTS 


INSCRIPTIONS 

For  a  Column  at  Newbury    . 

For  a  Cavern  that  overlooks  the  River  Avon 

For  a  Tablet  at  Silbury-Hill 

For  a  Monument  in  the  New  Forest 

For  a  Tablet  on  the  Banks  of  a  Stream 

For  the  Cenotaph  at  Ermenonville 

For  a  Monument  at  Oxford  . 

For  a  Monument  in  the  Vale  of  Ewias. 

Epitaph  on  Algernon  Sidney 

Epitaph  on  King  John 

For  a  Monument  at  Tordesillas     . 

For  a  Column  at  Truxillo 

For  the  Cell  of  Honorius,  at  the  Cork  Conv 

For  a  Monument  at  Taunton 

For  a  Tablet  at  Penshurst    . 

Epitaph        ...... 

For  a  Monument  at  Rolissa  . 
For  a  Monument  at  Vimeiro 
At  Corufia    ...... 

Epitaph        ...... 

To  the  Memory  of  Paul  Burrard  . 

For  the  Banks  of  the  Douro 

Talavera.    For  the  Field  of  Battle 

For  the  Deserto  de  Busaco  . 

For  the  Lines  of  Torres  Vedras     . 

At  Santarem  ..... 

At  Fuentes  D'Onoro      .... 

For  a  Monument  at  Albuhera 
To  the  Memory  of  Sir  William  Myers   . 
For  the  Walls  of  Ciudad  Rodrigo  . 
To  the  Memory  of  Major  General  Mackinnon 
For  the  Affair  at  Arroyo  Molinos. 
Written  in  an  Unpublished  Volume  of  Letters, 
Roberts  ..... 

Epitaph 

Inscriptions  for  the  Caledonian  Canal: — 

I.  At  Clachnacharry  .... 

II.  At  Fort  Augustus  .... 

III.  At  Banavie   ..... 

Epitaph  in  Butleigh  Church  . 

Epitaph        ...... 


ent,  near  Cintra 


&c., 


CARMEN  TRIU:MPHALE  For  the  Commencement  of  the  Y 
EPISTLE  TO  ALLAN  CL'N'N^NGHAM 


MADOC      

Dedication    .... 

Preface  .... 

Madoc  in  Wales  :    Part  I     . 

I.  The  Return  to  Wales 

II.  The  Marriage  Feast  . 


by  Barre  Charles 


ear  1814     .     447 


CONTENTS 


xvu 


MADOC  {continiu'd)— 
III.  Cadwallon 
IV.  Tlic  Voyage 
V.   Lincoya    . 
VI.  Erillvab    . 
VII.  The  Battle 
VIII.  The  Peace 
IX.  Emma 
X.  ]\Iathraval 
XI.  The  Goisedd     . 
XII.  Dinevawr 

XIII.  Llewelyn  . 

XIV.  Llaiaii 
XV.  The  Excommunication 

XVI.  David 

XVII.  The  Departure 
XVIII.  Rodri 

Madoc  in  Aztlan:    Part  II 
I.  The  Return  to  Aztl 
II.  The  Tidings     . 

III.  Neolin     . 

IV.  Amalahta 
V.  War  Denounced 

VI.  The  Festival  of  the  Dead 
VII.  The  Snake  God 
VIII.  The  Conversion  of  the  Hoamen 
IX.  Tlalala    . 

X.  The  Arrival  of  the  Gods 
XI.  The  Capture    . 
XII.  Hoel        . 

XIII.  Coatel     . 

XIV.  The  Stone  of  Sacrifice 
XV.  The  Battle       . 

XVI.  The  Women    . 
XVII.  The  Deliverance 

XVIII.  The  Victory     . 
XIX.  The  Funeral    . 

XX.  The  Death  of  Coatel 
XXI.  The  Sports       . 
XXII.  The  Death  of  Lincoya 
XXIII.  Caradoc  and  Senena 
XXIV.  The  Embassy  . 
XXV.  The  Lake  Fight 
XXVI.  The  Close  of  the  Century 
XXVII.  The  Migration  of  the  Aztccas 

BALLADS  AND  METRICAL  TALES 
Mary,  the  Maid  of  the  Inn 
Donica 
Rudiger 
Jaspar 

St.  Patrick's  Purgatory 
The  Cross  Roads  . 


xviii  CONTENTS 


1 


BALLADS  AND  METRICAL  TALES  {continued)—  page 

The  Pious  Painter 621 

St.  Michael's  Chair 623 

King  Henry  V  and  the  Hermit  of  Dreux       .....  624 

Cornelius  Agrippa           .........  625 

St.  Romuald 626 

The  Rose 627 

The  Lover's  Rock 629 

Garci  Ferrandez    ..........  630 

Bishop  Bruno 632. 

_  A  True  Ballad  of  St.  Antidius,  the  Pope,  and  the  Devil      .          .          .  633 

Henry  the  Hermit          .........  635 

St.  Gualberto 636 

Queen  Mary's  Christening      ........  642 

Roprecht  the  Robber    .........  644 

The  Young  Dragon        .........  650 

Epilogue  to  the  Young  Dragon      .......  655 

A  TALE  OF  PARAGUAY 657 

Preface          ...........  657 

Dedication    ...........  657 

Proem ............  659 

Canto  I 660 

Canto  II 668 

Canto  III 678 

Canto  IV 686 

THE  POET'S  PILGRIMAGE  TO  WATERLOO 698 

Proem 698 

Part  I.     The  Journey 701 

L  Flanders 701 

IL  Brussels 706 

III.  The  Field  of  Battle 708 

IV.  The  Scene  of  War 715 

Part  II.     The  Vision 720 

I.  The  Tower 720 

IL  The  Evil  Prophet 725 

III.  The  Sacred  Mountain 727 

IV.  The  Hopes  of  Man 733 

MISCELLANEOUS  POETICAL  REMAINS 740 

Fragmentary  Thoughts,  occasioned  by  the  Death  of  the  Author's  Son  740 

Imagination  and  Reality        ........  741 

Additional  Fragment     .........  741 

APPENDIX.    List  of  Poems  not  reprinted  in  the  present  Edition  743 

NOTES 746 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 765 


LIST  OF  AUTHORITIES 

The  list  of  books  given  below  makes  no  pretence  to  being  a  complete  biblio- 
graphy. It  is  intended  to  refer  the  reader  to  (a)  the  principal  authorities  for 
Southey's  life  :  and  {b)  a  few  books  and  essays  which  are  of  special  interest 
from  their  bearing  upon  Southey's  character  and  writings. 

(a)  AUTHORITIES 

1.  The  Life  and  Correspondence  of  Robert  Southey.  Edited  by  his  son,  the 
Rev.  C.  C.  Southey,  G  vols.,  1849-50. 

2.  Selections  from  tlie  Letters  of  Robert  Southey.  Edited  by  J.  W.  Warter, 
4  vols.,  185G. 

3.  The  Correspondence  of  Robert  Southey  with  Caroline  Bowles.  Edited  by 
E.  Dowden,  1881. 

4.  Letters  from  the  Lake  Poets — Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  William  Wordsworth, 
Robert  Southey — to  Daniel  Stuart,  editor  of  The  Morning  Post  and  The  Courier, 
1800-38.     Printed  for  private  circulation,  1889. 

5.  The  Letters  of  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge.  Edited  by  E.  H.  Coleridge,  2  vols., 
1895. 

6.  Reminiscences  of  S.  T.  Coleridge  and  R.  Southey.  By  Joseph  Cottle,  1847. 
[A  recast  of  Cottle's  Early  Recollections  (1837)  with  additions.] 

7.  The  Life  and  Writings  of  William  Taylor  of  Norwich.  By  J.  W.  Robbcrds, 
2  vols.,  1843. 

8.  The  Life  of  W.  S.  Landor.  By  John  Forster,  2  vols.,  18G9  (reprinted  in 
vol.  i  of  Landor' s  Works  and  Life,  187G). 

9.  The  Works  of  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb.  Edited  by  E.  V.  Lucas,  1903-5, 
vols,  vi  and  vii,  (containing  C.  Lamb's  Correspondence). 

(6)  MISCELLANEOUS 

/  1.  Southey.     By  E.  Dowden  ('  English  Men  of  Letters'  series),  1879. 

2.  The  Literary  Associations  of  the  English  Lakes.  By  the  Rev.  Canon  H.  D. 
Rawnsley,  vol.  i,  1894. 

3.  De  Quincey's  Recollections  of  the  Lake  Poets,  and  Autobiography. 

4.  Hazlitt's  Spirit  of  the  Age. 

5.  The  Diary,  Reminiscences,  and  Correspondence  of  H.  Crabb  Robinson. 
Edited  by  T.  Sadler,  3  vols.,  1869, 

6.  T.  Carlyle's  Reminiscences,  vol.  ii.  Appendix,  pp.  309-29,  1881. 

7.  Robert  Southey  :  an  essay  by  Sir  Henry  Taylor  in  The  English  Poets  (ed. 
T.  H.  Ward),  vol.  iv,  pp.  155-64,  1880. 

y  8.  Poems  by  Robert  Southey.     Edited,  with  an  Introduction,  by  E.  Dowden 
('  Golden  Treasury  '  series),  1895. 

0.  Selections  from  the  Poems  of  Robert  Southey.  Edited  with  a  bio^Taphical 
and  critical  Introduction,  by  Sidney  R.  Thompson  ('  Canterbury  Poets'),  1888. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  TABLE 


CONTAINING  THE  CHIEF  EVENTS  OF  SOUTHEY'S  LIFE  AND  SOME 
IMPORTANT  DATES  IN  THE  LIVES  OF  CONTEMPORARY  WRITERS 

S.  =  Robert  Southey,  the  Poet. 
Thomas,  &c.  S.  ^  Thomas,  &c.  Southey. 
S.  T.  C.=  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 

About  this  year  Thomas  Southey,  son  of  a  yeoman  farmer  of  Wellington 
in  Somerset,  settles  on  a  farm  at  Holford,  a  village  in  the  Quantock 
Hills. 

[George  Crabbe  born.] 
[William  Lisle  Bowles  born.] 
[Samuel  Rogers  born.] 
[The  Traveller  (0.  Goldsmith).] 
[Percy's  Beliques.] 

[William  Wordsworth  born.    James  Hogg  born.    Chatterton  died. 
The  Deserted  Village  (Goldsmith).] 
[Gray  died.     Scott  born.     The  Minstrel  (Beattie).] 
Robert  Southey,  a  linen-draper  at  Bristol,  (born  1745,  second  son  of 
Thomas  S. ),  married  Margaret  Hill.     To  them  were  born  nine  children, 
five  of   whom   died  young.     The  surviving  children   were  Robert, 
Thomas,  Henry  Herbert,  and  Edward.     [S.  T.  Coleridge  born.] 
Robert  Southey  born  at  Bristol,  August  12,  his  parents'  second  and 
eldest  surviving  child. 

[Charles  Lamb  born.     W.  Savage  Landor  bom.] 
During  1776-80  S.  spends  most  of  his  time  with  his  mother's  half- 
sister,  Miss  Tyler,  at  Bath, 
Thomas  S.  bom.     [H.  Hallam  born.     Thomas  Campbell  born.] 
[W.  Hazlitt  born.] 
[Thomas  Moore  born.] 
S.  sent  as  a  day-boy  to  a  school  kept  by  a  Mr.  Foot  at  Bristol. 
S.  removed  to  a  school  at  Corston,  nine  miles  from  Bristol.     {The 

Library  (Crabbe).] 
(Or  Jan.  1783)  S.  placed  as  a  day-boarder  at  a  school  at  Bristol  kept 
by  a  Mr.  Williams,  spending  his  holidays  in  general  with  Miss  Tyler. 
From  1778  onwards  Miss  Tyler  regularly  takes  him  to  the  theatre. 
He  reads    Shakespeare  and  Beaumont  and    Fletcher  before  he  is 
eight  years  old.     He  also  reads  The  Faerie  Queene  about  this  time, 
[Cowper's  first  volume  of  Poems.'] 
Henry  Herbert   Southey  born  (d.  1865).     S.  begins  to  write  verses, 
Epics  on  the  Trojan  Brutus,  Egbert,  &c.     [The  Village  (Crabbe).] 
[Dr.  Johnson  died.     Leigh  Hunt  born.] 

[De  Quincey  born.     Thomas  Love  Peacock  born.     Henry  Kirko 
White  bora.     The  Task  (Cowper).] 


A.D. 

1735 

■ST. 

1754 
1762 
1763 
1764 
1765 
1770 

— 

1771 
1772 

— 

1774 



1775 

1776 

1 
2 

1777 

1778 
1779 
1780 
1781 

3 
4 
5 
6 

7 

1782 

8 

1783 

9 

1784 
1785 

10 
11 

XXll 


BIOGRAPHICAL  TABLE 


A.D. 

1786 


1789 
1790 
1791 
1792 


1793 


1794 


1795 


1796 


14 


19 


20 


21 


22 


At  the  end  of  this  year  or  early  in  1787  S.  sent  as  a  day-boy  to  a 
Mr.  Lewis,  a  clergyman  in  Bristol,  who  took  pupils.  [Poems  (Robert 
Burns,  Kilmarnock  ed.).     Caroline  Bowles  born.] 

S.  goes  to  school  at  Westminster,  where  his  chief  friends  are 
C.  W.  W.  Wynn,  subsequently  Secretary  at  War  and  Chancellor  of  the 
Duchy  of  Lancaster,  and  G.  C.  Bedford.     [Byron  born.] 

[Sonnets  (W.  L.  Bowles).     The  Loves  of  the  Plants  (Darwin).] 
[Burke's  Reflections  on  the  French  Evolution.] 
[John  Wesley  died.] 

S.  expelled  from  Westminster  for  writing  an  article  in  a  school  news- 
paper, The  Flagellant,  ascribing  the  invention  of  flogging  to  the  devil. 
He  returns  to  Miss  Tyler  at  Bristol.  His  father  fails  in  business,  and 
dies  just  after  S.,  having  been  refused  admission  at  Christ  Church 
on  account  of  the  expulsion  from  Westminster,  has  matriculated  at 
Balliol  College. 

[Shelley  born.     Keble  born.     Pleasures  of  Memory  (Rogers).] 

S.  goes  into  residence  at  Balliol  (.Jan.),  his  expenses  (as  at  Westminster) 
being  paid  by  his  uncle,  the  Rev.  Herbert  Hill,  Chaplain  to  the 
British  Factory  at  Lisbon.  Reads  and  is  much  influenced  by  Epic- 
tetus.  Friendship  with  Edmund  Seward.  S.  writes  first  draft  of 
Joan  of  Arc  in  Long  Vacation.  Shocked  by  the  fate  of  the  Girondins, 
and  especially  by  the  execution  of  Brissot  (Oct.  31).  Begins  to  think 
of  retiring  to  America,  there  to  live  an  Arcadian  life  in  the  forest. 
[Evening  Walk  and  Descriptive  Sketches  (Wordsworth).  Tarn 
d'Shanter,  &c.  (Bums).     Felicia  Hemans  born.] 

S.  decides  that  he  cannot  conscientiously  take  Orders,  as  his  uncle, 
Mr.  Hill,  had  wished.  His  religious  opinions  at  this  time  Unitarian. 
Meets  S.  T.  Coleridge  for  the  first  time  at  Oxford  (June).  Together 
with  four  or  five  friends  they  form  a  scheme  for  a  communistic  settle- 
ment in  America — Pantisocracy.  S.  writes  Acts  II  and  III  of  The 
Fall  of  Robespierre,  S.  T.  C.  supplying  Act  I.  Wat  Tyler  written. 
Madoc  begun.  Miss  Tyler  breaks  off  all  relations  with  S.  on  hearing 
of  Pantisocracy  and  of  his  engagement  to  Edith  Fricker  (Oct.).  S. 
proposes  that  for  financial  reasons  Pantisocracy  should  first  be  tried 
in  Wales  instead  of  in  America.  Poems  by  Robert  Lovell  and  Robert 
Southey  published  (autumn  :    dated  on  title-page,  1795). 

S.  introduced  to  C.  Lamb  by  S.  T.  C.  (Jan.).  S.  and  S.  T.  C.  lecture 
at  Bristol.  Death  of  Edmund  Seward  (June).  S.  definitely  declines 
Mr.  Hill's  proposal  that  he  should  take  Orders,  and  decides  to  read 
for  the  bar.  Abandons  Pantisocracy,  thereby  causing  a  breach  with 
S.  T.  C.  Marries  Edith  Fricker,  Nov.  14,  and  immediately  after 
the  weddincr,  starts  with  Mr.  Hill  for  Lisbon,  leaving  Mrs.  S.  in  the 


care   of   Cottle's   sisters.     The   marriage 
S.  T.  C.  marries  Sarah  Fricker  (Oct.  4). 

[Keats  bom.     T.  Carlyle  bom.] 
Joan  of  Arc  published  by  Joseph  Cottle. 
May  and  settles  with  his  wife  at  Bristol. 
S.  T.  C.       Death  of  S.'s  brother-in-law 

from  Spain  and  Portugal  and  contributing  also  to  The  Monthly 
Magazine.  Reads  William  Taylor's  translations  from  German 
writers. 

[Burns  died.     Hartley  Coleridge  born.     Poems,  1st  ed.,  S.  T.  C] 


for   the   time  kept  secret. 


S.  returns  from  Lisbon  in 
Partial  reconciliation  with 
Lovell.     S.  writing  Letters 


BIOGRAPHICAL  TABLE 


XXlll 


A.D. 

1797 


1798 


24 


1799 


1800 


25 


26 


1801 


27 


1802 


28 


1803 
1804 


Lttfcrs  from  Sfxtiri  and  rortuguJ  and  Poems  puhlishod.  S.  in  London 
and  at  Burton  (near  Christclnirch  in  lianipHliirc)  studying  law. 
Becomes  acquainted  with  J.  Kicknian,  afterwards  one  of  his  closest 
friends.  C.  Lamb  visits  8.  at  Burton.  JS.  receives  an  annuity  of 
£1()0  from  C.  W.  W.  Wynn. 

S.  writes  verses  for  The  Morning  Post  at  a  guinea  a  week,  which  ho 
continues  to  do  up  to  1803.  Visits  Norwicii,  where  he  makes  accjuain- 
tance  with  ^Villiam  Taylor  and  Dr.  Sayers.  Settles  at  West  bury,  two 
miles  from  Bristol  (June).  In  constant  intercourse  with  Hum])hry 
Davy.  Editing  first  vol.  of  The  Annual  Anthology.  Second  ed.  of 
Joan  of  Arc.     S.  in  indillerent  health  at  end  of  this  year. 

[Lyrical  Ballads  (Coleridge  and  Wordsworth).     Gehir  (W.  S.  Lan- 
dor).] 

Westbury ;  London;  Burton.  Madoc  finished  (July  11).  Thalaha 
begun  (July  12).  More  complete  reconciliation  with  S.  T.  C.  (Aug.). 
8.  and  his  wife  visit  the  Coleridges  at  Nether  Stowey.  Walking  tour 
with  S.  T.  C.  in  Devonshire.  First  volume  of  The  Annual  Anthology 
and  second  volume  oi  Poems  published.  S.  reads  and  greatly  admires 
Gehir.     His  health  still  unsatisfactory. 

[T.  Hood  bom.     Pleasures  of  Hope  (Campbell).] 

8.  collaborates  with  J.  Cottle  in  preparing  an  edition  of  Chatterton's 
Works  for  the  benefit  of  the  latter' s  sister.  Leaves  England  for 
Portugal  with  Mrs.  8.  for  the  benefit  of  his  health  (April).  Thalaha 
finished  (July).  S.  begins  to  collect  materials  for  a  History  of  Portugal. 
8.  T.  C.  settles  at  Greta  Hall,  Keswick  (Aug.).  Second  volume  of 
The  Annual  Anthology  published. 

[Cowper  died.     Macaulay  born.     Henry  Taylor  born.] 

Thalaha  published.  Curse  of  Kehama  begun  (May).  8.  returns  to 
England  (June).  Completely  abandons  all  idea  of  adopting  the  law 
as  a  profession.  Begins  to  review  again,  a  task-work  from  which  he 
is  unable  to  free  himself  for  the  rest  of  his  active  life.  Stays  with 
S.  T.  C.  at  Keswick  (Sept.).  Accepts  post  of  private  secretary  to 
Mr.  Corry,  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  for  Ireland. 

[Lyrical  Ballads,   2nd   ed.  (pub.  Jan.).     Poems   (' Thos.   Little'). 
Taks  of  Wonder  (M.  G.  Lewis).] 

Death  of  S.'s  mother  (Jan.).  8.  resigns  his  post  as  secretary.  At 
Bristol  (May).  Birth  of  his  first  child,  Margaret  (Sept.).  8.  trans- 
lating Amadis  of  Gaul,  writing  portions  of  a  History  of  Portugal, 
reviewing,  and  continuing  Curse  of  Kehama.  Chatterton's  Works 
(ed.  Southey  and  Cottle)  published  by  subscription.  Peace  of  Amiens. 
This  of  critical  importance  in  the  development  of  S.'s  political  opinions. 
'  It  restored  in  me  the  English  feeling  which  had  been  deadened  ;  it 
placed  me  in  sympathy  with  my  country,  bringing  me  thus  into  that 
natural  and  healthy  state  of  mind  ui)on  which  time,  and  knowledge, 
and  reflection  were  sure  to  produce  their  proper  and  salutary  effect.' 
{Warter,  iii,  320.) 

[Erasmus  Darwin  died.] 

Bristol.  Amadis  of  Gaul  published.  Death  of  Margaret  8.  (Aug.). 
S.  and  his  wife  go  to  stay  with  8.  T.  C  at  Keswick  (Sept.). 

Keswick.  8.  T.  C.  starts  for  Malta  (April  2).  Edith  May  S.  bom 
(May  1).  8.  finally  correcting  Madoc  for  the  press.  Letters  from 
England  by  Don  Manuel  Espriella  begun. 


XXIV 


BIOGRAPHICAL  TABLE 


A.D. 

1805 


1806 


31 


32 


1807 


33 


1808 


34 


1809 


35 


1810 


36 


Modoc  and  Metrical  Tales  and  Other  Poems  published.  S.  visits 
Scotland,  and  staj's  with  Sir  W.  Scott  at  Ashestiel  (Oct.).  Plans  to 
go  to  Lisbon  for  two  years  in  the  following  spring. 

[Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel  (Scott).  The  Prelude  finished  (Words- 
worth).] 

Curse  of  Kehama  resumed.  S.  visits  William  Taylor  at  Norwich 
(April).  Hopes  to  be  given  the  Secretaryship  of  the  Legation  at 
Lisbon.  S.  T.  C.  returns  to  England  (Aug.).  Chronicle  of  the  Cid 
and  Palmerinof  England  begun.  Herbert  S.  born  (Oct.  11).  S.  under- 
takes to  edit  Henry  Kirke  White's  Remains  gratuitously  for  the 
White  family. 

[Simonidea  (Landor).  Odes  and  Epistles  (T.  Moore).  Elizabeth 
Barrett  born.] 

Wynn  obtains  for  S.  a  pension  from  Government  of  £144  net  per 
annum,  and  S.  therefore  resigns  the  annuity  of  £160  paid  him  by 
W3mn  since  1797.  S.  declines  Scott's  suggestion  that  he  should  con- 
tribute to  the  Edinburgh  Review,  on  the  ground  of  his  complete  dis- 
agreement with  its  principles.  Decides  to  settle  permanently  at 
Greta  Hall.  Palmerin  of  England,  Letters  from  England  by  Don 
Manuel  Espriellu,  Remains  of  Henry  Kirke  White,  and  Specimens  of 
the  later  English  Poets  (edited  in  conjunction  with  G.  C.  Bedford) 
published.  Madoc,  2nd  ed.  S.  begins  to  write  the  History  of  Brazil 
as  the  first  part  of  his  projected  History  of  Portugal.  Plans  an 
edition  of  the  Morte  d' Arthur. 

[Poems  in  Two  Volumes  (Wordsworth).  The  Parish  Register 
(Crabbe).     Hours  of  Idleness  (Byron).] 

Emma  S.  born  (Feb.).  S.  meets  W.  S.  Landor  for  the  ^st  time  at 
Bristol.  Landor  urges  him  to  continue  his  mythological  poems,  and 
offers  to  pay  for  the  printing.  Stung  by  this  generous  offer,  S. 
resumes  The  Curse  of  Kehama,  though  without  thought  of  accepting 
Landor's  proposal.  Prophesies  that  Spain  will  eventually  prove 
Buonaparte's  destruction.  Plans  a  poem  on  Pelayo.  S.  T.  C. 
domesticated  with  Wordsworth  at  Allan  Bank,  Grasmere  (Sept.). 
The  Quarterly  Revievj  planned.  S.  writes  an  article  on  the  Baptist 
Mission  in  India  for  the  first  number,  published  Feb.  1809.  Chronicle 
of  the  Cid  published.     [Marmion  (Scott).] 

Bertha  S.  born  (March  27),  Emma  S.  died  (May).  S.  T.  C.  publishes 
first  number  of  The  Frieiid  at  Penrith  (June  1).  S.  takes  a  lease  of 
Greta  Hall  for  twenty-one  years.  Continues  History  of  Brazil. 
Corresponds  with  Ebenezer  Elliott,  who  asks  him  to  criticize  his 
poems.  Undertakes  to  write  the  historical  part  of  Ballantyne's  new 
Edinburgh  Annual  Register  at  a  salary  of  £400  a  year.  Finishes 
Curse  of  Kehama.  Plans  a  poem  on  Robin  Hood.  Roderick  begun 
(Dec.  2).     Thalaba,  2nd  ed. 

[Tract  on  the  Convention  of  Cintra  (Wordsworth).  English  Bards 
and  Scotch  Reviewers  (Byron).  Gertrude  of  Wyoming  (Campbell). 
A.  Tennyson,  Charles  Darwin,  and  W.  E.  Gladstone  bom.] 

Curse  of  Kehama  and  first  vol.  of  History  of  Brazil  published.  Katharine 
S.  born.  S.  T.  C.  spends  four  or  five  months  at  Greta  Hall  before 
leaving  in  October  for  London  with  Basil  Montagu.  Breach  between 
S.  T.  C.  and  Wordsworth. 

[The  Borough  (Crabbe).     The  Lady  of  the  Lake  (Scott).] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  TABLE 


XXV 


38 


39 


40 


41 


42 


43 


S.  plana  Oliirr  Xewtnan  and  The  Book  of  the  Church.  At  work  on 
Life  of  Xelson,  an  expansion  of  an  article  in  the  fifth  number  of  the 
Quarterly  licview.  Visits  Landor  at  Llanthony  (July  ?).  Shelley  ut 
Keswick,  winter  of  1811-12.  S.  writes  an  article  in  the  Quarterly  ((Jet.) 
on  the  Bell  and  Lancaster  system  of  Education,  advocating'  lli«i 
establishment  in  every  parish  of  a  national  school.  This  article 
subsequently  enlarged  and  published  separat<^ly.  Curse  of  Kehuma, 
2nd  ed.     [Tliackeray  born.     Do7i  Roderick  (iScott).] 

vS.  T.  C.  at  Greta  Hall,  Feb.  23 -March  20,— his  last  visit  to  the 
Lake  Oiuntry.  Isabel  8.  born  (Nov.).  Dr.  Bell  at  Keswick.  Omniana 
published. 

[Charles  Dickens  and  Robert  Browning  bom.  Tales  in  Verse 
(Crabbe).  Count  Julian  (Landor).  Childe  Ilarolde,  Cantos  i  and  ii 
(Byron).     Rejected  Addresses  (J.  and  H.  Smith).] 

S.  ceases  to  write  for  the  Edinburgh  Annual  Register  owing  to  irregu- 
larity of  payment.  Visits  Streatham  and  London  (Sept.).  Meets 
Lord  Byron  at  Holland  House.  Appointed  Poet  Laureate  (partly 
on  Scott's  recommendation)  on  Scott  declining  the  office  (Oct.).  Life 
of  Nelson  published.  The  Doctor  begun.  Ode  Written  during  Negotia- 
tions with  Buonaparte. 

[Rokeby  ;    The  Bridal  of   Triermain  (Scott).     Remorse  (S.  T.    C.) 
performed  at  Drury  Lane  (Jan.).] 

S.  endeavours,  through  Cottle,  to  induce  S.  T.  C.  to  return  to  Greta 
Hall  (April).  Failing  even  to  get  an  answer  from  S.  T.  C.  to  his 
letters,  he  gets  up  a  subscription  among  friends  and  relations  to  pay 
Hartley  C.'s  college  expenses  (autumn).  Begins  correspondence  with 
Bernard  Barton.  Roderick  published.  S.  appointed  Member  of  the 
Royal  Academy  of  Madrid.  A  Tale  of  Paraguay  begun. 
[The  Excursion  (Wordsworth).  The  Feast  of  the  Poets  (Leigh 
Hunt).] 

Oliver  Newman  begun.  Minor  Poems  (rearranged,  &c.)  published 
3  vols.  Roderick,  2nd  ed.  Tour  in  Holland  and  Belgium  with 
Mrs.  and  Edith  S.  and  Edward  Nash,  the  artist  (Sept.-Oct.). 

[First  collective  ed.  of  Wordsworth's  poems  published.     The  White 
Doe  of  Rylstone  (Wordsworth).     The  Lord  of  the  Isles  (Scott).] 

Death  of  Herbert  S.  (April  17), — a  blow  from  which  S.  never  recovers. 
The  Poet's  Pilgrimage  and  The  Lay  of  the  Laureate  published.  An 
endeavour  made  by  the  Ministry  to  induce  S.  to  conduct  a  political 
journal  in  London  in  opposition  to  revolutionary  principles.  This 
proposal  S.  declines.  At  this  time  S.  advocates  as  palUatives  of 
social  distress  the  establishment  of  savings  banks  and  a  national 
system  of  education,  the  colonization  of  waste  lands  in  the  British 
Isles,  and  the  encouragement  of  emigration. 

[Alastor  (Shelley).      Christahel  (S.   T.   C).     The  Story  of  Rimini 
(Leigh  Hunt).     Childe  Harold,  Canto  iii  (Byron).] 

Wat  Tyler  surreptitiously  published  (spring).  S.,  in  consequence, 
attacked  by  William  Smith,  member  for  Norwich,  in  House  of  Com- 
mons as  '  a  renegado  '  (March  14).  Replies  in  a  letter  to  The  Couritr 
(reprinted  in  his  Essays),  and  is  defended  in  that  paper  by  S.  T.  C. 
Declines  a  proposal  that  he  should  write  chief  leading  article  in  TJie. 
Times,  (and,  apparently,  act  in  some  measure  as  editor),  at  a  salary 
of  £2,000  a  year,  together  with  a  share  in  the  profits.   Tour  tlirough 


XXVI 


BIOGRAPHICAL  TABLE 


A.D. 


1818 


1819 


^T. 


44 


45 


1820 

1821 

1822 
1823 

1824 
1825 


46 


47 


48 


49 


50 


51 


Switzerland  to  Italian  Lakes  and  back  through  Black  Forest,  Cologne, 
and  Brussels  (May-Aug.).  Life  of  Wesley  begun.  Morte  d' Arthur 
and  History  of  Brazil,  vol.  ii,  published. 

[Sibylline  Leaves  ;  Biographia  Literaria  (S.  T.  C).  Poems  (Keats). 
Lalla  Bookh  (Moore).  Harold  the  Dauntless  (Scott).  The  Whistle- 
craft  Poem  (J.  H.  Frere).] 
S.  refuses  the  offer  of  the  post  of  Librarian  to  the  Advocates'  Library, 
Edinburgh.  Caroline  Bowles  writes  to  him  (April  25)  to  ask  his 
opinion  of  a  MS.  poem,  thrs  beginning  a  correspondence  continued 
without  interruption  until  their  marriage  in  1839. 

[Childe  Harold,  Canto  iv  (Byron).    Revolt  of  Islam.  (Shelley).    Poems 

(C.  Lamb,  in  his  collected  Works).     Foliage  (Leigh  Hunt).     En- 

dymion  (Keats).] 

Cuthbert  S.  born  (Feb.).     Tour  in  Scotland  with  Rickman  and  Telford 

(autumn).     History  of   Brazil,   vol.    iii,    published.      S.  learns   from 

Wynn  of  the  existence  of  the  Dedication  of  Don  Juan. 

[Peter  Bell  and  The  Waggoner  (Wordsworth).     Don  Juxin,  Canto  i, 
&c.  (Byron).    Tales  of  the  Hall  (Crabbe).    Dramatic  Scenes  (Procter). 
Poems,  Rosalind  and  Helen,  The  Euganean  Hills,  Hymn  to  Intel- 
lect ual  Beauty,  The  Cenci  (Shelley).     J.  Ruskin,  A.  H.   Clough, 
and  Charles  Kingsley  born.] 
Colloquies  on  the  Prospects  of  Society  and  Book  of  the  Church  begun. 
In  Wales  and  London  (April,  May,  and  June).     Meets  Caroline  Bowles 
for  the  first  time  at  Chelsea.     D.C.L.,  Oxford  Univ.  (June  14).     Life 
of  Wesley  published. 

[The  River  Duddon  ;    A  Series  of  Sonnets  (Wordsworth).     Lamia, 

Isabella,   Hyperion,    &c.    (Keats).     Prometheus   Bound   (Shelley). 

Ellen  Fitzarthur  (Caroline  Bowles).] 

Vision  of  Judgement  published.     Its  Preface  involves  S.  in  a  public 

controversy  with  Byron.     Hearing  that  his  friend  John  May  has  lost 

his  fortune,  S.  makes  over  to  him  his  entire  savings,  amounting  to 

£625.     Expedition  of  Orsua  published. 

[Keats  died.     Adonais  (Shelley).     Cain,  &c.  (Byron).] 
History  of  the  Peninsular  War,  vol.  i,  published. 

[Ecclesiastical    Sketches    (Wordsworth).      Hellas    (Shelley).      The 
Widow's  Tale  (Caroline  Bowles).     Shelley  drowned.] 
Caroline  Bowles  at  Greta  Hall  (Sept.).     S.  writes  to  her  (Nov.  4)  to 
suggest   that  they   should   collaborate  in   a  poem   on   Robin  Hood. 
Visits  London  (Nov.).     Renews  his  friendship  with  C.  Lamb,  which 
had    been    momentarily    interrupted    through    the   latter    misunder- 
standing a  reference  by  S.  in  the  Quarterly  to  the  Essays  of  Elia. 
[The  Loves  of  the  Angels  (T.  Moore).     Essays  of  Elia  (Lamb).] 
Robin  Hood  begun.     The  Book  of  the  Church  and  History  of  the  Penin- 
sular War,  vol.  ii,  published. 

[Byron  died.  Imaginary  Conversations,  vols,  i  and  ii  (Landor).] 
Vindiciae  Ecclesiae  Anglicanae  begun, — an  answer  to  C.  Butler's  reply 
to  The  Book  of  the  Church.  S.  now,  as  always,  strongly  opposed  to 
Catholic  Emancipation.  Tour  in  Belgium  and  Holland  with  Henry 
Taylor  and  two  other  friends  (June  and  July).  S.  is  laid  up  with 
an  injured  foot  at  Leyden,  and  stays  there  for  a  fortnight  with  the 
poet  Bilderdijk,  whose  wife  had  translated  Roderick  into  Dutch  verse. 
A  Tale  of  Paraguay  published. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   TABLE 


xxvu 


53 


54 


S.  visits  Caroline  Bowles  at  Buckland,  near  LyrainKton.  Tours  in 
Holland  (June)  with  H.  Taylor  and  Hickman.  Durinj^  hi.s  absence 
is  returned  to  Parliament  for  the  borough  of  Downton,  through  the 
influence  of  Lord  Radnor  ;  but  refuses  to  accept  the  honour.  Death 
of  Isabel  8.  (July  1())-  From  this  last  blow  Mrs.  S.  never  really 
recovers.  Vindiciuc  Ecclcsiac  Amjlicanae  published. 
[Solitary  Hours  (Caroline  Bowles).] 
S.  undertakes  to  edit  the  poems  of  John  Jones,  a  servant  in  a  Yorkshire 
family,  for  Jones's  benetit,  and  to  j)rclix  a  sketch  of  the  lives  of  un- 
educated poets.     Mrs.  8.  plainly  failing  in  health. 

[Poems  (T.   Hood).     The  Christian  Year  (Keble).     Poems  by  Two 
Brothers  (A.  and  C.  Tennyson).] 
In  London   in  order  to  undergo  an  operation   (May).     His  portrait 
painted  by  Sir  T.  Lawrence  for  Sir  R.  Peel.     Visits  Caroline  Bowles 
at  Buckland.     Death  of  his  uncle,  Mr.  Hill  (Sept.).     Is  paid  £150  by 
Murray  for  a  paper  in  the  Queirterly  on  the  Roman  Catholic  Question 
and  Ireland,  strongly  opposing  Catholic  Emancipation. 
[History  of  Peninsular  War,  vol.  i  (Sir  W.  Napier).] 
Lives  of  U neducated  Poets — Prefixed  to  Verses  by  John  Jones  published. 
All  for  Love  and  The  Legend  of  a  Cock  and  a  Hen  (1  vol.),  and  Colloquies 
on  the  Progress  and  Prospects  of  Society  published.     Mrs.  Coleridge 
and  Sara  C.  leave  Greta  Hall  on  the  marriage  of  the  latter  to  H.  N. 
Coleridge,  Mrs.  C.  subsequently  taking  up  her  residence  with   her 
daughter  and  son-in-law.     S.  continues  to  advocate  the  establish- 
ment of  Co-operative  Societies. 

[CJiupters  on  Churchyards  (Caroline  Bowles).     Imaginary  Conversa- 
tions, second  series  (Landor).] 
S.  engaged  in  writing  Life  of  Bunyan  and  Naval  History  of  England. 
Life  of  Bunyan  published,  prefixed  to  an  edition  of  Pilgrim's  Progress. 
[Hazlitt  died.     Poems,  Chiefly  Lyrical  (A.  Tennyson).] 
S.   visits   Caroline  Bowles  at  Buckland   (Jan.).     Visits  Dr.   Bell   at 
Cheltenham  (June).     Select  Works  of  British  Poets  from  Chaucer  to 
Jonson  published.     S.  continues  (as,  like  Wordsworth,  he  had  done 
from  the  first)  strongly  to  oppose  Parliamentary  Reform. 

[Corn  Law  Rhymes  (Ebenezer  Elliott).] 
Essays,  Moral  and  Political  published  (Jan.  or  ?  Dec.  1831).  History 
of  the  Peninsular  War,  vol.  iii,  published.  Death  of  Dr.  Bell,  who 
leaves  S.  £1000,  with  a  request  that  he  should  write  his  Life.  S. 
refuses  offer  of  a  Professorship  of  History  at  Durham  University. 
Landor  visits  S.  at  Keswick  (June). 

[Sir  W.   Scott  died.     Crabbe  died.     Bentham  died.     Dr.  Arnold 
buys  Fox  How.] 
Correspondence  with  Lord  Ashley  on  Factory  Legislation.     S.  begins 
to  work  at  Dr.   Bell's  Life  and  Correspondence.     Naval  J^istory  of 
England,  vols,  i  and  ii,  published. 

[Pauline  (R.  Browning).     Poems  (Hartley  Coleridge).] 
The  Doctor,  (Jbc,  vols,  i  and  ii,  published.     Edith  May  S.  marries  the 
Rev.  J.  W.  Warter  (Jan.).     Naval  History,  vol.  iii,  published.     Life 
of  Cow  per  begun.     Mrs.  S.  loses  her  reason  (Sept.)  and  is  removed 
to  the  asylum  at  York. 

[S.  T.  C.  died  (July  25).     C.  Lamb  died  (Dec.  27).     Philip  tan 
Arlevelde  (H.  Taylor).] 


XXVlll 


BIOGRAPHICAL   TABLE 


A.D. 

1835 


1836 


1837 


1838 


1839 


1843 


61 


62 


63 


64 


65 


S.  declines  the  offer  of  a  baronetcy  from  Sir  R.  Peel,  who  then  obtains 
for  him  an  additional  pension  of  £300  a  year.  Mrs.  S.,  though  without 
regaining  her  reason,  so  far  recovers  as  to  be  allowed  to  return  to 
Keswick  (March).  Publication  of  Life  and  Works  of  Cowper  (15 
vols.,  1835-37)  begun. 

[Yarrow  Revisited  and  other  Poems  (Wordsworth).     Mrs.  Hemana 
died.     James  Hogg  died.     ParaceUu-s  (R.  Browning).] 

Tour  in  West  of  England  with  Cuthbert  S.  (Oct.-Feb.  1837).  Meets 
Landor  at  Clifton  and  stays  at  Bremhill  with  W.  L.  Bowles. 

[Pericles  and  Aspasia  (Landor).     The  Birthday  (Caroline  Bowles). 
William  Taylor  of  Norwich  died.] 

S.  corresponds  with  Charlotte  Bronte  in  answer  to  a  request  for  his 
criticism  of  her  poems.  '  Mr.  Southey's  letter  was  kind  and  admirable, 
a  little  stringent,  but  it  did  me  good '  (C.  Bronte).  Publication  of 
collected  edition  of  S.'s  poems  in  10  vols,  begun.  Cuthbert  S.  matri- 
culates at  Oxford.     ]Mrs.  S.  died  (Nov.  16). 

[Strafford  (R.  Browning).     The  French  Revolution  (T.  Carlyle).] 

Tour  in  Normandy,  Brittany,  and  Touraine  with  Cuthbert  S.,  H.  C. 
Robinson,  and  three  other  friends  (Aug.,  Sept.).  S.  now  first  begins 
to  show  signs  of  failing  powers.  At  Buckland  with  Caroline  Bowles 
(Oct.-Dec). 

Bertha  S.  marries  her  cousin  Herbert  Hill.  S.  marries  Caroline  Bowles 
(June  5).  Soon  afterwards  his  mind  fails  rapidly,  until  its  powers 
are  completely  lost.  In  this  condition  he  lives  at  Keswick  until  his 
death. 

Robert  Southey  died  (March  21).     Buried  in  Crosthwaite  Churchyard. 


PREFACES 

TO  THE   COLLECTED   EDITION   OF  TEN  VOLUMES, 

PUBLISHED    IN    1837,  1838. 

PREFACE   TO   THE  FIRST  VOLUME 


At  the  age  of  sixty-three  I  have 
undertaken  to  collect  and  edite  my 
Poetical  Works,  with  the  last  correc- 
tions that  I  can  expect  to  bestow  upon 
them.  They  have  obtained  a  reputa- 
tion equal  to  mj'  wishes  ;  and  I  have 
this  ground  for  hoping  it  may  not  be 
deemed  hereafter  more  than  commen- 
surate with  their  deserts,  that  it  has 
1 . .  n  gained  without  ever  accommodat- 
in_'  myself  to  the  taste  or  fashion  of 
the  times.  Thus  to  collect  and  revise 
them  is  a  duty  which  I  owe  to  that  part 
of  the  Public  by  whom  they  iiave  been 
auspiciously  received,  and  to  those  who 
will  take  a  lively  concern  in  my  good 
name  when  I  shall  have  departed. 

The  arrangement  was  the  first  thing 
to  be  considered.  In  this  the  order 
wherein  the  respective  poems  were 
written  has  been  observed,  so  far  as  was 
I  Minpatible  with  a  convenient  classilica- 
iiMii.  Such  order  is  useful  to  those  who 
nid  critically,  and  desire  to  trace  the 
proL^ress  of  an  author's  mind  in  his 
writings;  and  by  affixing  dates  to  the 
minor  pieces,  under  whatever  head  they 
Hit-  di.spo3ed,  the  object  is  sufficiently 
attained. 

Next  came  the  question  of  correction. 
There  was  no  difficulty  with  those  poems 
which  were  composed  after  the  author 
had  acquired  his  art  (so  far  as  he  has 
acquired  it),  and  after  his  opinions  were 
matured.  It  was  only  necessary  to  bear 
in  mind  the  risk  there  must  ever  be  of 
injuring  a  poem  by  verbal  alterations 
made  long  after  it  was  written  ;    inas- 


much as  it  must  be  impossible  to  recall 
the  precise  train  of  thought  in  which 
any  passage  was  conceived,  and  the 
considerations  upon  which  not  the  single 
verse  alone,  but  the  whole  sentence,  or 
paragraph,  had  been  constructed  :  but 
with  regard  to  more  important  changes, 
there  could  be  no  danger  of  introducing 
any  discrepance  in  style.  \\  ith  juvenile 
pieces  the  case  is  different.  From  these 
the  faults  of  diction  have  been  weeded 
wherever  it  could  be  done  without  more 
trouble  than  the  composition  originally 
cost,  and  than  the  piece  itself  was  worth. 
But  inherent  faults  of  conception  and 
structure  are  incurable  ;  and  it  would 
have  been  mere  waste  of  time  to  recom- 
pose  what  it  was  impossible  otherwise  to 
amend. 

If  these  poems  had  been  now  for  the 
first  time  to  be  made  public,  there  are 
some  among  them  which,  instead  of 
being  committed  to  the  press,  would 
have  been  consigned  to  the  flames  ;  not 
for  any  disgrace  which  could  be  reflected 
upon  me  by  the  crude  compositions  of 
my  youth,  nor  for  any  harm  which  they 
could  possibly  do  the  reader,  but  merely 
that  they  might  not  cumber  the  collec- 
tion. But  '  nescil  vox  missel  reverti'. 
Pirated  editions  would  hold  out  as  a 
recommendation,  that  they  contained 
what  I  had  chosen  to  suppress,  and  thus 
it  becomes  prudent,  and  therefore  pro- 
per, that  such  pieces  should  be  retained. 

It  has  ever  been  a  rule  with  mo  when 
I  have  imitated  a  passage,  or  borrowed  an 
expression,  to  acknowledge  the  specific 


PREFACE 


obligation.  Upon  the  pi-ebent  occasion 
it  behoves  me  to  state  the  more  general 
and  therefore  more  important  obliga- 
tions which  I  am  conscious  of  owing 
eitlier  to  my  predecessors,  or  my  con- 
temporaries. 

My  first  attempts  in  verse  were  much 
too  early  to  be  imitative,  but  I  was 
fortunate  enough  to  find  my  way,  when 
very  young,  into  the  right  path.  I  read 
the  Jerusalem  Delivered  and  the  Orlando 
Furioso  again  and  again,  in  Hoole's 
translations  :  it  was  for  the  sake  of  their 
stories  that  I  jDcrused  and  re-perused 
these  poems  with  ever  new  delight ;  and 
by  bringing  them  thus  within  my  reach 
in  boyhood,  the  translator  rendered  me 
a  service  which,  when  I  look  back  upon 
my  intellectual  life,  I  cannot  estimate 
too  highly.  I  owe  him  much  also  for 
his  notes,  not  only  for  the  information 
concerning  other  Italian  romances  which 
they  imparted,  but  also  for  introducing 
me  to  Spenser  ; — how  early,  an  incident 
■which  I  well  remember  may  show. 
Going  with  a  relation  into  Bull's  circu- 
lating library  at  Bath  (an  excellent  one 
for  those  days),  and  asking  whether  they 
had  the  Faery  Queen,  the  person  who 
managed  the  shop  said  '  yes,  they  had 
it,  but  it  was  in  obsolete  language,  and 
the  young  gentleman  would  not  under- 
stand it'.  But  I,  who  had  learned  all 
I  then  knew  of  the  history  of  England 
from  Shakespear,  and  who  had  more- 
over read  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  found 
no  difficulty  in  Spenser's  English,  and 
felt  in  the  beauty  of  his  versification  a 
charm  in  poetry  of  which  I  had  never 
been  fully  sensible  before.  From  that 
time  I  took  Spenser  for  my  master. 
I  drank  also  betimes  of  Chaucer's  well. 
The  taste  which  had  been  acquired  in 
that  school  was  confirmed  by  Percy's 
Reliques  and  Warton's  History  of  English 
Poetry  ;  and  a  little  later  by  Homer  and 
the  Bible.  It  was  not  likely  to  be  cor- 
rupted afterwards. 

My  school-boy  verses  savoured  of 
Gray,  Mason,  and  m}'  predecessor 
Warton  ;  and  in  the  best  of  my  juvenile 
pieces  it  may  be  seen  how  much  the 
writer's    mind    had    been    imbued    by 


I  Akenside.     I     am    conscious    also     of 

,  having   derived    much    benefit   at    one 

I  time    from    CowjDer,    and    more    from 

'  Bowles ;    for  which,  and  for  the  delight 

which  his  poems  gave   me   at    an   age 

when  we  are  most  susceptible  of  such 

delight,  my  good  friend  at  Bremhill,  to 

whom  I  was  then  and  long  afterwards 

personally  unknown,  will  allow  me  to 

make  this  grateful  and  cordial  acknow- 

ledgment. 

My  obligation  to  Dr.  Sayers  is  of  a 
diflfeVent  kind.  Every  one  who  has  an 
ear  for  metre  and  a  heart  for  poetrj', 
must  have  felt  how  perfectly  the  metre 
of  Collins's  Ode  to  Evening  is  in  accor- 
dance with  the  imagery  and  the  feeling. 
None  of  the  experiments  which  were 
made  of  other  unrhymed  stanzas  proved 
successful.  They  were  either  in  strongly 
marked  and  v.ell-known  measures  which 
unavoidably  led  the  reader  to  expect 
rh3'me,  and  consequently  baulked  him 
when  he  looked  for  it  ;  or  they  were  in 
stanzas  as  cumbrous  as  they  were  ill 
constructed.  Dr.  Sayers  went  upon  a 
different  principle,  and  succeeded  ad- 
mirably. I  read  his  Dramatic  Sketches 
of  Northern  Mythology  when  they  were 
first  published,  and  convinced  myself 
when  I  had  acquired  some  skill  in  versi- 
fication, that  the  kind  of  verse  in  which 
his  choruses  were  composed  was  not  less 
applicable  to  narration  than  to  lyrical 
poetr}'.  Soon  after  I  had  begun  the 
Arabian  romance,  for  which  this  measure 
seemed  the  most  appropriate  vehicle, 
Gehir  fell  into  my  hands,  and  my  verse 
was  greatl}'  improved  by  it,  both  in 
vividness  and  strength.  Several  years 
elapsed  before  I  knew  that  WalterLan- 
dor  was  the  author,  and  more  before  I 
had  the  good  fortune  to  meet  the  person 
to  whom  I  felt  myself  thus  beholden. 
The  days  which  I  have  passed  with  him 
in  the  Vale  of  Ewias.  at  Como,  and 
lastly  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Bristol, 
are  some  of  those  which  have  left  with 
me  'a  joy  for  memory  '. 

I    have    thus    acknowledged    all    the 
specific  obligations  to  my  elders  or  con- 
temporaries in  the  art,  of  which  I  am 
I  distinctly  conscious.     The    advantages 


PREFACE 


arising  from  intimtito  intercourse  with 
those  who  were  engaged  in  similar  pur- 
suits cannot  bo  in  like  manner  specified, 
because  in  their  nature  they  are  imper- 
ceptible ;  but  of  such  advantages  no 
man  has  ever  possessed  more  or  greater, 
than  at  ditTerent  times  it  has  been  my 
lot  to  enjoy.  Personal  attachment 
first,  and  family  circumstances  after- 
wards, connected  me  long  and  closely 
with  Mr.  Coleridge ;  and  three-ancl- 
thirty  years  have  ratified  a  friendship 
with  Mr.  Wordsworth,  which  we  believe 
will  not  terminate  with  this  life,  and 
which  it  is  a  pleasure  for  us  to  know  will 
be  continued  and  cherished  as  an  heir- 
loom by  those  who  are  dearest  to  us 
both. 

When  I  add  what  has  been  the  great- 
est of  all  advantages,  that  I  have  passed 
more  than  half  my  life  in  retirement, 
conversing  with  books  rather  than  men, 
constantly  and  unweariably  engaged  in 
literary  pursuits,  communing  with  my 
own  heart,  and  taking  that  course 
which  upon  mature  consideration  seemed 
best  to  myself,  I  have  said  every  thing 
necessary  to  account  for  the  charac- 
teristics of  my  poetry,  whatever  they 
may  be. 

It  was  in  a  mood  resembling  in  no 
slight  degree  that  wherewith  a  person 

Keswick,  May  10,  1837. 


in  sound  health,  both  of  body  and  mind, 
makes  his  will  and  sets  his  worldly  affairs 
in  order,  that  I  entered  upon  the  serious 
task  of  arranging  and  revising  the  whole 
of  my  poetical  works.  What,  indeed, 
was  it  but  to  bring  in  review  before  mo 
the  dreams  and  asj»irations  of  my  youth, 
and  the  feelings  whereto  I  had  given 
that  free  utterance  which  by  the  usages 
of  this  world  is  permitted  to  us  in 
i  poetry,  and  in  poetry  alone  ?  Of  the 
smaller  pieces  in  this  collection  there 
is  scarcely  one  concerning  which  I 
cannot  vividly  call  to  mind  when  and 
where  it  was  composed.  I  have  perfect 
recollection  of  the  spots  where  many, 
not  of  the  scenes  only,  but  of  the  images 
which  I  have  described  from  nature, 
were  observed  and  noted.  And  how 
would  it  be  possible  for  me  to  forget  the 
interest  taken  in  these  poems,  especially 
the  longer  and  more  ambitious  works, 
1  by  those  persons  nearest  and  dearest  to 
!  me  then,  who  witnessed  their  growth 
I  and  completion  ?  Well  may  it  be  called 
i  a  serious  task  thus  to  resuscitate  the 
past !  But  serious  though  it  be,  it  is  not 
painful  to  one  who  knows  that  the  end 
of  his  journey  cannot  be  far  distant, 
and,  by  the  blessing  of  God,  looks  on  to 
its  termination  with  sure  and  certain 
hope. 


PREFACE  TO  THE    SECOND  VOLUME, 

BEING  THE  FIRST  OF  TWO  VOLUMES  ENTITLED  '  JUVENILE  AND 

MINOR      POEMS',     BEGINNING      WITH     'THE     TRIUMPH      OF 

WOMAN',  AND  ENDING  WITH    'HYMN   TO   THE  PENATES' 


The  earliest  pieces  in  these  Juvenile 
and  Minor  Poems  were  written  before 
the  writer  had  left  school ;  between  the 
date  of  these  and  of  the  latest  there  is 
an  interval  of  six-and-forty  years  :  as 
much  difference,  therefore,  may  be 
perceived  in  them,  as  in  the  different 
stages  of  life  from  boyhood  to  old  age. 

Some  of  the  earliest  appeared  in  a 
little  volume  published  at  Bath  in  the 


autumn  of  1794,  with  this  title: — 
'  Poems,  containhifj  the  Retrospect,  li'C. 
by  Robert  Lovell  and  Robert  Southey, 
1795  ; '    and  with  this  motto — 

*  Minuentiir  afrae 
Carmine  curae.'  Horace. 

At  the  end  of  that  volume,  Joan  of  Are 
was  announced  as  to  be  published  by 
subscription. 


PREFACE 


Others  were  published  at  Bristol, 
1797,  in  a  single  volume,  with  this  motto 
from  Akenside  : — 

'  Goddess  of  the  Lyre, — 

with  thee  comes 
Majestic  Truth  ;  and  where  Truth  deigns  to 

come 
Her  sister  Liberty  will  not  be  far.' 

A  second  volume  followed  at  Bristol 
in  1799,  after  the  second  edition  of  Joan 
of  Arc,  and  commencing  with  the  Vision 
of  the  Maid  of  Orleans.  The  motto  to 
this  was  from  the  Epilogue  to  Spenser's 
Shepherds'  Calendar : — 

'  The  better,  please  ;   the  worse,  displease  : 
I  ask  no  more.' 

In  the  third  edition  of  Joan  of  Arc, 
the  Vision  was  printed  separately,  at 
the  end  ;  and  its  place  was  supplied  in 
the  second  edition  of  the  Poems  by 
miscellaneous  pieces. 

A  separate  volume,  entitled  Metrical 
Tales  and  other  Poems,  was  published  in 
1805,  with  this  advertisement : — '  These 
Poems  were  published  some  years  ago 
in  the  Anyiual  Anthology.  (Bristol,  1799, 
1800.)  They  have  now  been  revised 
and  printed  in  this  collected  form, 
because  they  have  pleased  those  readers 
whom  the  Author  was  most  desirous 
of  pleasing.  Let  them  be  considered  as 
the  desultory  productions  of  a  man 
sedulously  employed  upon  better  things. ' 

These  various  pieces  were  re-arranged 
in  three  volumes,  under  the  title  of 
Minor  Poeins,  in  1815,  with  this  motto, 

*  Nos  haec  novimus  esse  nihil ; ' 

and  they  were  published  a  second  time 
in  the  same  form,  1823. 

The  Ballads  and  Metrical  Tales  con- 
tained in  those  volumes,  belong  to  a 
different  part  of  this  collection  ;  their 
other  contents  are  comprised  here  ;  and 
the  present  volume  consists,  with  very 
few  exceptions,  of  pieces  written  in 
youth  or  early  manhood.  One  of  these 
written  in  my  twentieth  year,  not 
having  been  published  at  the  time, 
would  never  have  been  made  public 
by  my  own  act  and  deed  ;  but  as  Wat 
Tyler   obtained   considerable  notoriety 


upon  its  surreptitious  publication,  it 
seemed  proper  that  a  production  which 
will  be  specially  noticed  whenever  the 
author  shall  be  delivered  over  to  the 
biographers,  should  be  included  here. 
They  who  may  desire  to  know  more  than 
is  stated  in  the  advertisement  now  pre- 
fixed to  it,  are  referred  to  a  Letter 
addressed  to  William  Smith,  Esq.  M.P., 
1817,  reprinted  in  the  second  volume 
of  my  Essays  Moral  and  Political,  1832. 

The  second  volume  of  this  part  of  the 
Collection  contains  one  juvenile  piece, 
and  many  which  were  written  in  early 
manhood.  The  remainder  were  com- 
posed in  middle  or  later  life,  and  com- 
prise (with  one  exception,  that  will  more 
convenientl}'^  be  arranged  elsewhere,) 
all  the  odes  which  as  Poet  Laureat  I 
have  written  upon  national  occasions. 
Of  these  the  Carmen  Trinmphale,  and 
the  Carmina  Aulica,  were  separately 
published  in  quarto  in  1814,  and  re- 
printed together  in  a  little  volume  in 
1821. 

The  Juvenile  and  ]\rinor  Poems  in  this 
Collection  liear  an  inconsiderable  pro- 
portion to  those  of  substantive  length  : 
for  a  small  part  only  of  my  youthful 
effusions  were  spared  from  those  autos- 
da-fe  in  which  from  time  to  time  piles 
upon  piles  have  been  consumed.  In 
middle  life  works  of  greater  extent,  or  of 
a  different  kind,  left  me  little  leisure  for 
occasional  poetry  ;  the  impulse  ceased, 
and  latterly  the  inclination  was  so 
seldom  felt,  that  it  required  an  effort  to 
call  it  forth, 

Su-  William  Davenant,  in  the  Preface 
to  Gondihert,  '  took  occasion  to  accu.se 
and  condemn  all  those  hasty  digestions 
of  thought  which  were  published  in  his 
youth  ;  a  sentence,  said  he,  not  pro- 
nounced out  of  melancholy  rigour,  but 
from  a  cheerful  obedience  to  the  just 
authority  of  experience.  For  that 
grave  mistress  of  the  world,  experience, 
(in  whose  profitable  school  those  before 
the  Flood  stayed  long,  but  we,  like  wan- 
ton children,  come  thither  late,  yet  too 
soon  are  called  out  of  it,  and  fetched  ,i 
home  by  death,)  hath  taught  me  that  f 
the  engenderings  of  unripe  age  become 


PREFACE 


abortive  and  deformed;    and  that  'tis 

;i  high  presumption  to  entertain  a  nation 
(who  are  a  poot\s  standing  guest,  ami 
TLMjuire  monarcincal  ics})cct,)  with  hasty 
provisions  ;  as  if  a  poet  niiglit  imitate 
the  familiar  despatch  of  faulconcrs, 
mount  his  Pegasus,  unhood  liis  ^luse, 
and,  with  a  few  flights,  boast  he  hath 
provided  a  feast  for  a  prince.  Such 
posting  u})on  Pegasus  I  liave  long  since 
toieborne.'  Vet  this  eminently  thought- 
ful poet  was  so  far  from  seeking  to  sup- 
j)ies3  the  crude  compositions  wiiich  he 
(hus  condemned,  that  he  often  expressed 
a  great  desire  to  see  all  his  pieces  col- 
l<eted in  one  volume  ;  and,  conformably 
to  his  wish,  they  were  so  collected,  after 
his  decease,  by  his  widow  and  his  friend 
llerringman  the  bookseller. 

Agreeing  with  Davcnant  in  condemn- 
ini.'  the  greater  part  of  my  juvenile 
pieces,  it  is  only  as  crudities  that  I  con- 
il'.Mun  them ;  for  in  all  that  I  have 
\\  ritten,  whether  in  prose  or  verse,  there 
has  never  been  a  line  which  for  any  com- 
[)unctious  reason,  living  or  dying,  I  could 
wisli  to  blot. 

Davcnant  had  not  changed  his  opinion 
nf  ills  own  youthful  productions  so  as 
to  overlook  in  his  age  the  defects  which 
\\<:  had  once  clearly  perceived  ;  but  he 
knew  that  pieces  which  it  would  indeed 
liave  been  presumptuous  to  rejnoducc 
on  tiie  score  of  their  merit,  might  yet 
he  deemed  worthy  of  preservation  on 
other  grounds;  that  to  his  family  and 
fi  lends,  and  to  those  who  might  take 
any  interest  in  English  poetry  hereafter, 
they  would  possess  peculiar  value,  as 
( haracteristic  memorials  of  one  who 
had  held  no  inconsiderable  place  in  the 
literature  of  his  own  times  ;  feeling,  too, 
that  he  was  not  likely  to  be  forgotten 
hy  posterity,  he  tiiought  that  after  the 
specimen  which  he  had  jiroduced  in  his 
'iiDidihtti  of  a  great  and  elaborate  poem, 
liis  early  attempts  would  be  regarded 
with  curiosity  by  such  of  his  successors 
a  •  should,  like  him,  study  poetry  as  an 
'It, — for  as  an  art  it  must  be  studied  by 
those  who  would  excel  in  it,  though 
•'cllence  in  it  is  not  attainable  by  ait 
'  Mie. 


The  cases  are  very  few  in  which  any 

thing  more  can  be  inferred  from  juvcnilo 
poetry,  than  that  the  asjjirant  possestes 
imitati\o  talent,  and  the  power  of  versi- 
fying, for  which,  as  for  music,  tiierc 
must  be  a  certain  natural  a])titude.  It 
is  not  merely  because  '  they  have  lacked 
culture  and  the  insjiiring  aid  of  books',* 
that  so  many  })oetH  who  have  been 
'sown  by  Nature',  have  'wanted  the 
accom])lishment  of  verse',  and  brought 
forth  no  fruit  after  their  kind.  !Men  of 
the  highest  culture,  of  whose  poetical 
temperament  no  doubt  can  be  enter- 
tained, and  w  ho  had  *  taken  to  the 
height  the  measure  of  themselves',  have 
yet  failed  in  their  endeavour  to  become 
poets,  for  want  of  that  accomplishment. 
It  is  frccjuently  possessed  without  any 
other  cpialilication,  or  any  capacity  for 
improvement ;  but  then  the  innate  and 
incurable  defect  that  renders  it  abortive, 
is  at  once  apparent. 

The  state  of  literature  in  this  kingdom 
during  the  last  fifty  years  has  produced 
the  same  effect  upon  poetry  that  aca- 
demies produce  upon  painting  ;  in  both 
arts  every  possible  assistance  is  afforded 
to  imitative  talents,  and  in  both  they 
are  carried  as  far  as  the  talent  of  imita- 
tion can  reach.  But  there  is  one  respect 
in  which  poetry  differs  widely  from  the 
sister  arts.  Its  fairest  promi.'^c  fre- 
([uently  proves  deceitful,  wliereas  both 
in  painting  and  music  the  early  indica- 
tions of  genius  are  unetiuivocal.  The 
children  who  were  called  musical  pro- 
digies, have  become  great  musiciami ; 
and  great  painters,  as  far  as  their  history 
is  known,  have  displayed  in  childhood 
that  accuracy  of  eye,  and  dexterity  of 
hand,  and  shaping  faculty,  which  arc 
the  prime  re([uisites  for  their  calling. 
But  it  is  often  found  that  young  i  oets 
of  whom  great  expectations  were  formed, 
have  made  no  jnogress,  and  have  even 
fallen  short  of  their  first  performances. 
It  may  be  said  that  this  is  because  men 
apply  themselves  to  music  and  to 
painting  as  their  professions,  but  that 
no  one  makes  poetry  the  business  of  his 

'   \\  <ji(l>,\Mirlh. 


6 


PREFACE 


life.  This,  however,  is  not  the  only 
reason  :  the  indications,  as  has  already 
been  observed,  are  far  less  certain  ;  and 
the  circumstances  of  society  are  far  less 
favourable  for  the  moral  and  intellectual 
culture  which  is  required  for  all  the 
higher  branches  of  poetry,  .  .  .  all  indeed 
that  deserves  the  name. 

My  advice  as  to  publishing,  has  often 
been  asked  by  young  poets,  who  suppose 
that  experience  has  qualified  me  to  give 
it,  and  who  have  not  yet  learnt  how 
seldom  advice  is  taken,  and  how  little 
therefore  it  is  worth.  As  a  general  rule, 
it  may  be  said  that  one  who  is  not 
deceived  in  the  estimate  which  he  has 

Kesidck,  Sept.  30,  1837. 


formed  of  his  o\mi  powers,  can  neither 
wTite  too  much  in  his  youth,  nor  publish 
too  little.  It  cannot,  however,  be  need- 
ful to  caution  the  present  race  of  poetical 
adventurers  against  hurrying  with  their 
productions  to  the  press,  for  there  are 
obstacles  enough  in  the  way  of  publica- 
tion. Looking  back  upon  my  own 
career,  and  acknowledging  my  impru- 
dence in  this  respect,  I  have  neverthe- 
less no  cause  to  wish  that  I  had  pursued 
a  different  course.  In  this,  as  in  other 
circumstances  of  my  life,  I  have  reason 
to  be  thankful  to  that  merciful  Provi- 
dence which  shaped  the  ends  that  I  had 
roughly  hewn  for  myself. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  THIRD  VOLUME, 

BEING   THE   SECOND   OF   'JUVENILE   AND   MINOR   POEMS 


In  a  former  Preface  my  obligations 
to  Akenside  were  acknowledged,  with 
especial  reference  to  the  Hymn  to  the 
Ptnate-s :  the  earliest  of  ray  Inscriptions 
also  originated  in  the  pleasure  with  which 
I  perused  those  of  this  favourite  author. 
Others  of  a  later  date  bear  a  nearer 
resemblance  to  the  general  character  of 
Chiabrera's  epitaphs.  Those  which  re- 
late to  the  Peninsular  War  are  part  of 
a  series  which  I  once  hoped  to  have  com- 
pleted. The  epitaph  for  Bishop  Butler 
was  originally  composed  in  the  lapidary 
style,  to  suit  the  monument  in  Bristol 
Cathedral :  it  has  been  remodelled  here, 
that  I  might  express  myself  more  at 
length,  and  in  a  style  more  accordant 
with  my  own  judgement. 

One  thing  remains  to  be  explained, 
and  I  shall  then  have  said  all  that  it 
becomes  me  to  say  concerning  these 
Minor  Poems. 

It  was  stated  in  some  of  the  news- 
papers that  Walter  Scott  and  myself 
became  competitors  for  the  Poet- 
Laureateship  upon  the  death  of  Mr.  Pye; 
that  we  met  accidentally  at  the  Prince 
Regent's  levee,  each  in  pursuit  of  his 
pretensions,  and  that  some  words  which 


were  not  over-courteous  on  either  side 
passed  between  us  on  the  occasion; — 
to  such  impudent  fabrications  will  those 
persons  resort  who  make  it  their  busi- 
ness to  i)ander  for  public  curiosity.  The 
circumstances  relating  to  that  appoint- 
ment have  been  made  known  in  ]\Ir. 
Lockhart's  Life  of  Sir  Walter.  His  con- 
duct was,  as  it  always  was,  characteris- 
tically generous,  and  in  the  highest 
degree  friendly.  Indeed,  it  was  neither 
in  his  nature  nor  in  mine  to  place  our- 
selves in  competition  with  any  one,  or 
ever  to  regard  a  contemporary  as  a  rival. 
The  world  was  wide  enough  for  us  all. 

L^pon  his  declining  the  office,  and 
using  his  influence,  without  my  know- 
ledge, to  obtain  it  for  me,  his  biographer 
saj's,*  '  ^Ir.  Southey  Mas  invited  to 
accept  the  vacant  laujel  ;  and  to  the 
honour  of  the  Prmce  Regent,  when  he 
signified  that  his  acceptance  must 
depend  on  the  office  being  thenceforth 
so  modified  as  to  demand  none  of  the 
old  formal  odes,  leaving  it  to  tlie  Poet- 
Laureate  to  choose  his  own  time  for 
celebrating  any  great  public  event  that 

1  Vol.  iii,  p.  bb. 


PREFACE 


might  occur,  bis  Royal  Highness  had  the 

od  sense  and  good  taste  at  once  to 
luiesce  in  the  propiiety  of  this  alteni- 
;ii.ii.  The  olhce  \\as  thus  relieved  from 
the  burden  of  ridicule  which  iiad,  in 
sjiite  of  so  many  illuvstrious  names, 
lulhcred  to  it.'  The  alteration,  how- 
iver.  was  not  brought  about  exactly 
in  this  manner. 

I  was  on  the  way  to  London  when  the 
correspondence  U])on  this  subject  be- 
tween 8ir  Walter  8cott  and  Mr.  Croker 
took  place.  A  letter  from  8cott  fol- 
lowed me  thither,  and  on  ray  arrival 
in  town  I  was  informed  of  what  had 
been  done.  No  wish  for  the  Laureate- 
ship  had  passed  across  my  mind,  nor 
had  I  ever  dreamt  that  it  would  be  pro- 
])o.sed  to  me.  My  tir.st  impulse  was  to 
il''cline  it  ;  not  from  any  fear  of  ridicule, 
I'l  less  of  obloquy,  but  because  I  had 
iscd  for  several  years  to  write  occa- 
inal  verses:  the  inclination  had 
parted;  and  though  willing  as  a  bee 
to  work  from  morn  till  night  in  collecting 
honey,  I  had  a  great  dislike  to  spinning 
like  a  spider.  Other  considerations 
overcame  this  reluctance,  and  made  it 
my  duty  to  accept  the  appointment. 
I  then  expressed  a  wish  to  Mr.  Croker 
that  it  might  be  placed  upon  a  footing 
which  would  exact  from  the  holder 
nothing  like  a  schoolboy's  task,  but 
leave  him  at  liberty  to  write  when,  and 
in  what  manner,  he  thought  best,  and 
thus  render  the  office  as  honourable  as 
it  was  originally  designed  to  be.  Upon 
this,  Mr.  Croker,  whose  friendliness  to 
me  upon  every  occasion  I  gladly  take 
this  opportunity  of  acknowledging, 
observed  that  it  was  not  for  us  to  make 
terras  with  the  Prince  Regent.  '  Co 
you',  said  he,  'and  write  your  Ode  for 
tlie  New  Year.  You  can  never  have 
.1  better  subject  than  the  present  state 
of  the  war  affords  you.'  He  added  that 
sorae  lit  time  might  be  found  for  repre- 
^:t-uting  the  matter  to  the  Prince  in  its 
l-ioper  light. 

My  appointment  had  no  sooner  been 
made  known,   than   I  received  a  note 

Keswick,  Dec.  IJ,  1637. 


with  Sir  William  Parsons'a  complimeute, 
requesting  that  I  would  let  him  have  the 
Ode  as  soon  as  possible.  Mr.  I'yc  having 
always  provided  him  with  it  six  weeks 
before  the  New  Year's  Day.  1  was  not 
waiiting  in  punctuality  ;  nevertheless, 
it  was  a  great  trouble  to  8ir  \\illiara 
that  the  oflice  should  have  been  conferred 
upon  a  poet  who  did  not  walk  in  tho 
ways  of  his  predecessor,  and  do  according 
to  all  things  that  he  had  done ;  for 
Mr.  Pye  had  written  his  odes  always  in 
regular  stanzas  and  in  rhyme.  Poor 
Sir  William,  though  he  had  not  fallen 
upon  evil  tongues  and  evil  times,  thought 
he  had  fallen  upon  evil  ears  when  ho 
was  to  set  verses  like  mine  to  music. 

But  the  labour  which  the  Chief 
Musician  bestowed  upon  the  verses  of 
the  Chief  Poet  was  so  much  labour  lost. 
The  performance  of  the  Annual  Odes 
had  been  suspended  from  the  time  of 
the  King's  illness,  in  1810.  Under  the 
circumstances  of  his  malady,  any  festal 
celebration  of  the  birth-day  would  have 
been  a  violation  of  natural  feeling  and 
public  propriety.  On  those  occasions 
it  was  certain  that  nothing  would  be 
expected  from  me  during  the  life  of 
Oeorge  IIL  But  the  New  Year's  per- 
formance might  perhaps  be  called  for, 
and  for  that,  therefore,  I  always 
prepared.  Upon  the  accession  of 
Oeorge  IV,  I  made  ready  an  Ode  for 
St.  George's  Day,  which  Mr.  Shield,  who 
was  much  better  satislied  with  his  yoke- 
fellow than  Sir  William  had  been, 
thought  happily  suited  for  his  purpose. 
It  was  indeed  well  suited  for  us  both. 
All  my  other  Odes  related  to  the  circum- 
stances of  the  passing  times,  and  could 
have  been  appropriately  performed 
only  when  they  were  composed  ;  but 
this  was  a  standing  subject,  and,  till  this 
should  be  called  for,  it  was  needless  to 
provide  any  thing  else.  The  annual 
performance  had,  however,  by  this  time 
fallen  completely  into  disuse  ;  and  thus 
terminated  a  custom  which  may  truly 
be  said  to  have  been  more  honouied  in 
the  breach  than  in  the  observance. 


PREFACE 


PREFACE  TO  THE  FOURTH  VOLUME, 

CONTAINING    '  THALABA  THE  DESTROYER' 


It  was  said,  in  the  original  Preface  to 
Joan  of  Arc,  that  the  Author  would  not 
be  in  England  to  witness  its  reception, 
but  that  he  would  attend  to  liberal 
criticism,  and  hope  to  profit  by  it  in  the 
composition  of  a  poem  upon  the  dis- 
covery of  America  by  the  Welsh  prince 
Madoc. 

That  subject  I  had  fixed  upon  when 
a  schoolboy,  and  had  often  conversed 
upon  the  probabilities  of  the  story  with 
the  schoolfellow  to  whom,  sixteen  j^ears 
afterwards,  I  had  the  satisfaction  of 
inscribing  the  poem.  It  was  com- 
menced at  Bath  in  the  autumn  of  1794  ; 
but,  upon  putting  Jo(m  of  An  to  the 
press,  its  progress  was  necessarily  sus- 
pended, and  it  was  not  resumed  till  the 
second  edition  of  that  work  had  been 
comi^leted.  Then  it  became  m^^  chief 
occupation  diu'ing  twelve  months  that 
I  resided  in  the  village  of  Westbury, 
near  Bristol.  This  was  one  of  the 
happiest  portions  of  my  life.  I  never 
before  or  since  jjroduced  so  much  poetry 
in  the  same  space  of  time.  The  smaller 
pieces  were  communicated  by  letter  to 
Charles  Lamb,  and  had  the  advantage 
of  his  animadversions.  I  was  then  also 
in  habits  of  the  most  frequent  and 
intimate  intercourse  with  Davy, — then 
in  the  flower  and  freshness  of  his  youth. 
We  were  within  an  easy  walk  of  each 
other,  over  some  of  the  most  beautiful 
ground  in  that  beautiful  part  of  England. 
AVhen  I  went  to  the  Pneumatic  Institu- 
tion, he  had  to  tell  rac  of  some  new 
experiment  or  discovery,  and  of  the 
views  which  it  opened  "^for  him  ;  and 
when  he  came  (o  Westbury  there  was 
a  fresh  portion  of  Madoc  for  his  hearing. 
Davy  encouraged  me  with  his  hearty 
approbation  during  its  progress ;  and 
the  bag  of  nitrous  oxyde  with  which  he 
generally  regaled  me  u])on  my  visits  to 
him,  was  not  required  for  raising  my 


spirits  to  the  degree  of  settled  fair,  and 
keeping  them  at  that  elevation. 

In  November,  1836,  I  walked  to  that 
village  with  my  son,  wishing  to  show 
him  a  house  endeared  to  me  by  so  many 
recollections ;  but  not  a  vestige  of  it 
remained,  and  local  alterations  rendered 
it  impossible  even  to  ascertain  its  site, — 
which  is  now  included  within  the  grounds 
of  a  Nunnery !  The  bosom  friends  with 
whom  I  associated  there  have  all  de- 
parted before  me ;  and  of  the  domestic 
circle  in  which  my  happiness  was  then 
centered,  I  am  the  sole  survivor. 

\\\\eu.  we  removed  from  Westbury 
at  Midsummer,  1799,  I  had  reached  the 
penultimate  book  of  Madoc.  That 
poem  was  finished  on  the  12th  of  July 
following,  at  Kingsdown,  Bristol,  in  the 
house  of  an  old  ladj^  whose  portrait 
hangs,  \\ith  that  of  my  own  mother,  in 
the  room  wherein  I  am  now  writing. 
The  son  who  lived  with  her  was  one  of 
my  dearest  friends,  and  one  of  the  best 
men  I  ever  knew  or  heard  of.  In  those 
days  I  was  an  early  riser :  the  time  so 
gained  was  usually  employed  in  carrying 
on  the  jjoem  which  I  had  in  hand  ;  and 
when  Charles  Danvers  came  down  to 
breakfast  on  the  morning  after  Madoc 
was  completed,  I  had  the  first  hundred 
lines  of  Thalaba  to  show  him,  fresh  from 
tliP  mint. 

But  this  poem  was  neither  crudely 
conceived  nor  hastily  undertaken.  I  had 
fi  xed  upon  the  ground,  four  years  before, 
for  a  Mahommedan  tale  ;  and  in  the 
course  of  that  time  the  plan  had  been 
formed  and  the  materials  collected.  It 
was  pursued  with  unabating  ardour  at 
Exeter,  in  the  village  of  Burton,  near 
Christ  Cliurch,  and  afterwards  at  Kings- 
down,  till  the  ensuing  spring,  when  Dr. 
Beddoes  advised  me  to  go  to  the  south 
of  Europe,  on  account  of  my  health. 
For  Lisbon,  therefore,  we  set  off;    and, 


PREFACE 


9 


hasteuing  to  Falmouth,  found  tho 
packet,  in  which  wo  wiaheJ  to  sail,  j 
detained  in  harbuur  by  westerly  winds,  j 
'  !Six  days  we  watched  the  weatiieicock,  I 
and  sighed  for  north-eastcrs.  I  walked 
on  the  beach,  caught  soldier-crabs, 
dduiiretl  tho  sea-anemonies  in  their 
ever- varying  shapes  of  beauty,  read 
Citbir,  and  wrote  half  a  book  of  Tludaba." 
This  sentence  is  from  a  letter  written  on 
our  arrival  at  Lisbon  ;  and  it  is  here 
'inserted  because  tho  sea-auemonies 
(which  I  have  never  had  any  other 
oi)portunity  of  observing)  were  intro- 
duced in  2  haluba  soon  afterwards  ;  and 
Itecause,  as  already  stated,  I  am  sensible 
<f  having  derived  great  improvement 
Irom  the  frequent  perusal  of  Gebir  at 
that  time. 

Change    of    circumstances     and     of 

•  limate  etlected  an  immediate  cure  of 
>v'hat    proved,  to    be    not    an    organic 

•  Jisease.  A  week  after  our  landing  at 
1,'sbou  I  resumed  my  favourite  work, 
•tud  I  completed  it  at  Cintra,  a  year  and 
-IX  days  after  the  day  of  its  commence- 
ment. 

A  fair  transcript  was  sent  to  England, 
••ir.  Rickman,  with  whom  I  had  fallen 
\n  at  Christ  Church  in  1797,  and  whose 
friendship  from  that  time  I  have  ever 
•ecounted  among  the  singular  advan- 
tages and  happinesses  of  my  life, 
UL'.gociated  for  its  publication  with 
Messrs.  Longman  and  Rees.  It  was 
printed  at  Bristol  by  Biggs  and  Cottle, 
and  the  task  of  correcting  the  press  was 
undertaken  for  me  by  Davy  and  our 
common  fiiend  Dan  vers,  under  whose 
roof  it  had  been  begun. 

The  copy  which  was  made  from  the 
original  draught,  regularly  as  the  poem 
proceeded,  is  still  in  my  possession.  The 
first  corrections  were  made  as  they 
occurred  in  the  process  of  transcribing, 
at  which  time  the  verses  were  tried  upon 

Kesicick-  Aov.  8, 1837. 


my  owu  ear,  and  had  tho  advantage  of 

being  seen  in  a  fair  and  remarkably 
legible  handwriting.  In  this  transcript 
the  dates  of  time  and  place  were  noted, 
and  things  which  would  otherwis-e  have 
been  forgotten  have  thus  been  brought 
to  my  recollection.  Herein  aK-oo  tiio 
alterations  were  inserted  whicli  tho 
j)oem  underwent  before  it  was  printed. 
They  were  very  numerous.  Much  was 
pruned  olT,  and  more  was  ingrafted.  1 
was  not  satistied  with  the  first  part  of 
the  concluding  book  ;  it  was  therefore 
crossed  out,  and  something  substituted 
altogether  dificrent  in  design  ;  but  this 
substitution  was  so  far  from  being  for- 
tunate, that  it  neither  pleased  my  friends 
in  England  nor  myself.  I  then  made 
a  third  attempt,  which  succeeded  to 
my  own  satisfaction  and  to  theirs. 

I  \\as  in  Portugal  when  Tludaba  was 
published.  Its  reception  was  very 
different  from  that  with  which  Joan  of 
Arc  had  been  welcomed  :  in  proportion 
as  the  poem  deserved  better  it  was 
treated  worse.  Upon  this  occasion  my 
name  was  first  coupled  with  Mr.  Words- 
worth's. We  were  then,  and  for  some 
time  afterwards,  all  but  strangers  to 
each  other  ;  and  certainly  there  were 
no  two  poets  in  whose  production;^,  the 
difterence  not  being  that  between  good 
and  bad,  less  resemblance  could  be 
found.  But  I  hai)pencd  to  be  residing 
at  Keswick  when  Mr,  Wordsworth  and 
I  began  to  be  accpuiinted  ;  Mr.  Coleridge 
also  had  resided  there  ;  and  this  was 
reason  enough  for  classing  us  together 
as  a  school  of  poets.  Accordingly,  for 
I  more  than  twenty  years  from  that  time, 
every  tyro  in  criticism  wlio  could 
I  smatter  and  sneer,  tried  his  'prentice 
I  hand  '  upon  the  Lake  Poets  ;  and  every 
!  young  sportsman  who  carried  a  po]>gun 
in  the  field  of  satire,  considered  them 
I  as  fair  game. 


b3 


10 


PREFACE 


PREFACE  TO  THE  FIFTH  VOLUME, 

CONTAINING  '  MADOC  ' 


When  Madoc  was  brought  to  a  close 
ia  the  summer  of  1799,  Mr.  Coleridge 
advised  me  to  pubhsh  it  at  once,  and  to 
defer  making  any  material  alterations, 
if  any  should  suggest  themselves,  till 
a  second  edition.  But  four  years  had 
passed  over  my  head  since  Joan  of  Arc 
was  sent  to  the  press,  and  I  was  not 
dispo  ied  to  commit  a  second  imprudence. 
If  the  reputation  obtained  by  that  poem 
had  confirmed  the  confidence  which 
I  felt  in  myself,  it  had  also  the  effect  of 
making  me  perceive  my  own  deficiencies, 
and  endeavour  with  all  diligence  to 
supply  them.  I  pleased  myself  with 
the  hope  that  it  would  one  day  be  likened 
to  Tasio's  Rinaldo,  and  that  as  the 
Jerusalem  had  fulfilled  the  promise  of 
better  things  whereof  that  poem  was 
the  pledge,  so  might  Madoc  be  regarded 
in  relation  to  the  juvenile  work  which 
had  preceded  it.  Thinking  that  this 
would  probably  be  the  gxeatest  poem 
I  should  ever  produce,  my  intention 
was  to  bestoiv  upon  it  all  possible  care, 
as  indeed  I  had  determined  never  again 
to  undertake  any  subject  without  due 
preparation.  ^Vith  this  view  it  was 
my  wish,  before  Madoc  could  be  con- 
sidered as  completed,  to  see  more  of 
Wales  than  I  had  yet  seen.  This  I  had 
some  oi^port  unity  of  doing  in  the 
autumn  of  1801,  with  my  old  fri3nds 
and  schoolfellows  Charles  Wynn  and 
Peter  Elmsley.  And  so  much  was  I 
bent  upon  making  mj'self  better  ac- 
quainted with  Welsh  scenery,  manners, 
and  traditions,  than  could  be  done  by 
books  alone,  that  if  I  had  succeeded  in 
obtaining  a  house  in  the  Vale  of  Neath, 
for  which  I  Mas  in  treaty  the  year  fol- 
lowing, it  would  never  have  been  my 
fortune  to  be  classed  among  the  Lake 
Poets. 

Little  had  been  done  in  revising  the 
poem  till  the  first  j-ear  of  my  abode  at 
Keswick  :    there,  in  the  latter  end  of 


1803,  it  was  resumed,  and  twelve  months 
were  diligently  emjiloyed  in  reconstruct- 
ing it.  The  alterations  were  more 
material  than  those  which  had  been 
made  in  Joan  of  Arc,  and  much  more 
extensive.  In  its  original  form  the 
poem  consisted  of  fifteen  books,  con- 
taining about  six  thousand  lines.  It 
was  now  divided  into  two  parts,  and 
enlarged  in  the  proportion  of  a  full 
third.  (Shorter  divisions  than  the  usual 
one  of  books,  or  cantos,  were  found 
more  convenient ;  the  six  books  there- 
fore, which  the  first  part  comprised, 
were  distributed  in  seventeen  sections, 
and  the  other  nine  in  twenty-seven. 
These  changes  in  the  form  of  the  work 
were  neither  capriciously  made,  nor  for 
the  sake  of  novelty.  The  story  con- 
sisted of  two  parts,  almost  as  distinct  as 
the  Iliad  and  Ody.ssey  ;  and  the  sub- 
divisions were  in  like  manner  indicated 
by  the  subject.  The  alterations  in  the  j 
conduct  of  the  piece  occasioned  its  | 
increase  of  length. 

When  Matthew  Lewis  published  the 
Cadh  Spectre,  he  gave  as  his  reason  for 
introducing  negro  guards  in  a  drama 
which  was  laid  in  feudal  times,  that  he 
thought  their  appearance  would  pro-  { 
(luce  a  good  effect ;  and  if  the  effect  j 
would  have  been  better  by  making 
them  blue  instead  of  black,  blue,  said 
he,  they  should  have  been.  He  was 
not  more  bent  upon  ])leasing  the  public 
by  stage  effect,  (which  no  dramatist 
ever  studied  more  successfully,)*  than 
I  was  upon  following  my  own  sense  of 
proj^riety,  and  thereby  obtaining  the 
approbation  of  that  fit  audience,  which, 
being  contented  that  it  should  be  few, 
I  was  sure  to  find.  Mr.  Sotheby,  whose 
Saul  was  published  about  the  same  time 
as  Madoc,  said  to  me  a  year  or  two  after- 
wards, '  You  and  I,  Sir,  find  that  blank 
verse  will  not  do  in  these  days  ;  we  must 
stand  upon  another  tack.'     Mr.  Sotheby 


PREFACE 


11 


coubideied  the  decision  of  the  Pie-Poudie 
Court  as  liiial.  But  my  suit  was  in  that 
Court  of  Record  which  sooner  or  later 
pronounces  unerringly  upon  the  merits 
•jf  the  case. 

Mndoc  was  immediately  reprinted  in 
America  in  numhers,  making  two 
octavo  volumes.  About  nine  years 
afterwards  there  appeared  a  paper  in 
the  Qwutitly  Rtviiw,  which  gave  great 
otTence  to  the  Americans;  if  I  am  not 
mistaken  in  my  recollections,  it  was 
the  lirst  in  that  journal  which  had  any 
such  tendency.  An  American  author, 
whose  name  I  heard,  but  had  no  wish 
to  remember,  supj)osed  it  to  have  been 
written  by  me  ;  and  upon  this  gratui- 
tous supposition,  (in  which,  moreover, 
lie  happened  to  be  totally  mistaken,) 
he  attacked  me  in  a  pamphlet,  which  he 
h-.id  the  courtesy  to  send  me,  and  which 
I  have  preserved  among  my  Curiosities 
of  Literature.  It  is  noticed  in  this 
place,  because,  among  other  vituperative 
accusations,  the  pamphleteer  denounced 
the  author  of  Madoc  as  having  '  medi- 
tated a  most  serious  injury  against  the 
reputation  of  the  New  World,  by  attri- 
buting its  discovery  and  colonization 
to  a  little  vagabond  Welsh  Prince'. 
This,  he  said,  '  being  a  most  insidious 
attempt  against  the  honour  of  America 
and   the  reputation  of  Columbus.'  ' 

Tliis  i)oem  was  the  means  of  making 
me  personally  acquainted  with  Miss 
Seward.  Her  encomiastic  opinion  of 
it  was  communicated  to  me  through 
Charles  Lloyd,  in  a  way  which  required 
Bomc  couiteous  acknowledgement ;  this 
led  to  an  interchange  of  letters,  and  an 
invitation  to  Lichfield,  where,  accord- 
ingly, I  paid  her  a  visit,  when  next  on 
my  way  to  London,  in  1807.  She 
resided  in  the  Bishop's  palace.  I  was 
ushered  up  the  broad  brown  stair-case 

'  The  title  of  this  notable  pamphlet  is, 
Tlie  United  Staffs  and  England  ;  bciiij,' 
■  Hcply  to  the  Criticism  on  Inchiiiuin's 
L'.'th'rs,  contained  in  the  Quarterly  Review 
for  January  lbl4.  New  York  :  publishwl  by 
A.  II.  Inskeep  ;  and  Bradford  and  Inskeep, 
I'liiladelphia.  Van  Winkle  and  Wiley, 
I'rinters,  lbl5.' 


by  her  cousin,  the  Reverend  Henry 
White,  then  one  of  the  minor  canons  of 
that  cathedral,  a  remaikablc  person, 
who  introduced  me  into  the  presence 
with  jul)ilant  but  appalling  holenmity. 
Miss  Seward  was  seated  at  her  desk. 
She  had  just  finished  some  verses  to 
be  '  inscribed  on  the  blank  leaves  of 
the  poem  Mndor',  and  the  tirst  greetifig 
was  no  sooner  past,  than  she  reciuested 
that  I  would  permit  her  to  read  them 
to  me.  It  was  a  mercy  that  she  did 
not  ask  me  to  read  them  aloud.  But 
she  read  admirably  iiersclf.  The  situa- 
tion, however,  in  which  I  found  myself, 
was  so  ridiculous,  and  I  was  so  appre- 
hensive of  catching  the  eye  of  one 
person  in  the  room,  who  was  equally 
afraid  of  meeting  mine,  that  I  never  felt 
it  more  dif!icult  to  control  my  emotions, 
than  while  listening,  or  seeming  to 
listen,  to  my  own  praise  and  glory. 
But,  bending  my  head  as  if  in  a  posture 
of  attentiveness,  and  screening  my  face 
with  my  hand,  and  occasionally  using 
some  force  to  compress  the  risible 
muscles,  I  got  through  the  scene  without 
any  misbehaviour,  and  expressed  my 
thanks,  if  not  in  terms  of  such  glowing 
admiration  as  she  was  accustomed  to 
receive  from  others,  and  had  bestowed 
upon  my  unworthy  self,  yet  as  well  as 
I  could.  I  passed  two  days  under  her 
roof,  and  corresponded  with  her  from 
that  time  till  her  death. 

Miss  Seward  had  been  crippled  by 
having  repeatedly  injured  one  of  her 
knee-pans.  Time  had  taken  away  her 
bloom  and  her  beauty,  but  her  fine 
countenance  retained  its  animation,  and 
her  eyes  could  not  have  been  brighter 
nor  more  expressive  in  her  youth.  Sir 
Walter  Scott  says  of  them,  '  they  were 
auburn,  of  the  precise  shade  and  hue 
of  her  hair.  In  reciting,  or  in  speaking 
with  animation,  they  appeared  to  he- 
c(imc  darker,  and  as  it  were  to  flash  fire. 
I  should  have  hesitated.'  he  adds,  '  to 
state  the  imi)ression  which  this  pecu- 
j  liarity  mady  uj)()ti  nic  at  the  time,  had 
I  not  my  observation  been  conlirmed  I'V 
that  of  the  first  actress  on  this  or  any 
1  other  stage,  with  whom  I  lately  hap- 


12 


PREFACE 


pened  to  converse  on  our  deceased 
friend's  expressive  powers  of  coun- 
tenance.' ^  fSir  Walter  has  not  observed 
that  this  peculiarity  was  hereditary. 
Describing,  in  one  of  lier  earlier  letters, 
a  scene  with  her  mother,  she  says,  '  I 
grew  so  saucy  to  her,  that  she  looked 
grave,  and  took  her  pinch  of  snuff,  first 
at  one  nostril,  and  then  at  the  other, 
with  swift  and  angry  energy,  and  her 
eyes  began  to  grow  dark  and  to  flash. 
'Tis  an  odd  peculiarity  :  but  the  balls 
of  my  mother's  eyes  change  from  brown 
into  black,  when  she  feels  either  indigna- 
tion or  bodily  pain.'  ^ 

Miss  Seward  was  not  so  much  over- 
rated at  one  time,  as  she  has  since  been 
unduly  depreciated.  She  was  so  con- 
siderable a  person  when  her  reputation 
was  at  its  height,  that  Washington  said 
no  circumstance  in  his  life  had  been  so 
mortifying  to  him  as  that  of  having 
been  made  the  subject  of  her  invective 
in  her  Monody  on  Major  Andre.  After 
peace  had  been  concluded  between 
Great  Britain  and  the  United  States,  he 
commissioned  an  x4merican  officer,  who 
was  about  to  sail  for  England,  to  call 
upon  her  at  Lichfield,  and  explain  to  her, 
that  instead  of  having  caused  Andre's 
death,  he  had  endeavoured  to  save  him  ; 
and   she   was   requested   to   peruse   the 

Eapers  in  proof  of  this,  which  he  sent  for 
er  perusal.  '  They  filled  me  with  con- 
trition',  says  Miss  Seward,  'for  the 
rash  injustice  of  my  censure.'  ^ 

An  officer  of  her  name  served  as 
lieutenant  in  the  garrison  at  Gibraltar 
during  the  siege.  To  his  great  surprise, 
...  for  he  had  no  introduction  which 
could  lead  him  to  expect  the  honour  of 

1  Biographical  Preface  to  the  Poetical 
Works  of  Anna  Seward,  p.  xxiii. 

2  Literary  Correspondence.     lb.,  p.  cxxi. 
^  Letters  of  Anna  Seward,  vol.  v,  p.  143. 


such  notice, ...  he  received  an  invitation 
to  dine  with  General  Elliot.  The  General 
asked  him  if  he  were  related  to  the 
author  of  the  Monody  on  Major  Andre. 
The  Lieutenant  replied  that  he  had  the 
honour  of  being  \ery  distantly  related 
to  her,  but  he  had  not  the  happiness  of 
her  acquaintance.  '  It  is  sufficient, 
Mr.  Seward,'  said  the  General,  '  that 
you  bear  her  name,  and  a  fair  rejDuta- 
tion,  to  entitle  you  to  the  notice  of 
every  soldier  who  has  it  in  his  power  to 
serve  and  oblige  a  military  brother.  You 
will  always  find  a  cover  for  you  at  my 
table,  and  a  sincere  welcome ;  and 
whenever  it  may  be  in  my  power  to 
serve  you  essentially,  I  shall  not  want 
the  inchnation.'  * 

These  anecdotes  show  the  estimation 
in  which  she  was,  not  undeservedly, 
held.  Her  epistolary  style  was  dis- 
torted and  disfigured  by  her  admiration 
of  Johnson ;  and  in  her  poetry  she  set, 
rather  than  followed,  the  brocade 
fashion  of  Dr.  Darwin.  Still  there  are 
unquestionable  proofs  of  extraordinary 
talents  and  great  ability  both  in  her 
letters  and  her  poems.  She  was  an 
exemplary  daughter,  a  most  affectionate 
and  faithful  friend.  Sir  Walter  has 
estimated,  with  characteristic  skill,  her 
powers  of  criticism,  and  her  strong  pre- 
possessions upon  literary  points.  And 
believing  that  the  more  she  was  known, 
the  more  she  would  have  been  esteemed 
and  admired,  I  bear  a  wilhng  testimony 
to  her  accomplishments  and  her  genius, 
to  her  generous  disposition,  her  frank- 
ness, and  her  sincerity  and  warmth  of 
heart. 


Keswick,  Feb.  19,  1838. 


Letters  of  Anna  Seward,  vol.  i,  p.  298. 


PKEFACJE 


13 


PREFACE   TO   THE   SIXTH   VOLTOIE, 

BEING  THE  FIRST  OF  '  BALLADS  AND  METRICAL  TALES 


3I0ST  of  the  pieces  in  this  volume  were 
written  in  early  life,  a  few  are  com- 
paratively of  recent  date,  and  there  are 
some  of  them  which  lay  untinished  for 
nearly  thirty  year.^. 

I'pon  readintr.  on  their  first  appear- 
ance, certain  of  these  Hallads,  and  of 
the  liLihter  pieces  now  conijirised  in  the 
third  volume  of  this  collective  edition. 
Mr.  Ediie worth  said  to  me,  '  Take  my 
word  for  it.  Sir,  the  bent  of  your  genius 
is  for  comedy.'  I  was  as  little  dis- 
pleased with  the  intended  compliment 
as  one  of  the  most  distinguished  poets 
of  this  age  was  with  Mr.  Sheridan,  who, 
upon  returning  a  play  which  he  had 
otfered  for  acceptance  at  Drury  Lane, 
told  him  it  was  a  comical  tragedy. 

My  late  friend,  ^Ir.  William  Taylor 
of  Norwich,  whom  none  who  knew  him 
intimatel}'  can  ever  call  to  mind  without 
affection  and  regret,  has  this  passage  in 
his  Life  of  Dr.  Sayers  : — '  Not  long  after 
this  (the  year  1800),  Mr.  Robert  Southey 
visited  Norwich,  was  introduced  to 
Dr.  Sayers,  and  partook  those  feelings 
of  complacent  admiration  which  his 
presence  was  adapted  to  inspire. — 
Dr.  Sayers  pointed  out  to  us  in  conver- 
sation, as  adapted  for  the  theme  of  a 
ballad,  a  story  related  by  Olaus  ^lagnus 
of  a  witch,  whose  cofrin  was  confined 
by  three  chains,  sprinkled  with  hoi}' 
water ;  but  who  was,  nevertheless, 
carried  off  by  demons.  Already,  I 
believe.  Dr.  Sayers  had  made  a  ballad 
on  the  subject,  so  did  I,  and  so  did 
Mr.  Southey ;  but  after  seeing  the  Old 
Woman  of  BcrkeJdj,  we  agreed  in  award- 
ing to  it  the  preference.  Still,  the  very 
difTerent  manner  in  which  each  had 
employed  the  same  basis  of  narration 
miaht  render  wolcome  the  opportunity 
of  comparison ;  but  I  have  not  found 
among  the  papers  of  Dr.  Sayers  a  copy 
of  his  poem.'  I 


There  is  a  mistake  here  as  to  the  date. 
Tiiis,  my  first  visit  to  Norwich,  was  in 
the  spring  of  1798  ;  and  1  liad  so  nnich 
to  interest  mc  there  in  the  society  of 
my  kind  host  and  frieiul,  Mr.  William 
Taylor,  that  the  mention  at  Dr.  Saycrs's 
tal)le  of  the  stor}'  in  Olaus  Magnus  made 
no  impression  on  me  at  the  time,  and 
was  presently  forgotten.  Indeed,  if  I 
had  known  that  either  he  or  his  friend 
had  written  or  intended  to  write  a  ballad 
upon  the  subject,  that  knowledge,  how- 
ever much  the  story  might  have  pleased 
me,  would  have  withheld  me  from  all 
thought  of  versifying  it.  In  the  autumn 
of  the  same  year,  I  passed  some  days  at 
Hereford  with  Mr.  William  Bowyer 
Thomas,  one  of  the  friends  with  whom, 
in  170(5,  I  had  visited  the  Arrabida 
Convent  near  Setubal.  By  his  means 
I  obtained  permission  to  make  use  of 
the  books  in  the  Cathedral  Library,  and 
accordingly  I  was  locked  up  for  several 
mornings  in  that  part  of  the  Cathedral 
where  the  books  were  kept  in  chains. 
So  little  were  these  books  used  at  that 
time,  that  in  placing  them  upon  the 
shelves,  no  regard  had  been  had  to  the 
length  of  the  chains ;  and  when  the 
volume  which  I  wished  to  consult  was 
fastened  to  one  of  the  upper  shelves  by 
a  short  chain,  the  only  means  by  which 
it  was  possible  to  make  use  of  it  was,  by 
piling  ujjon  the  reading  desk  as  many 
volumes  with  longer  cliains  as  would 
reach  up  to  the  length  of  its  tether; 
then,  by  standing  on  a  chair,  I  was  able 
to  cfTect  my  purpo.se.  There,  and  thus, 
I  first  read  the  story  of  the  Old  Woman 
of  Berkeley,  in  Matthew  of  Westminster, 
and  transcribed  it  into  a  pocket-book. 
I  had  no  recollection  of  what  had  passed 
at  Dr.  Sayers'a  ;  but  the  circumstantial 
details  in  the  monkish  Chronicle  im- 
pre.s.sed  me  so  strongly,  that  I  began  to 
versify  them  that  very  evening.  It  was  the 


14 


PREFACE 


last  day  of  our  pleasant  visit  at  Hereford ; 
and  on  the  following  morning  the  re- 
mainder of  the  Ballad  was  pencilled  in 
a  post-chaise  on  our  way  to  Abberley. 

Mr.  Wathen,  a  singular  and  obliging 
person,  who  afterwards  made  a  voyage 
to  the  East  Indies,  and  published  an 
account  of  wliat  he  saw  there,  traced 
for  me  a  facsimile  of  a  wooden  cut  in 
the  yaremhenj  Chronicle  (which  was 
among  the  prisoners  in  the  Cathedral). 
It  represents  the  Old  Woman's  forcible 
abduction  from  her  intended  place  of 
burial.  This  was  put  into  the  hands 
of  a  Bristol  artist ;  and  the  engraving 
in  wood  wliich  he  made  from  it  was 
prefixed  to  the  Ballad  when  first  pub- 
lished, in  the  second  volume  of  my 
poems,  1709.  The  Devil  alludes  to  it 
in  his  Walk,  wlien  he  complains  of  a  cer- 
tain poet  as  having  '  put  him  in  ugl}' 
ballads  with  libellous  pictures  for  sale'. 

The  passage  from  Matthew  of  West- 
minster was  prefixed  to  tlie  Ballad  when 
first  published,  and  it  has  continued  to 
be  so  in  every  subsequent  edition  of 
my  minor  poems  from  that  time  to  the 
present  :  for  whenever  I  have  founded 
either  a  poem,  or  part  of  one,  upon  any 
legend,  or  portion  of  history,  I  have 
either  extracted  the  passage  to  which 
I  was  indebted,  if  its  length  allowed,  or 
have  referred  to  it.  >\Ir.  Payne  Collier,, 
however,  after  the  Ballad,  with  its 
parentage  affixed,  had  been  twenty 
years  before  the  public,  discovered  that 
I  had  copied  the  story  from  Hey  wood's 
Xine  Books  of  various  History  concerninq 
^yomen,  and  that  I  had  not  thought 
proper  to  acknowledge  the  obligation. 
The  discovery  is  thus  stated  in   that 


gentleman's  Poetical  Decameron  (vol.  i. 
p.  323).  Speaking  of  the  book,  one  of 
his  Interlocutors  sa3's,  '  It  is  not  of  such 
rarit}'  or  singularity  as  to  deserve  par- 
ticular notice  now  ;  only  if  j-ou  refer  to 
p.  443,  5^ou  will  find  the  story  on  which 
Mr.  Southey  founded  his  mock-ballad 
of  the  Old  Woman  of  Berkeley.  You 
will  see,  too,  that  the  mode  in  which  it 
is  told  is  extremely  similar. 

'  ]\IoRTOx.     Had   ISIr.    Southey    seen      » 
Hey  wood's  book  ? 

'  Bourne.  It  is  not  improbable  ;  or 
some  quotation  from  it,  the  resemblance 
is  so  exact  :  you  may  judge  from  the 
few  following  sentences.' 

Part  of  Heywood's  narration  is  then 
given  ;  upon  which  one  of  the  speakers 
observes,  '  The  resemblance  is  exact, 
and  it  is  not  unlikely  that  Heywood  and 
Southey  copied  from  the  same  original. 

'  BouRXE.  Perhaps  so :  Heywood 
quotes  Ouillerimus,  in  Special.  Histor. 
lib.  xxvi.  c.  20.  He  afterwards  relates, 
as  Southey,  that  the  Devil  placed  the 
Old  Woman  of  Berkeley  before  him  on 
a  black  horse,  and  that  lier  screams 
were  heard  four  miles  off.' 

It  cannot,  however,  be  disputed,  that 
Mr.  Payne  Collier  has  made  one  dis- 
covery relating  to  this  subject ;  for  he 
has  discovered  that  the  Old  Woman  of 
Berkeley  is  a  mock-ballad.  Certainly 
this  was  never  suspected  bj^  the  Author, 
or  any  of  his  friends.  It  obtained  a 
very  different  character  in  Russia,  where 
having  been  translated  and  published, 
it  was  prohibited  for  this  singular  reason, 
that  children  were  said  to  be  frightened 
by  it.  This  I  was  told  by  a  Russian 
tra  vpUer  who  called  upon  me  at  Keswick. 


Kesinck,  March  8.  1838. 


PREFACE 


16 


ADVERTISEMENT   TO   THE   SEVENTH  VOLUME, 

OR   SECOND   OF   'BALLADS   AND   METRICAL   TALES' 


The  two  volumes  of  tliis  collection 
wliicli  consij^t  of  Ballads  and  Metrical 
Tales  contain  the  Author's  earliest  and 
latest  protluetions  of  that  kind:  those 
which  were  written  with  most  faeilit  yund 
most  glee,  and  those  upon  which  most 
time  and  pains  were  bestowed,  according 
to  the  subject  and  the  mode  of  treating  it. 


The  Tale  of  Paraguay  was  published 
separately  in  182"),  having  been  so  long 
in  hand  that  the  Drdieation  was  written 
many  years  before  the  Poem  was  com- 
pleted. 

.1//  for  Love,  and  The  Legend  of  a  Cork 
and  a  lien,  were  published  together  in 
a  little  volume  in  1820. 


PREFACE  TO   THE   EIGHTH   VOLUME, 

CONTAININO   'THE  CURSE  OF  KEHA^L-V' 


Several  years  ago,  in  the  Introduc- 
tion of  my  '  Letters  to  Mr.  Charles 
Butler,  vindicating  the  Book  of  the 
Church ',  I  had  occasion  to  state  that, 
while  a  school-boy  at  Westminster,  I 
had  formed  an  intention  of  exhibiting 
the  most  remarkable  forms  of  Mytho- 
logy which  have  at  any  time  obtained 
among  mankind,  by  making  each  the 
ground-work  of  a  narrative  poem.  The 
performance,  as  might  be  expected,  fell 
far  short  of  the  design,  and  j'ct  it  proved 
something  more  than  a  dream  of  juvenile 
ambition. 

I  began  with  the  ^Mahommedan  reli- 
gion, as  being  that  with  which  I  was 
then  best  acquainted  myself,  and  of 
which  every  one  who  had  read  the 
Arabian  Xighli'  Entertainments  pos- 
sessed all  the  knowledge  necessary 
for  readily  understanding  and  entering 
into  the  intent  and  spirit  of  the  poem. 
Mr.  Wilbcrforce  thought  that  I  had 
eonveyed  in  it  a  very  false  impression 
of  that  religion,  and  that  the  moral 
sublimity  which  he  admired  in  it  was 
owing  to  this  flattering  misrepresenta- 
tion. But  Thalaba  the  Destroyer  was 
professedly  an  Arabian  Tale.  The  de- 
sign required  that  I  should  bring  into 
view  the  best  features  of  that  system  of 


belief  and  worship  which  had  been  deve- 
loped  under  the  Covenant  with  Tshmael, 
placing  in  the  most  favourable  light  the 
morality  of  the  Koran,  and  what  the 
least  corrupted  of  the  iNIahoramedans 
retain  of  the  patriarchal  faith.  It  would 
have  been  altogether  incongruous  to 
have  touched  upon  the  abominations 
engrafted  upon  it ;  first  by  the  false 
Prophet  himself,  who  appears  to  have 
been  far  more  remarkable  for  audacious 
profligacy  than  for  an}'  intellectual  en- 
dowments, and  afterwards  by  the  spirit 
of  Oriental  despotism  which  accom- 
panied Mahommedanism  wherever  it 
was  established. 

Heathen  Mythologies  have  generally 
been  represented  by  Christian  poets  as 
the  work  of  the  Devil  and  his  Angels  ; 
and  the  machinery  derived  from  them 
was  thus  rendered  credible,  according 
to  what  was  during  many  ages  a  received 
opinion.  The  plan  upon  which  I  pro- 
ceeded in  Madoc  was  to  produce  the 
efTcct  of  machinery  as  far  as  was  con- 
sistent with  the  character  of  the  poem, 
by  representing  the  most  rcmaikable 
religion  of  the  New  World  such  as  it  was, 
a  system  of  atrocious  priestcraft.  It 
was  not  here  as  in  Thalaha  the  founda- 
tion of  the  poem,  but,  as  usual  in  what 


16 


PREFACE 


are  called  epic  poems,  only  incidentally 
connected  with  it. 

When  I  took  up,  for  my  next  subject, 
that  m3'thology  which  Sir  William  Jones 
had    been    the    first    to   introduce   into 
English  poetry,  I  soon  perceived  that 
the  best  mode  of  treating  it  would  be 
to  construct  a  story  altogether  mytholo- 
gical.    In  what  form  to  compose  it  was 
then  to  be  determined.     No  such  ques-  ' 
tion  had  arisen  concerning  any  of  my  ' 
former   poems.     1    should   never  for   a  j 
moment    have    thought    of    any    other ! 
measure  than  blank  verse  for  Joan  of  \ 
Arc,  and  for  Madoc,  and  afterwards  for  j 
Roderidc.     The  reason  why  the  irregular 
rhymeless    lyrics    of    Dr.    Sayers    were  i 
preferred    for    Thalaha    was,    that    the 
freedom  and  variety  of  such  verse  were  j 
suited  to  tlie  story.     Indeed,  of  all  the 
-laudatory  criticisms  with  which  I  liave 
been   favoured   during   a   long   literary 
life,  none  ever  gratified  me  more  than 
that  of  Henry  Kirke  White  upon  this 
occasion,  when  he  observed,  that  if  any 
other  known  measure  had  been  adopted, 
the  poem  would  have  been  deprived  of 
half  its  beauty,  and   all    its  propriety. 
And  when  he  added,   that  the  author 
never  seemed  to  inquire  how  other  men 
would  treat  a  subject,  or  what  might 
be  the  fashion  of  the  times,  but  took 
that  course  which  his  own  sense  of  fitness 
pointed  out,  I  could  not  have  desired 
more  appropriate  commendation. 

The  same  sense  of  fitness  which  made 
me  choose  for  an  Arabian  tale  the  sim- 
plest and  easiest  form  of  verse,  induced 
me  to  take  a  different  course  in  an 
Indian  poem.  It  appeared  to  me,  that 
here  neither  the  tone  of  morals,  nor 
the  strain  of  poetry,  could  be  pitched 
too  high  ;  that  nothing  but  moral  sub- 
limity could  compensate  for  the  ex- 
travagance of  the  fictions,  and  that  all 
the  skill  I  might  possess  in  the  art  of 
poetry  was  required  to  counterbalance 
the  disadvantage  of  a  mythology  with 
which  few  readers  were  likely  to  be  well 
acquainted,  and  which  would  appear 
monstrous  if  its  deformities  were  not 
kept  out  of  sight.  I  endeavoured, 
therefore,  to  combine  the  utmost  rich- 


ness  of  versification  with  the  greatest 
freedom.  The  spirit  of  the  poem  was 
Indian,  but  there  was  nothing  Oriental 
in  the  style.  I  had  learnt  the  language 
of  poetry  from  our  ov\n  great  masters 
and  the  great  poets  of  antiquity. 

No  poem  could  have  been  more  deli- 
beratel}^  planned,  nor  more  carefull}' 
composed.  It  was  commenced  at  Lis- 
bon on  the  first  of  May,  1801,  and  recom- 
menced in  the  summer  of  the  same  year 
at  Kingsdown,  in  the  same  house  (en- 
deared to  mc  by  many  once  delightful 
but  now  mournful  recollections)  in 
which  Modoc  had  been  finished,  and 
Thalaha  begun.  A  little  was  added 
during  the  winter  of  that  year  in  London. 
It  was  resumed  at  Kingsdown  in  the 
summer  of  1802,  and  then  laid  aside  till 
1806,  during  which  interval  Madoc  was 
reconstructed  and  published.  Resuming 
it  then  once  more,  all  that  had  been 
written  was  recast  at  Keswick  :  there 
I  proceeded  with  it  leisurely,  and 
finished  it  on  the  25th  of  November, 
1809.  It  is  the  only  one  of  my  long 
poems  of  which  detached  parts  were 
written  to  be  afterwards  inserted  in 
their  proper  places.  Were  I  to  name 
the  persons  to  whom  it  was  communi- 
cated during  its  progress,  it  would  be 
admitted  now  that  I  might  well  be  en- 
couraged by  their  approbation ;  and 
indeed,  when  it  was  published,  I  must 
have  been  very  unreasonable  if  I  had 
not  been  .satisfied  with  its  reception. 

It  was  not  till  the  present  edition  of 
these  Poems  was  in  the  press,  that, 
eight-and-twenty  years  after  Kehama 
had  been  published.  I  first  saw  the  article 
upon  it  in  the  Monthly  Bevieic,  parts  of 
which  cannot  be  more  appropriately 
preserved  any  where  than  here ;  it 
shows  the  determination  with  which  the 
Reviewer  entered  upon  his  task,  and 
the  importance  which  he  attached 
to  it. 

'  Tiiroughout  o-ur  literary  career  we 
cannot  recollect  a  more  favourable 
opportunit}'  than  the  present  for  a  full 
discharge  of  our  critical  duty.  We  are 
indeed  hound  now  to  make  a  firm  stand 
for  the  purity  of  our  poetic  taste  against 


/    iA}\^ 


f    I 


V 


l^KEFACE 


17 


this  l.ist  anil  most  flosj->oi-alo  nssniilt, 
coiidiiotod  as  it  is  hy  a  writer  of  cou- 
siilorable  reputation,  ami  iinqufsiioii- 
aMy  of  considerable  abilities.  If  this 
poem  were  to  be  tolerated,  all  things 
after  it  may  demand  im]nniity,  and  it 
will  be  in  vain  to  oonttMul  hon-aftor  for 
any  one  established  rule  of  ])oetry  as  to 
desisin  and  subjeet.  as  to  character  and 
incident,  as  to  language  and  vcrsitica- 
tion.  W'c  may  return  at  once  to  the 
rude  hymn  in  honour  of  Bacchus,  and 
indite  strains  adapted  to  the  recitation 
of  rustics  in  the  season  of  vintage  : — 

"  Quae  canorent  aijorontquc  porunnti  faoci- 
bus  ora." 

It  shall  be  our  plan  to  establish  tliese 
points,  we  hope,  beyond  reasonable 
controversy,  by  a  complete  analysis  of 
the  twenty-four  sections  (as  they  may 
truly  be  called)  of  the  portentous  work, 
and  by  ample  quotations  intersj)ersed 
witii  remarks,  in  which  we  shall  endea- 
vour to  withhold  no  praise  tiiat  can 
fairl}'  be  claimed,  and  no  censure  that 
is  obviously  deserved.' 

The   reviewer   fulfilled   his   promises, 
however  much  he  failed  in  his  object. 
He  was  not  more  liberal  of  censure  than 
of  praise,   and   he   was  not  sparing  of 
quotations.     The    analysis    was    suf^- 
ciently    complete   for    the    purposes   of 
criticism,  except  that  the  critic  did  not 
always    give    himself    the    trouble    to 
:    understand  what  he  was  determined  to 
I    ridicule.     '  It   is   necessary  for   us,'    he 
;    fvaid,  '  according  to  our  purpose  of  de- 
terring future  writers  from  the  choice  of 
such  a  story,  or  from  such  a  manage- 
ment of  that  story,  to  detail  the  gross 
follies  of   the   work   in   question  ;     and 
I     tedious   as   the  operation   may   be,   we 
I    trust  that  in  the  judgement  of  all  those 
I     lovers  of  literature  who  duly  value  the 
I     preservation     of    sound     principles    of 
;     composition    among    us,    the    end    will 
excuse   the   means.'     Tlie   means    were 
ridicule  and  reprobation,  and  the  end  at 

Kesicick,  May  19,  1838. 


which  he  aimed  was  thus  .'^tatid  in  the 
Reviewer's  j)eroration. 

'  We  know  nr)t  that  Mr.  Southcy's 
most  devoted  admirers  can  comi)lain  of 
our  having  omitted  a  single  incident 
essential  to  the  disjilay  of  his  character 
or  the  (l(>velo]u>ment  r»f  his  ])lot.  To 
other  readers  we  shoulil  a])ologize  for  our 
prolixity,  were  we  not  desirous,  as  we 
liinted  before,  of  giving  a  death-blow  to 
the  gross  extravagancies  of  the  author's 
sch<x>l  of  poetry,  if  wc  cannot  ho])C  to 
reform  so  great  an  otfender  as  himself. 
In  general,  all  that  naline  and  all  that 
art  has  lavished  on  him  is  rendered 
useless  by  his  obstinate  adheicnce  to 
his  own  system  of  fancied  originality, 
in  which  every  thing  that  is  good  is  old, 
and  every  thing  that  is  new  is  good  for 
nothing.  Convinced  as  we  are  that 
many  of  the  author's  faults  proceed 
from  mere  idleness,  dc^'crving  even  less 
indulgence  than  the  erroneous  princi- 
ples of  his  poetical  system,  we  shall 
conclude  by  a  general  exhortation  to  all 
critics  to  condemn,  and  to  all  writers  to 
avoid  the  example  of  combined  careless- 
ness and  perversity  which  is  here  af- 
forded by  Mr.  Southey  ;  and  we  shall 
mark  this  last  and  worst  eccentricity  of 
his  ]\Iuse  with  the  following  character : 
— Here  is  the  composition  of  a  poet  not 
more  distinguished  by  his  genius  and 
knowledge,  than  by  his  contempt  for 
public  opinion,  and  the  utter  depravity 
of  his  taste, — a  depra^  ity  which  is 
incorrigible,  and,  we  are  sorry  to  add, 
most  unblushingly  rejoicing  in  its  own 
hopelessness  of  amendment.' 

The  Monthly  Beview  has,  I  believe, 
been  for  some  years  defunct.  I  never 
knew  to  whom  I  was  beholden  for  the 
good  service  rendered  me  in  that  Jour- 
nal, when  such  a.ssistance  was  of  most 
value;  nor  by  whom  I  was  subse(|uently, 
during  several  years,  favoured  in  the 
same.fournal  with  such  flagrant  civilities 
as  those  of  which  the  reader  has  here 
seen  a  sample. 


18 


PREFACE 


PREFACE   TO   THE   NINTH   VOLmiE, 


CONTAINING   'RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE   GOTHS'. 


This  poem  was  commenced  at  Kes- 
wick, Dec.  2,  1809,  and  finished  there 
July  14,  1814. 

A  French  translation,  by  M.  B.  de  S., 
in  three  volumes  12mo.,  was  published 
in  1820,  and  another  by  M.  le  Chevalier 
*  *  *,  in  one  volume  8vo,  1821.  Both 
are  in  prose. 

When  the  latest  of  these  versions  was 
nearly  ready  for  publication,  the  pub- 
lisher, who  was  also  the  printer,  insisted 
upon  having  a  life  of  the  author  pre- 
fixed. The  French  public,  he  said, 
knew  nothing  of  ^I.  Southey,  and  in 
order  to  make  the  book  sell,  it  must  be 
managed  to  interest  them  for  the  ^\Titer. 
The  Chevalier  represented  as  a  con- 
clusive reason  for  not  attempting  any 
thing  of  the  kind,  that  he  was  not  ac- 
quainted with  M.  Southey' s  private  his- 
tory. '  Would  you  believe  it  ? '  says 
a  friend  of  the  translator's,  from  whose 
letter  I  transcribe  what  follows ;  '  this 
was  his  answer  verbatim  :  NHm-porle, 
ecrivez  toujours ;  hrodez,  hrodez-la  un 
peu  ;  que  ce  soil  irai  ou  non  ce  ne  fait 
rien  ;  qui  prendra  la  peine  de  s' informer  ? ' 
Accordingly  a  Notice  sur  M.  Southey  was 
composed,  not  exactly  in  conformity 
with  the  publisher' snotionsof  biography, 
but  from  such  materials  as  could  be 
collected  from  magazines  and  other 
equally  unauthentic  sources. 

In  one  of  these  versions  a  notable 
mistake  occurs,  occasioned  by  the 
French  pronunciation  of  an  English 
word.  The  whole  passage  indeed,  in 
both  versions,  may  be  regarded  as 
curiously  exemplifying  the  difference 
between  French  and  English  poetry. 

'  The  lamps  and  tapers  now  grew  pale. 
And  through  the  eastern  windows  slant- 
ing fell 
The  roseate  ray  of  morn.     Within  those 
walls 


Returning    day    restored     no    cheerful 

sounds 
Or  joyous  motions  of  awakening  life  ; 
But  in  the  stream  of  light  the  speckled 

motes. 
As  if  in  mimicry  of  insect  play. 
Floated  with  mazy  movement.    Sloping 

down 
Over  the  altar  pass'd  the  pillar'd  beam, 
And  rested  on  the  sinful  woman's  grave 
As   if   it   enter'd   there,    a   light   from 

Heaven. 
So  be  it  !    cried  Pelayo,  even  so  ! 
As  in  a  momentary  interval. 
When  thought  expelling  thought,   had 

left  his  mind 
Open  and  passive  to  the  influxes 
Of  outward  sense,  his  vacant  eye  v.as 

there,  .  . 
So  be  it.  Heavenly  Father,  even  so  ! 
Thus  may  thy  vivifying  goodness  shed 
Forgiveness  there  ;    for  let  not  thou  the 

groans 
Of    dying    penitence,    nor    my    bitter 

prayers 
Before  thy  mercy-seat,  be  heard  in  vain  ! 
And    thou,    poor    soul,    who   from    tlie 

dolorous  house 
Of  weeping  and  of  pain,  dost  look  to  me 
To  shorten  and  assuage  thy  penal  term, 
Pardon   rac  that  these  hours  in  other 

thoughts 
And  other  duties  than  this  garb,  this 

night 
Enjoin,  should  thus  have  pass'd  !    Our 

mother-land 
Exacted  of  my  heart  the  sacrifice  ; 
And  many  a  vigil  must  thy  son  perform 
Henceforth    in    woods    and    mountain 

fastnesses. 
And  tented  fields,  out  watching  for  her 

sake 
The  starry  host,  and  ready  for  the  work 
Of  day,  before  the  sun  begins  his  course.'  ''■ 

1  See  Roderick,  VIII,  lines  101-33. 


PREFACE 


19 


JLielivrail  I'l  toutes  ces  reflexions  giiand 
la  himierc  dc-t  lampe.^  ct  des  cierges  corn- 
men  a  tt  pUir,  et  que  les  premieres  teintes 
de  taurore  se  monirerent  d  trovers  les 
hautcs  croisees  tournce.f  vers  V orient.  Le 
retour  du  jour  ne  rnmcna  point  dans  res 
murs  des  sons  joycux  ni  les  mouvemcn^ 
de  la  vie  qui  se  nvrilh'  ;  les  seuh  jxipil- 
lons  de  nuit,  agilant  lenrs  ailes  pesantes, 
hourdonnaicnt  encore  sous  les  tr)iites  tenc- 
breuses.  Bientnt  le  premier  rayon  du 
sohil,  glissant  ohliquement  par-dessus 
fault  I,  vint  s'arn'ter  sur  la  iombe  de  la 
fennne  pecheresse,  et  la  lumiere  du  del 
semhla  y  pcnitrer.  '  Que  ce  presage  .s'«r- 
cotnplisse,^  s'ccria  Ptlagc,  rjni,  absorbe 
dans  ses  meditations,  fixait  en  ce  moment 
ses  yeux  sur  le  tomheau  de  set  mere ;  '  Dieu 
de  misericorde,  qu  il  en  soit  ain.'^i !  Puissc 
ta  bonte  vivifiante  y  verser  de  mCme  le 
pardon  !  Que  hs  sanglots  de  la  plnitence 
expirante,  et  que  mes  prieres  ameres  ne 
montent  ]X)int  en  vain  devant  le  trCne 
iternel.  Et  toi,  jxiuvre  dme,  qui  de  ton 
sejour  douloureux  de  sou fj ranees  et  de 
larmes  e.'tperes  en  moi  pour  ahreger  et 
adoucir  ton supplice  temporaire,  pardonne- 
moi  d\ivoir,  sous  ces  Juibits  et  dans  cette 
nuif,  delourne.  vies  pensees  snr  d'autrcs 
devoirs.  Notre  ixttrie  commune  a  exige  de 
moi  ce  sacrifice,  et  ton  fits  doit  dorenavant 
accomplir  plus  d'une  veille  dans  la  pro- 
fondeur  des  forHs,  sur  la  cime  des  monis, 
dans  les  plaines  couvertes  de  tentes, 
observant,  pour  Vamour  de  VEspagne,  la 
mnrche  des  astres  de  la  nuit,  et  preparant 
Touvrage  dc  sa  journee  avant  que  le  soleil 
ne  commence  sa  course' — T.  i,  pp.  175- 
177. 
I  In  the  other  translation  the  motes 
are  not  converted  into  motlis, — but  the 
image  i.s  omitted. 

j      Consumees  dans  des  soins  pareils  les 

\rapides  heures  s'ecouloient,  les  lampes  et 

I  les  torches  commen^oient  a  pdlir,  et  Vobli- 

i  que  rayon  du  matin  doroit  dejd  les  vitraux 

j  eleves  qui  regardoient  vers  VOrient  :    le 

'  retour  du  jour  ne  ramenoit  point,  dans 

'  cette  sombre  enceinte,  les  sons  joyeux,  ni 

le  tableau  mouvant  de  la  vie  qui  se  riveille  ; 

maift,  tombant  d'en  haut,  le  celeste  rayon, 

pasfant  au-dej^sus  de   Idutel,  vint  frap- 

per  le  tombeau  de  la  femme  jjecheresse. 


'  Ainsi  soit-il,'  s'ecria  Pelage,  '  ainsi 
soit-il,  (>  divin  Criateur  !  Puisse  ta  vivifi- 
ante bonte.  verser  ainsi  le  pardon  en  ce  lieu  ! 
Que  les  gemissemens  d'vne  mort  p^nilevte, 
que  mes  ameres  prieres  ne  soient  jxis 
arrivees  en  vain  divant  le  trune  de  mi.siri- 
corde  !  Et  toi,  qui,  de  ton  si  jour  de  souj- 
f ranees  el  dc  laime^s,  regardes  verfi  ton  filf, 
jK)ur  abreger  et  soulager  tes  peine.'i,  par- 
donne, si  d\iutres  devoirs  ont  rempli  Us 
heures  que  cette  nuit  et  cet  habit  vien- 
joignoient  de  te  consacrer  !  Notre  patrie 
exigeoit  ce  sacrifice  ;  d' out  res  vigiles 
m'nttendent  dans  les  bois  et  les  defiles  de 
nos  montagnes  ;  et  bienti't  sous  la  tente,  il 
me  jaudra  veilhr,  le  soir,  avant  que  le 
ci(l  ne  se  couvre  d'ctoiles,  ("Ire  prCt  pour 
le  travail  du  jour,  avant  que  le  soleil  ne 
commence  sa  course.^ — pj).  02,  03. 

A  ver}'  good  translation  in  Dutch 
ver.se  was  published  in  two  vohimes, 
8vo,  1823-4,  with  this  title  :— '  Rodrigo 
de  Ooth,  Koning  van  Spanje.  Naar  het 
Engelsch  van  Southey  gevolgd,  door 
Vrouwe  Katharina  \\'ilhelmina  Bilder- 
dijk.  Te  's  ( Jravenhage.'  It  was  sent  to 
me  with  the  following  epistle  from  her 
husband  Mr.  Willem  Bilderdijk. 

'  Roberto  Southey,  viro  spectatissimo, 
Gulielmus  Bilderdijk,  !S.  P.  D. 

'  Etsi  ca  nunc  temporis  passim  in- 
valuerit  opinio,  poetarum  genus  (juam 
maxima  gloriae  cupiditate  flagrare,  mihi 
tamen  contraria  semper  insedit  pcr- 
suasio,  qui  divinae  Pce>eos  altitudinem 
veramque  laudem  non  nisiab  iiscognosci 
putavi  quorum  prae  caeteris  e  meliori 
luto  finxerit  praecordia  Titan,  neque  aut 
vere  aut  juste  judicari  vatem  nisi  ab  iis 
qui  eodom  afflatu  moveantur.  Sexa- 
gesimus  autem  jam  agitur  annus  ex  quo 
et  ip.se  mcos  inter  aequales  poeta  ealutor, 
eumque  locum  quemineunteadolescentia 
occupare  contigit,  in  hunc  usque  diera 
tenuisse  videor.  popularis  aurae  nun- 
quam  captator,  (juin  imnio  perpetuus 
contemptor ;  parens  ipse  laudator, 
censor  gravis  et  nonnunquam  molest  us. 
Tuum  vero  nomcn,  Vir  celeberrime  ac 
spectatissime.  jam  antea  veneratus.  per- 
lecto  tuo  de  Rotierico  rece  poemate.  non 
potui   non    summis   extollere   Inudibus, 


20 


PREFACE 


quo  doctissimo  siraul  ac  venustissimo 
opere,  si  minus  divinam  Aeneida,  saltern 
immortalem  TassonisEpopeiam  tentasse, 
quin  et  certo  respectu  ita  superasse 
videris,  ut  majorum  perpaucos,  aequa- 
liuni  neminem,  cum  vera  tide  ac  pietate 
in  Deum,  tum  ingenio  omnique  poetica 
dote  tibi  comparandum  existimem.  Xe 
mireris  itaque,  carminis  tui  gravitate  ac 
dulcedine  captam,meoquejudiciofultam 
non  illaudatara  in  nostratibus  Musam 
tuum  illud  nobile  poema  foeminea  manu 
sed  insueto  labore  attrectasse,  Belgico- 
que  sermone  reddidisse.  Hanc  certe, 
per  quadrantem  scculi  et  quod  excurrit 
felicissimo  connubio  mihi  junctam, 
meamque  in  Divina  arte  alumnam  ac 
sociam,  nimiura  in  eo  sibi  sumpsisse 
nemofacile  arbitrabitur  cui  vel  minimum 
Poe.?eo3  nostrae  sensum  usurpare  con- 
tigerit ;  nee  ego  lios  ejus  conatus  quos 
illustri  tuo  nomini  dicandos  putavit, 
tibi  mea  manu  offerre  dubitabam.  Haec 
itaque  utriusque  nostrum  in  te  obser- 
vantiae  speeimina  accipe,  Vir  illustris- 
sime,  ac  si  quod  communium  studiorum, 
si  quod  verae  pietatis  est  vinculum, 
nos  tibi  ex  animo  habe  addictissimos. 
Vale. 

'  Dabara  Lugduni  in  Batavis.   Ipsis 
idib.  Februar.  CIoIoCCCXXIV.' 

I  went  to  Leyden,  in  1825,  for  the 
purpose  of  seeing  the  wTiter  of  this 
epistle  and  the  lady  wlio  had  translated 
my  poem,  and  addressed  it  to  me  in 
some  very  affecting  stanzas.  It  so  hap- 
pened, that  on  my  arrival  in  that  city, 
I  was  laid  up  under  a  surgeon's  care  ; 
they  took  me  into  their  house,  and  made 
the  days  of  my  confinement  as  pleasur- 
able as  they  were  memorable.  I  have 
never  been  acquainted  with  a  man  of 
higher  intellectual  power,  nor  of  greater 
learning,  nor  of  more  various  and  ex- 
tensive knowledge  than  Bilderdijk, 
confessedly  the  most  distinguished 
man  of  letters  in  his  own  country. 
His  wife  was  worthy  of  him.  I  paid 
them  another  visit  the  following  year. 
They  are  now  both  gone  to  their  rest, 
and  I  shall  not  look  upon  their  like 
again. 


Soon  after  the  publication  of  Roderick^: 
I  received  the  following  curious  letter 
from  the  Ettriek  Shepherd,  (who  had: 
passed  a  few  days  with  me  in  the  pre-- 
ceding  autumn,)  giving  me  an  account 
of  his  endeavours  to  procure  a  favour- 
able notice  of  the  poem  in  the  Edinburgh) 
Revieic. 

.  Edinburgh,  Dec.  15, 1814. 1 

'  i>lY  jjEAR  Sir, 

'  I  was  very  happ}-  at  seeing  the  post- 
mark of  Keswick,  and  quite  i)roud  of 
the  pleasure  j'ou  make  me  believe  my< 
Wake  has  given  to  the  beauteous  and 
happy   group   at   Greta   Hall.     Indeed 
few  things  could  give  me  more  pleasure,  ' 
for  I  left  m}'  heart  a  sojourner  among 
them.     I  have  had  a  higher  opinion  of 
matrimony  since  that  period  than  ever 
I  had  before,  and  I  desire  that  you  will 
positively  give  my  kindest  respects  to  j 
each  of  them  individually.  ' 

'The  Pilgrim  of  the  Sun  is  published, 
as  you  will  see  by  the  Paper.';,  and  if 
I  may  believe  some  comm.unications 
that  I  have  got,  the  public  opinion 
of  it  is  high  ;  but  these  communica- 
tions to  an  author  are  not  to  be  de-  j 
pended  on,  j 

'  I  have  read  Roderick  over  and  over 
again,  and  am  the  more  and  more  con- 
vinced that  it  is  the  noblest  epic  poem 
of  the  age.  I  have  had  some  correspon- 
dence and  a  good  deal  of  conversation 
with  Mr.  Jeffrey  about  it,  though  he 
does  not  agree  with  me  in  every  par- 
ticular. He  says  it  is  too  long,  and  wants 
elasticity,  and  will  not,  he  fears,  be 
generally  read,  though  much  may  be 
said  in  its  favour.  I  had  even  teazed  him 
to  let  me  review  it  for  him,  on  account, 
as  I  said,  that  he  could  not  appreciate 
its  merits.  I  copy  one  sentence  out 
of  the  letter  he  sent  in  answer  to 
mine  : — 

'  "  For  Southey  I  have,  as  well  as  you, 
great  respect,  and  when  he  will  let  me, 
great  admiration  ;  but  he  is  a  most  pro- 
voking fellow,  and  at  least  as  conceited 
as  his  neighbour  Wordsworth.  I  cannot 
just  trust  you  with  his  Roderick ;  but 
I  shall  be  extremely  happy  to  talk  over 


PREFACE 


21 


that  and  other  kindred  subjects  with 
you,  for  1  am  every  way  disposed  to  give 
ISouthey  a  lavish  allowance  of  })raise, 
and  few  things  would  give  me  greater 
pleasure  than  to  tind  lie  had  allorded  me 
a  fair  opportunity.  But  I  must  do  my 
duty  according  to  my  own  apprehensions 
of  it.' 

'  1  supped  with  lum  last  night,  but 
there  was  so  many  peoi)lc  that  I  got 
but  little  conversation  with  him,  but 
what  we  had  was  solely  about  you  and 
Wordsworth.  I  su]ipose  you  ha\e  heard 
what  a  crushing  review  he  has  given  the 
latter.  I  still  found  him  persistmg  in  his 
first  asseveration,  that  it  was  heavy  ; 
but  what  was  my  pleasure  to  find  that 
he  had  only  got  to  the  seventeenth 
division.  I  assured  liim  he  had  the 
marrow  of  the  thing  to  come  at  as  yet, 
and  in  that  I  was  joined  by  Mr.  Alison. 
There   was  at   the   same   time   a   Lady 

M joined  us  at  the  instant  ;    short 

as  her  remark  was,  it  seemed  to  make 
more  impression  on  Jeffrey  than  all 
our  arguments : — "  Oh,  I  do  love 
Southey  1  "  that  was  all. 


*  I  have  no  loom  to  tell  you  more. 
But  I  beg  that  you  will  not  do  any  thine, 
nor  publish  any  thing  that  will  ncttlo 
Jeffrey  for  the  i)resent,  knowing  as  you 
do  how  omnipotent  he  is  with  the 
fashionable  world,  and  seemingly  so 
well  disposed  toward  you. 

'  1  am  ever  youi's  most  truly, 
'  James  Hogg. 

'  I  wish  tlie  Notes  may  be  safe  enough. 
I  never  looked  at  them.  I  wish  these 
large  quartos  were  all  in  hell  burning.' 

The  reader  will  be  as  much  amused 
as  I  was  with  poor  Hogg's  earnest  desire 
that  I  would  not  say  any  thing  which 
might  tend  to  frustrate  his  friendly 
intentions. 

But  what  success  the  Shepherd  met 
Is  to  the  world  a  secret  yet. 

There  can  be  no  reason,  however,  for 
withholding  what  was  said  in  my  reply 
of  the  crushing  review  which  had  been 
given  to  Mr.  Wordsworth's  poem  : — 
'  He  crush  the  Excursion  !  !  Tell  him  he 
might  as  easily  crush  Skiddaw  ! ' 


Kistiick,  June  15,  1838. 


THALABA  THE   DESTROYER 


Ilucr/^mTai'  UKpaTijs  j)  i\(v9fpiu,  Kai  Puf.ios  its.  to  bo^av  t^  TTtur^TT}. 

LuciAN,  Quoinodo  Hid.  iScnbcnda. 

PREFACE   TO   THE   FIRST    EDITION 


In  the  continuation  of  the  Anibian 
Tales,  tlic  Domdaniel  it>  mentioned  ;  a 
seminary  for  evil  magic ianj?,  under  the 
roots  of  tlic  sea.     From  this  seed  the 

Crctiient  romance  lias  grown.  Let  me  not 
e  supj)oscd  to  prefer  the  rhytlim  in 
which  it  is  written,  abstractedly  con- 
sidered, to  the  reguhu-  bUxnk  verse; 
the  noblest  measure,  in  my  judgement, 
of  wliich  our  admirable  language  is 
capable.  For  the  following  Poem  I 
have  preferred  it,  because  it  suits  the 
varied  subject  :  it  is  the  Arabesque 
ornament  of  an  Arabian  tale. 

The  dramatic  sketches  of  Dr.  Sayers, 
a  volume  which  no  lover  of  poetry  will 
recollect  without  pleasure,  induced  me, 
when  a  young  versifier,  to  practise  in 
this  rhythm.  I  felt  that  while  it  gave 
the  poet  a  wider  range  of  expression,  it 
satisfied  the  ear  of  the  reader.  It  were 
easy  to  make  a  parade  of  learning,  by 

Cintra,  October,  IbOO. 


enumerating  the  various  feet  which  it 
admits :  it  is  only  needful  to  observe  that 
no  two  lines  are  employed  in  sequence 
which  can  be  read  into  one.  Two  six- 
syllable  lines,  it  v.ill  i)erhai)s  bcanswcrcd, 
compose  an  Alexandrine  :  the  truth  is, 
that  the  Alexandrine,  v,  hen  harmonious, 
is  composed  of  two  six-syllable  lines. 

One  advantage  this  metre  assuredly 
})0ssesses, — the    dullest    reader    cannot 
distort  it  into  discord  :    he  may  read  it 
prosaically,    but   its   How   and  fall   will 
still  be  perceptible.     Verse  is  not  enough 
favoured  by  the  English  reader  :    per- 
haps this  is  owing  to  the  obtrusiveness, 
the  regular  Jew's  harp  twiu'j-tuun'j,  of 
!  what  has    been  foolishly  called   heroic 
]  measure.     I  do  not  wish  the  iynprovisa- 
tore  tune  ; — but  something  that  denotes 
!  the  sense  of  harmony,  something  like  the 
t  accent  of  feeling, — like  the  tone  which 
I  every  poet  necessarily  gi\  ea  to  poetry. 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


THE  FIRST  BOOK 

.  .  Worse  and  worse,  young  Orjiluiiie,  be  thy 

])ayn»', 
If  thou  due  vengeance  doe  forbeare, 
Till  guillie  blood  her  guerdon  do  obtayne. 
Faery  Queen,  15.  ii.  Can.  I. 

1 

How  beautiful  is  night  I 

A  dewy  freshness  fills  the  silent  air ; 

No  mist  obscures,  nor  cioud,  nor  speck, 

nor  stain, 

lireaks  the  serene  of  heavert  ; 

In  fuU-orb'd  glory  yonder  Moon  divine 

Rolls  through  the  dark  blue  depths. 


Beneath  her  steady  ra}' 
The  desert-circle  spreads, 
Liketheroundoccan,  girdled  with  the  sky. 
How  beautiful  is  ni<'ht  !  lo 


AVho  at  tliis  untimely  hour 

Wanders  o'er  the  desert  sands  ? 

No  station  is  in  view, 

Norpalm-grove,  islanded  amid  t  lie  waste. 

The  mother  and  her  child,     L'^*-'}' 

The  widow'd  mother  and  the  fatherless 

They  at  tliis  untimely  hour 

^Vauder  o'er  the  desert  sands. 


24 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


Alas  !   the  setting  suu 

'iaw  Zeinab  in  her  bliss,  20 

Hodeirah's  wife  beloved. 

Alas  !  the  wife  beloved. 

The  fruitful  mother  late. 

Whom  when  the   daughters  of    Arabia 

named, 

They  wish'd  their  lot  like  hers. 

She  wanders  o'er  the  desert  sands 

A  wretched  widow  now ; 

The  fruitful  mother  of  so  fair  a  race, 

With  only  one  preserved, 

.She  wanders  o'er  the  wilderness.    30 

■i 

Xo  tear  relieved  the  burthen  of  her  heart; 

Stunn'd  '.nth  t'  "  ^--aw  woe,  she  felt 

HaU.wakendf-    ''^^^    ^M^/ 
But  some  f- 

Would  wet 
And,  looking  up  to  her  fix'd  couui^ii^^. 
Sob  out  the  name  of  Mother !  then 
she  groan' d.  [eyes 

At  length  collecting,  Zeinab  turn'd  her  1 
To  heaven,  and  praised  the  Lord  ; 

'  He  gave,  he  takes  away  ! '        40 
j  The  pious  sutferer  cried, 

I      ■  The  Lord  our  God  is  good  ! ' 


I         '  Good  is  He  I '  quoth  the  boy  : 

I  *  Why  are  my  brethren  and  my  sisters 

'  slain  ? 

Why  is  my  father  kill'd  ? 

Did  ever  we  neglect  our  prayers. 

Or  ever  lift  a  hand  unclean  to  Heaven  ? 

Did  ever  stranger  from  our  tent 

Un welcomed  turn  away  ? 

I    Mother,  He  is  not  good  ! '  so 

6 

Then  Zeinab  beat  her  breast  in  agony, 

'  0  God,  forgive  the  child  ! 

He  knows  not  what  he  says  ; 


Thou  know'st    I    did    not    teach   hint 
thoughts  like  these ; 

0  Prophet,  pardon  him  1 ' 

7 

She   had  not  wept    till   that  assuaging 
prayer,  .   .  [then, 

The  fountains  of  her  grief   were  open'di 
And  tears  relieved  her  heart.  j 

She  raised  her  swimming  eyes  to  Heaven, 
'  Allah,  thy  will  be  done  !  60 

Beneath  the  dispensations  of  that  will 

1  groan,  but  murmur  not. 

A  day  will  come,  when  all  things  that! 

are  dark 
Will  be  made  clear; . .  then  shall  I  know, 

0  Lord ! 
Why  in  thy  mercy  thou  hast  stricken  me ; 
Then  see  and  understand  what  now 
■'  •  ,  r.  u  believes  and  feels.' 

)a  in  silence  heard  reproof; 
I  manly  frowns  was  knit, 
With  manly  thoughts  his  heart  was  full. 
'  Tell  me  who  slew  my  father  ? '  cried 
the  boy.  71 

Zeinab  replied  and  said,       [foe. 
'  I  knew  not  that  there  lived  thy  father's 
The  blessings  of  the  poor  for  him 
Went  daily  up  to  Heaven  ; 
In  distant  lands  the  traveller  told  his 
praise;  .  . 
I  did  not  think  there  lived 
Hodeirah's  enemy.' 

9 
'  But  I  will  hunt  him  through  the  world! ' 
Young  Thalaba  exclaim"  d.         80 
'  Already  I  can  bend  my  father's  bow; 

Soon  will  my  arm  have  strength 
To  drive  the  arrow-feathers  to  his  heart.' 

10 
Zeinab  replied,  '  0  Thalaba,  my  child, 

Thou  lookest  on  to  distant  days. 
And  we  are  in  the  desert,  far  from  men ! 


THE  FIRST  BOOK 


26 


11 

Not  till  that  moment  her  afflicted  heart 

Had  leisure  for  the  thought. 

fShe  cast  her  eyes  around, 

Alas  !  no  tents  were  there  90 

Beside  the  bending  sands, 

No  palm-tree  rose  to  spot  the  wilderness; 

The  dark  blue  sky  closed  round, 

And  rested  like  a  dome 

Upon  the  circling  waste. 

.She  cast  her  eyes  around. 

Famine  and  Thirst  were  there  ; 

And  tlien  the  wretched  Mother  bow'd 

her  head, 

And  wept  upon  her  child. 

12 
A  sudden  cry  of  wonder  100 

From  Thalaba  aroused  her  ; 
fShe  raised  her  head,  and  saw 
Where  high  in  air  a  stately  palace  rose. 
i  Amid  a  grove  embower'd 

\         Stood  the  prodigious  pile  ; 

Trees  of  such  ancient  majesty 
Tower'd  not  on  Yemen's  happy  hills,    , 
Nor  crown'd  the  lofty  brow  of  Lebanon  : 

Fabric  so  vast,  so  lavishly  cnrich'd, 

^   For  Idol,  or  for  Tyrant,  never  yet  no 

Raised  the  slave  race  of  man. 

In  Rome,  nor  in  the  elder  Babylon, 

Nor  old  Persepolis, 

Nor  where  the  family  of  Greece 

Hymn'd  Eleutherian  Jove. 

13 

Here  studding  azure  tablatures 

And  ray'd  with  feeble  light, 

Star-like    the   ruby    and    the   diamond 

shone  : 

\      Here  on  the  golden  towers 

The  yellow  moon-beam  lay,       120 
Here  with  white  splendour  floods  the 

silver  wall. 
Less  wondrous  pile  and  less  magnificent 
Sennamar  built  at  Hirah,  though  his  art 
Seal'd  with  one  stone  the  ample  edifice. 


And  made  its  colours,  like  the  serpent's 

skin,  [Lord, 

riay  with  a  changeful  beauty  :   him,  its 

Jealous  lest  after  ellort  might  surpass 

The    then    unequall'd   palace,   from   its 

height 

Dash'd  on  the  pavement  down. 

If 

They  entered,  and  through  aromatic 

paths  130 

Wondering  they  went  along. 

At  length,  upon  a  mossy  bank. 

Beneath  a  tall  mimosa's  shade, 

\Vhich  o'er  him  bent  its  living  canopy. 

They  saw  a  man  reclined. 

Young  he  appear'd,  for  on  his  check 

there  shone 

The  morning  glow  of  health, 

And  the  brown  beard  curl'd  close  around 

his  chin. 

He  slept,  but  at  the  sound 

Of  coming  feet  awaking,  fix'd  his  eyes 

In  wonder,   on   the   wanderer  and  her 

child.  141 

'  Forgive  us,'  Zcinab  cried, 

'  Distress  hath  made  us  bold. 

Relieve  the  widow  and  the  fatherless  ! 

Blessed  are  they  who  succour  the 

distrest  ; 

For  them  hath  God  appointed  Paradise.' 

15 

lie  heard,  and  he  look'd  up  to  heaven. 

And  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks  : 

'  It  is  a  human  voice  ! 

I  thank  thee,  O  my  God  !  .  .     150 

How  many  an  age  hath  pass'd 

.Since  the  sweet  sounds  have  visited  my 

ear! 

I  thank  thee,  O  my  ( Jod, 

It  is  a  human  voice  ! ' 


To  Zeinab  turning  then,  he  said, 
'  O  mortal,  who  art  thou. 


26 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


Whose  gifted  eyes  have  pierced 

The  shadow  of  concealment  that  hath 

wrapt 

These  bowers,  so  many  an  age, 

From  eye  of  mortal  man  ?        i6o 

For  countless  years  have  pass'd. 

And  never  foot  of  man 

The  bowers  of  Irem  trod,  .  . 

Save  only  I,  a  miserable  wretch 

From  Heaven  and  Earth  shut  out ! ' 

17 

Fearless,  and  scarce  sui'prised, 

For  grief  in  Zeinab's  soul 

All  other  feebler  feelings  overpower' d. 

She  answer' d,  '  Yesterday 

I  was  a  wife  beloved,  170 

The  fruitful  mother  of  a  numerous  race. 
I  am  a  widow  now, 
Of  all  my  offspring  this  alone  is  left. 
Praise  to  the  Lord  our  God, 
He  gave.  He  takes  away  ! ' 
18 
Then  said  the  stranger,  '  Xot  by  Heaven 
unseen,  [reach"  d 

Nor  in  unguided  wanderin    .._^_ 

This  secret  place,  b        j    <~'\/y    \ 
Xor  for  light  purpose 
That  from  the  Universe     ^\a^/f  OntiHktr.  ^'  i/.       1 
out  ^'^        '(■-rjoy^- 

These  ancient  bowers,  withdrawn. 
Hear  thou  my  words,  0  mortal,  in  thine 
heart 
Treasure  what  I  shall  tell ; 
And  when  amid  the  world 
Thou  shalt  emerge  again, 
Repeat  the  warning  tale,    [make 
Why  have  the  fathers  sufferd,  but  to 
The  children  wisely  safe  ?  j 

19  j 

'  The  Paradise  of  Irem  this.      189  j 
And  this  that  wonder  of  the  world,    ^  j 
The  Palace  built  by  Shedad  in  his  pride,  j 
Alas  !  in  the  days  of  my  youth, 

The  hum  of  mankind  I 


"Was  heard  in  yon  wilderness  waste  ; 

O'er  all  the  winding  sands 

The  tents  of  Ad  were  pitch' d  ; 

Happy  Al-Ahkaf  then. 

For  many  and  brave  were  her  sons, 

Her  daughters  were  many  and  fail'. 

20 

'  My  name  was  Aswad  then  .  .     200 

Alas  !  alas  !  how  strange 

The  sound  so  long  unheard  ! 

Of  noble  race  I  came. 

One  of  the  wealthy  of  the  earth  my  sire. 

An  hundred  horses  in  my  fathers  stall, 

Stood  ready  for  his  will ; 

Numerous  his  robes  of  silk  ; 

The  number  of  his  camels  was  not  known. 

These  were  my  heritage, 

0  God  !  thy  gifts  were  these  ;     210 

But  better  had  it  been  for  Aswad' s  soul 

Had  he  ask'd  alms  on  earth 

And  begg'd  the  crumbs  which  from  hisj 

table  fell,  / 

So  he  had  known  thy  Word. 

21 

'  "Rnv.  who  hast  reach"d  my  solitude, 

,        -      ^-"^  of  thy  youth  ! 


T  taught 
ly  God  ; 
_^     er  taught 
To  auaj.^  \  y  prayer.         220 

We  worshipp'd  Idols,  wood  and  stone, 
The  work  of  our  own  foolish  hands 
We  worshipp'd  in  our  foolishness. 
Vainly  the  Prophet's  voice 
Its  frequent  warning  raised, 
"  Repent  a^d  be  forgiven  !  "  .  . 
We  mock'd  the  messenger  of  God, 


I 


Wc 


mock'd    the   Lord,    long-suffering, 
slow  to  wrath. 


A  mighty 


ork  the  pride  of  Shedad 
plann'd, 
Here  in  the  wilderness  to  form    230 
A  Garden  more  surpassiug  fair 


THE  FIRST  BOOK 


27 


Than  that  before  whose  gate 

The  lightning  of  the  Cherub's  liery  sword 

\\'avcs  wide  to  bar  access, 

Since  Adam,  tlie  transgressor,  thence 

was  driven. 

Here,  too,  would  Shedad  build 

A  kingly  pile  sublime. 

The  palace  of  his  pride. 

For  this  exhausted  mines 

Supplied  their  golden  store  ;    240 

For  this  the  central  caverns  gave  their 

gems ; 

For  this  the  woodman's  axe 

Open'd  the  cedar  forest  to  the  sun  : 

I  The  silkworm  of  the  East 

I  Spun  her  sepulchral  egg  ; 

The  hunter  Afri  [rage  ; 

Provok'd  the  danger  of  the  Elephant's 
The  Ethiop,  keen  of  scent, 

Detects  the  ebony,  249 

That  deep-inearth'd,  and  hating  light, 

A  leafless  tree  and  barren  of  all  fruit, 

With  darkness  feeds  its  boughs  of  raven 

j  grain.  [pile ; 

jSuch  were  the  treasures  lavish'd  in  yon 

Ages  have  pass'd  away, 
)  And  never  mortal  eye 

j  (Jazcd  on  their  vanity. 

j       '■  The  Garden,  .  .  copious  springs 
!  Blest  that  delightful  spot, 

'    And  every  flower  was  planted  there 
1  That  makes  the  gale  of  evening  sweet. 
IHe  spake,  and  bade  the  full-grown  forest 
;  rise,  261 

His  own  creation  ;  should  the  King 
Wait  for  slow  Nature's  work  ? 
All  trees  that  bend  with  luscious  fruit, 
j        Or  wave  with  feathery  boughs, 
[Or  point  their  spiring  heads  to  heaven, 
j      Or  spreading  wide  their  shadowy 
I  arms,  [noon,  .  . 

'        Invite  the  traveller  to  repose  at 
iHither,  uprooted  with  their  native  soil. 


The  labour  and  the  pain  of  multitudes, . . 
Mature  in  beauty,  bore  them.    271 
Here,  frequent  in  the  walks 
The  marble  statue  stood 
Of  heroes  and  of  chiefs. 
The  trees  and  flowers  remain. 
By  Nature's  care  perpetuate  and  self- 
sown,  [trace 
The  marble  statues  long  have  lost  all 
^            Of  heroes  and  of  chiefs  ; 
Huge  shapeless  stones  they  lie, 
O'ergrown  with  many  a  flower.   280 

24 
'  The  work  of  pride  went  on  ; 

Often  the  Prophet's  voice 

Denounced  impending  woe  : 

We  mock'd  at  the  words  of  the  Seer, 

We  mock'd  at  the  wrath  of  the  Lord. 

A  long-continued  drought  first  troubled 

us  ; 

Three  years  no  cloud  had  form'd. 

Three  years  no  rain  had  fallen  ; 

The  wholesome  herb  was  dry. 

The  corn  matured  not  for  the  food  of 

man,  290 

The  wells  and  fountains  fail'd. 

O  hard  of  heart,  in  whom  the  punishment 

Awoke  no  sense  of  guilt  ! 

'  Headstrong  to  ruin,  obstinately  blind, 

We  to  our  Idols  still  applied  for  aid  ; 

Sakia  we  invoked  for  rain. 

We  called  on  Razeka  for  food  ; 

They  did  not  hear  our  prayers,   they 

could  not  hear ! 

No  cloud  appcar'd  in  Heaven, 

No  nightly  dews  came  down.      300 


'  Then  to  the  Place  of  Concourse  mes- 
sengers [came, 
Were  sent,  to  Mecca,  where  the  nations 
Kound  the  Red  Hillock  kneeling,  to 
implore 
Clod  in  his  favour'd  place. 


28 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


We  sent  to  call  on  God  ;    [earth 

Ah  fools  !    unthinking  that  from  all  the 

The  soul  ascends  to  him. 

We  sent  to  call  on  God  ; 

Ah  fools  !  to  think  the  Lord 

Would  hear  their  prayers  abroad,  310 

Who  made  no  prayers  at  home  ! 

26 

'  Meantime  the  work  of  pride  went  on, 

And  still  before  our  Idols,   wood  and 

stone, 

We  bow'd  the  impious  knee. 

"  Turn,  men  of  Ad,  and  call  upon  the 

Lord," 

The  Prophet  Houd  exclaimed  ; 

"  Turn  men  of  Ad,  and  look  to  Heaven, 

And  fly  the  wrath  to  come." — 

We  mock'd  the  Prophet's  words ;  .  . 

■'  Now  dost  thou  dream,  old  man,  320 

Or  art  thou  drunk  with  wine  ? 

Future  woe  and  \\Tath  to  come. 

Still  thy  prudent  voice  forebodes  ; 

When  it  comes  will  we  believe. 

Till  it  comes  will  we  go  on 

In  the  way  our  fathers  went. 

Now  are  thy  words  from  God  ? 

Or  dost  thou  dream,  old  man, 

Or  art  thou  drunk  with  wine  ? " 

27 

'  So  spake  the  stubborn  race,      330 

The  unbelieving  ones. 

I  too,  of  stubborn  unbelieving  heart, 

Heard  him,  and  heeded  not. 

It  chanced,  my  father  went  the  way  of 

man, 

He  perish' d  in  his  sins. 

The  funeral  rites  were  duly  paid. 

We  bound  a  Camel  to  his  grave, 

And  left  it  there  to  die. 

So  if  the  resurrection  came 

Together  they  might  rise.         340 

I  pass'd  my  father's  grave, 

I  heard  the  Camel  moan. 

She  was  his  favourite  beast. 


One  who  had  carried  me  in  infancy. 
The  first  that  by  myself  I  learn' d  tc 
mount.  [her  eye; 

Her  limbs  were  lean  with  famine,  and 
Ghastly  and  sunk  and  dim. 
She  knew  me  as  I  pass'd. 
She  stared  me  in  the  face  ; 
My  heart  was  touch' d,  .  .  had  it  beer 
human  else  ?  sst 

I  thought  that  none  was  near,  and  cut 
!  her  bonds, 

'  And  drove  her  forth  to  liberty  and  life. 
The  Prophet  Houd  had  seen  ; 

He  lifted  up  his  voice, 

"  Blessed  art  thou,  young  man, 

Blessed  art  thou,  0  Aswad,  for  the  ^eed  I 

In  the  Day  of  Visitation, 

In  the  fearful  hour  of  Judgement, 

God  will  remember  thee  !  " 

28 

'  The  Day  of  Visitation  was  at  hand,  360 

The  fearful  hour  of  Judgement  hastened 

on. 

Lo  !  Shedad's  mighty  pile  complete,  \ 

The  Palace  of  his  pride.  ' 

Would  ye  behold  its  wonders,  enter  in'! 

I  have  no  heart  to  visit  it. 
Time  hath  not  harm'd  the  eternal  monu- 
ment ; 

Time  is  not  here,  nor  days,  nor  months, 
nor  years. 
An  everlasting  now  of  sohtude  !  . 

29 
'  Ye  must  have  heard  their  fame  ; 
Or  likely  ye  have  seen  370 

The  mighty  Pyramids,  .  .    [lived 
For  sure  those  aweful  piles  have  over- 

The  feeble  generations  of  mankind. 

What  though   unmoved  they  bore  the! 

deluge  weight,  \ 

*       Survivors  of  the  ruined  v;orld  ?         1 

What  though  their  founder  HU'd  with' 

miracles  [vaults  ? 

I  And  wealth  miraculous  their  spacious 


THE  YiiliST  BOOK 


29 


Compared  with  yonder  fabric,  and  they 

shrink 
The  baby  wonders  of  ii  Wduian's  work. 

30 
'  Here  emerald  columns  o'er  iho  marble 
courts  380 

Shed  their  green  rays,  as  when  amid  a 
shower  [corn. 

The  sun  shines  loveliest  on  the  vernal 
Here  Shedad  bade  the  sapphire  floor  be 
laid, 
As  though  with  feet  divine 
To  tread  on  azure  light,    [ment. 
Like  the  blue  pavement  of  the  firma- 

Here  self-suspended  hangs  in  air. 

As  its  pure  substance  loathed  material 

touch, 

The  living  carbuncle  ; 

Sun  of  the  lofty  dome,  390 

Darkness  hath  no  dominion  o'er  its 

beams ; 

Intense  it  glows,  an  ever-flowing  spring 

Of  radiance,  like  the  day-flood  in  its 

source. 

31 
'  Impious!  the  Trees  of  vegetable  gold 
Such  as  in  Eden's  groves 
Yet  innocent  it  grew  ; 
Impious  !  he  made  his  boast,  though 
Heaven  had  hid 
So  deep  the  baneful  ore,      [him, 
That  they  should  branch  and  bud  for 
That  art  should  force  their  blossoms 
and  their  fruit,  400 

And  re-create  for  him  whate'er 
Was  lost  in  Paradise. 
Therefore  at  Shedad's  voice 
i    Here  tower'd  the  palm,  a  silver  trunk. 
The  fine  gold  net-work  growing  out 
Loose  from  its  rugged  boughs. 
'Tall  as  the  cedar  of  the  mountain,  here 
I      Rose  the  gold  branches,  hung  with 
I  emerald  leaves, 


Blossom'd  with  pearls,  and  rich  with 

ruby  fruil. 

32 

'O  Ad  !  my  country!  evil  was  the  day 

That  thy  unhappy  sons  411 

Crouch'd  at  this  Nimrod's  throne. 

And  placed  him  on  the  j^cdestal  of  power. 

And  laid  their  liberties  beneath  his  feet. 

Robbing  their  children  of  the  heritanco 

Their  fathers  handed  down. 

What  was  to  him  the  squander'd  wealth? 

What  was  to  him  the  burthen  of  the  land. 

The  lavish' d  misery  ? 

He  did  but  speak  his  will,         420 

And,  like  the  blasting  Siroc  of  the  sands, 

•  The  ruin  of  the  royal  voice 

Found  its  way  every- where. 

I  marvel  not  that  he,  whose  power 

Xo  earthly  law,  no  human  feeling  curbed, 

Moek'd  at  the  living  God  ! 

33 

'  And  now  the  King's  command  went 

forth  [young. 

Among  the  people,  bidding  old  and 
Husband  and  wife,  the  master  and  the 

slave. 

All  the  collected  multitudes  of  Ad,  430 

Here  to  repair,  and  hold  high  festival, 

That  he  might  see  his  people,  they  behold 

Their  King's  magnificence  and  power. 

The  day  of  festival  arrived  ; 

Hither  they  came,  the  old  man  and  the 

boy. 

Husband  and  wife,  the  master  and 

the  slave. 

Hither  they  came.     From  yonder  high 

tower  top. 

The  loftiest  of  the  Palace,  Shedad  look'd 

Down  on  his  tribe:  their  tents  on 

yonder  sands 
Rose  like  the  countless  billows  of 

the  soa  ;  440 

Their  tread  and  voices  like  the  ocean 
roar. 


30 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


One  deep  confusion  of  tumultuous 

sounds. 

They    saw    their    King's    magnificence, 

beheld  [domes 

His  palace  sparkling  like  the  Angel 

Of  Paradise,  his  Garden  like  the  bowers 

Of  early  Eden,  and  they  shouted  out, 

"  Great  is  the  King  !    a  God  upon 

the  earth  !  " 

34 

'  Intoxicate  with  joy  and  pride, 

He  heard  their  blasphemies  ; 

And  in  his  wantonness  of  heart  he  bade 

The  Prophet  Houd  be  brought ;   451 

And  o'er  the  marble  courts. 

And  o'er  the  gorgeous  rooms 

Glittering  with  gems  and  gold. 

He  led  the  Man  of  God. 
"  Is  not  this  a  stately  pile  ?  " 
Cried  the  monarch  in  his  joy. 

"  Hath  ever  eye  beheld. 

Hath  ever  thought  conceived. 

Place  more  magnificent  ?        460 

Houd,  they  say  that  Heaven  imparteth 

Words  of  wisdom  to  thy  lips  ; 

Look  at  the  riches  round, 

And  value  them  aright. 

If  so  thy  wisdom  can." 

35 

'  The  Prophet  heard  his  vaunt, 

And,  with  an  aweful  smile,  he  answer' d 

him, 

"  0  Shedad  !    only  in  the  hour  of  death 

We  learn  to  value  things  like  these 

aright," 

3G 
*  "  Hast  thou  a  fault  to  find      470 
In  all  thine  eyes  have  seen  ?  " 
With  unadmonished  pride,  the  King  ex- 
claim'd. 
*'  Yea  !  "  said  the  Man  of  God  ; 
"  Ths  walls  are  weak,  the  building  ill 
secure. 


Azrael  can  enter  in  ! 

The  Sarsar  can  pierce  through, 

The  Icy  Wind  of  Death." 

37 

'  I   was  beside  the  Monarch   when  he 

spake ; 

Gentle  the  Prophet  spake, 

But  in  his  eye  there  dwelt       48c 

A  sorrow  that  disturb' d  me  while  I  gazed. 

The  countenance  of  Shedad  fell. 

And  anger  sat  upon  his  paler  lips. 

He  to  the  high  tower-top  the  Prophet  led. 

And  pointed  to  the  multitude, 

And  as  again  they  shouted  out, 

"  Great  is  the  King  !    a  God  upon  the 

Earth  !  " 
With  dark  and  threatful  smile  to  Houd 
he  turn'd,  j 

"  Say  they  aright,  0  Prophet  ?    is  thej 
King  j 

Great  upon  earth,  a  God  among  rnan-i 
kind  ?  "  490 

The  Prophet  answer' d  not ; 
Over  that  infinite  multitude 
He  roll'd  his  ominous  eyes, 
And  tears  which  could  not  be  supprest 
gush'd  forth. 

38 
*  Sudden  an  uproar  rose, 

A  crj'  of  joy  below  ; 

"  The  messenger  is  come  ! 

Kail  from  Mecca  comes, 

He  brings  the  boon  obtain'd  !  " 

39 
'  Forth  as  we  went  we  saw  where  over- 
head 500 
There  hung  a  deep  black  cloud. 
To  which  the  multitude 
With  joyful  eyes  look'd  up. 
And  blest  the  coming  rain. 
The  ]\Iessenger  addrest  the  King 
And  told  his  tale  of  joy. 


THE  FIRST  BOOK 


31 


■10 
'  "  To  Ifecca  I  repairM, 
By  the  Rod  Hillock  knelt. 
And  caird  on  God  for  rain. 
My  prayer  ascended,  and  was  heard  ; 
Three  clouds  appear'd  in  heaven,    511 
One  white,  and  like  the  flying  cloud  of 
noon,  [be^nis, 

One  red,  as  it  liad  drunk  the  evening 
One  black  and  heavy  with  its  load  of  rain. 
A  voice  went  forth  from  Heaven, 
*  Clioose,  Kail,  of  the  three  ! ' 
I  thank'd  the  gracious  Power, 
And  chose  the  black  cloud,  heavy  with 

its  wealth." 
"  Right  !    right  !  "  a  thousand  tongues 
exclaim'd. 
And  all  was  merriment  and  joy.    520 

41 

'  Then  stood  the  Prophet  up,  and  cried 
aloud, 
"  Woe,  woe  to  Irem  !    woe  to  Ad  ! 
Death  is  gone  up  into  her  palaces  ! 
Woe  !   woe  !   a  day  of  guilt  and  punish- 
ment ; 
A  day  of  desolation  !  " — As  he  spake, 
His  large  eye  roU'd  in  horror,  and  so  deep 
His  tone,   it   seem'd  some  Spirit  from 

within 

Breathed  through  his  moveless  lips  tiie 

unearthly  voice. 

42 
'  All  looks  were  turn'd  to  him.  "  0  Ad  !  " 

he  cried, 
"  Dear  native  land,  by  all  remembrances 
Of  childhood,  by  all  joys  of  manhood 
dear ;  531 

O  Vale  of  many  Waters  ;    morn  and 
night  [grave 

ily  age  must  groan  for  you,  and  to  the 
Go  down  in  sorrow.    Thou  wilt  give  thy 
fruits,  [will  ripen, 

But  who  shall  gather  them  ?  thy  grapes 


But  who  shall  tread  the  wine-presfl  ?  Fly 

the  wrath,  [alive  ! 

Ve  who  would  live  and  Have  your  soula 

For  strong  is  his  right  hand  that 

bends  the  Bow, 

The  AiTows  that  he  shoots  are  sharp. 

And  err  not  from  their  aim  !  "    540 

4:i 

'  With  that  a  faithful  few 

Prest  through  the  throng  to  join  him. 

Then  arose 

Mockery  and  mirth  ;    "  Go,  bald  head  !  " 

and  they  mix'd  [once 

Curses  with  laughter.    He  set  forth,  yet 

Look'd  back  :  .  .  his  eye  fell  on  me,  and 

he  call'd  [fied  ;  .  . 

"  Aswad  !  "  .  .  it  startled  me  .  .  it  terri- 

"  Aswad  !  "  again  he  call'd,  .  .  and 

I  almost  [soon  ! 

Had  follow'd  him.  .  .  0  moment  fled  too 

0  moment  irrecoverably  lost  ! 
The  shouts  of  mockery  made  a  coward 
of  me  ;  550 

He  went,  and  I  remained, in  fear  of  ;M.ax  ! 

44 

*  He  went,  and  darker  grew 

The  deepening  cloud  above. 

At  length  it  open'd,  and  .  .  0  God  ! 

0  God! 

There  were  no  waters  there  ! 

There  fell  no  kindlj'  rain  ! 

The  Sarsar  from  its  womb  went  forth. 

The  Icy  Wind  of  Death. 

45 

'  They  fell  around  mo  ;    thousands  fell 

around. 

The  King  and  all  his  people  fell  ;  560 

All !   all  !   they  jxrishM  all  ! 

I  .  .  only  I  .  .  was  left. 

There  came  a  Voice  to  me  and  .said, 

"  In  the  Day  of  Visitation. 

In  the  fearful  hour  of  Judgement, 

God  hath  remember'd  thee." 


32 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


46 

'  When  from  an  agony  of  prayer  I  rose, 

And  from  the  scene  of  death 

Attempted  to  go  forth. 

The  way  was  open,  I  could  see    570 

No  barrier  to  my  steps. 

But  round  these  bowers  the  Arm  of  God 

Had  drawn  a  mighty  chain, 

A  barrier  that  no  human  force  might 

break. 

Twice  I  essay' d  to  pass  ; 

With  that  a  Voice  was  heard, 

"  0  Aswad,  be  content,  and  bless  the 

Lord  ! 

One  charitable  deed  hath  saved 

Thy  soul  from  utter  death. 

0  Aswad,  sinful  man  !  580 

"When  by  long  penitence 

Thou  feel'st  thy  soul  prepared 

Breathe  up  the  wish  to  die. 

And   Azrael   comes   in   answer   to   thy 

prayer." 

47 
y  *  A  miserable  man 

From  Earth  and  Heaven  sliut  out, 

I  heard  the  dreadful  Voice. 
I  look'd  around  my  prison-place, 
The  bodies  of  the  dead  were  there, 

Where'er  I  look'd  they  lay,      590 

They  moulder' d,  moulder'd  here,  .  . 

Their  very  bones  have  crumbled  into 

dust, 

So  many  years  have  pass'd  ! 

So  many  weary  ages  have  gone  by  ! 

And  still  I  linger  here,       [sins, 

Still  groaning  with  the  burthen  of  my 

Not  yet  have  dared  to  breathe 

The  prayer  to  be  released. 

48 

'  Oh !     who   can   tell   the   unspeakable) 

misery 

Of  solitude  like  this  !  600 

No  sound  hath  ever  reach'd  my  ear 

Save  of  the  passing  wind. 


The  fountain's  everlasting  flow. 

The  forest  in  the  gale. 

The  pattering  of  the  shower. 

Sounds  dead  and  mournful  all. 

No  bird  hath  ever  closed  her  wing 

Upon  these  solitary  bowers. 

No  insect   sweetly   buzz'd   amid   these 

groves, 

From  all  things  that  have  life,    6* 

Save  only  me,  conceal' d. 

This  Tree  alone,  that  o'er  my  head 

Plangs  down  its  hospitable  boughs, 

And  bends  its  whispering  leaves 

As  though  to  welcome  me. 

Seems  to  partake  of  life  ; 

I  love  it  as  my  friend,  my  only  friend 

49 
'  I  know  not  for  what  ages  I  have  dragg'  * 
This  miserable  life  ; 
How  often  I  have  seen  6a' 

These  ancient  trees  renew'd  ;         i 
What  countless  generations  of  mankimj 
Have  risen  and  fallen  asleep,         I 
And  I  remain  the  same  ! 
My  garment  hath  not  waxen  old. 
And  the  sole  of  my  shoe  is  not  worn. 

50 

'  Sinner  that  I  have  been, 

I  dare  not  offer  up  a  prayer  to  die. 

0  merciful  Lord  God  !  .  . 

But  when  it  is  thy  will,  63 

But  when  I  have  atoned 

For  mine  iniquities. 

And  sufferings  have  made  pure 

My  soul  with  sin  defiled, 

Release  me  in  thine  own  good  time ;  . 

I  will  not  cease  to  praise  thee,  0  m, 

God!' 

51 

Silence  ensued  awhile ; 

Then  Zeinab  answer' d  him  ; 

'  Blessed  art  thou,  O  Aswad  !    for  th 

Lord, 

Who  saved  thy  soul  from  Hell,  64 


THE  FIRST   iiOOK 


33 


Will  call  thee  to  him  in  his  own  good 

time. 

And  would  that  when  my  aoul 

Breathed  up  the  wish  to  die, 

Azraol  might  visit  me  ! 

Then  would  I  follow   where  my  babes 

are  gone, 

And  join  Hodeirah  now  ! 


She  ceased  ;    and  the  rushing  of  wings 
Was  heard  in  the  stillness  of  night, 
And    Azracl,    the    Death-Angel,    stood 
before  them. 
His  countenance  was  dark,        650 
Solemn,  but  not  severe, 
I  It  awed,  but  struck  no  terror  to  the  heart. 
j  '  Zeinab,  thy  wish  is  heard  ! 

Aswad,  thine  hour  is  come  !  ' 
They  fell  upon  the  ground  and  blest  the 
voice  ; 
And  Azrael  from  his  sword 
Let  fall  the  drops  of  bitterness  and  death. 

53 

'  Me   too  !     me   too  ! '    young   Thalaba 

exclaim' d, 

As  wild  with  grief  he  kiss'd 

His  Mother's  livid  hand,         660 

His  Mother's  livid  lips  ; 

'  0  Angel  !    take  me  too  ! ' 

54 
'  Son  of  Hodeirah  ! '   the  Death- Angel 

said, 
i  '  It  is  not  yet  the  hour, 

[Son  of  Hodeirah,  thou  art  chosen  forth 
;  To  do  the  will  of  Heaven  ; 

To  avenge  thy  father's  death. 
The  murder  of  thy  race  ; 
To  work  the  mightiest  enterprize 
That  mortal  man  hath  wrought.  670 
Live  !   and  remember  De.stinv 

Hath  mark'd  thee  from  mankind  ! ' 

I 


65 

He  ceased,  and  he  was  gone. 

Young  Thalaba  look'd  round,  .  . 

The  Pajaoo  and  the  groves  were  seen  no 

more. 

He  stood  amid  the  Wilderness,  alone. 


THE  SECOND  BOOK 

Sinl  licet  expertesvitaesensusque.capessunt 
Jussu  tanien  superuni  veiiti. 

Mamhruni  ConstantiJius. 

1 

Not  in  the  desert, 

Son  of  Hodeirah, 

Thou  art  abandon'd  ! 

The  co-existent  fire,  [for  thee. 

Which  in  the  Dens  of  Darkness  burnt 

Burns  yet,  and  yet  shall  burn. 

2 

In  the  Domdaniel  caverns, 

Under  the  Roots  of  the  Ocean, 

Jlet  the  Masters  of  the  Spell. 

Before  them  in  the  vault,  xo 

Blazing  unfuel'd  from  its  floor  of  rock, 

Ten  magic  flames  arose. 

'  Burn,  mystic  fires  ; '  Abdaldar  cried  ; 

'  Burn   while   Hodeirah' s  dreaded   race 

exist. 

This  is  the  appointed  hour,  [night.' 

The  hour  that  shall  secure  these  dens  of 

'  Dim  they  burn  ! '   exclaim'd  Lobaba  ; 
'  Dim  they  burn,  and  now  they  waver! 
Okba  lifts  the  arm  of  death  : 
They  waver,  .  .  they  go  out  1 '      20 

4 

'  Curse  on  his  hasty  hand  ! ' 

Khawla  exclaim'd  in  wrath. 

The  woman-fiend  exclaim'd,  [fail'd  ! 

'  Curse  on  his  hasty  hand,  tlie  fofjl  lintli 

Eight  only  are  gone  out.' 


34 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


A  Teraph  stood  against  the  cavern-side, 

A  new-born  infant's  head, 

Which  Khawla  at  its  hour  of  birth  had 

seized, 

And  h6m  the  shoulders  wrung. 

It  stood  upon  a  plate  of  gold,      30 

An  unclean  Spirit's  name  inscrib'd 

beneath. 

The  cheeks  were  deathy  dark, 

Dark  the  dead  skin  upon  the  hairless 

skull ; 

The  lips  were  bluey  pale  ; 

Only  the  eyes  had  life, 

They  gleam' d  with  demon  light. 

6 

*  Tell  me  !  '  quoth  Khawla,  '  is  the  Fire 

gone  out 

That  threats  the  Masters  of  the  Spell  ?  ' 

The  dead  lips  moved  and  spake, 

'  The  Fire  still  burns  that  threats     40 

The  Masters  of  the  Spell.' 

7 

*  Curse  on  thee,  Okba  ! '  Khawla  cried. 

As  to  the  den  the  Sorcerer  came  ; 

He  bore  the  dagger  in  his  hand. 

Red  from  the  murder  of  Hodeirah's  race. 

'  Behold  those  unextinguish'd  flames  ! 

The  Fire  still  burns  that  threats 

The  Masters  of  the  Spell ! 
Okba,  wert  thou  weak  of  heart  ? 

Okba,  wert  thou  blind  of  eye  ?     50 
Thy  fate  and  ours  were  on  the  lot, 
And  we  believ'd  the  lying  Stars, 
That    said    thy    hand    might   seize   the 

auspicious  hour  ! 

Thou  hast  let  slip  the  reins  of  Destiny, .  . 

Curse  thee,  curse  thee,  Okba  ! ' 

8 

The  ^lurderer,  answering,  said, 

'  0  versed  in  all  enchanted  lore, 

Thou  better  knowest  Okba's  soul  ! 

Eight  blows  I  struck,  eight  home-driven 

blows. 


Needed  no  second  stroke  6c 

From  this  envenom' d  blade. 
Ye  frown  at  me  as  if  the  will  had  fail'dj 

As  if  ye  did  not  know 
j\Iy  double  danger  from  Hodeirah's  race, 
The  deeper  hate  I  feel,      [arm  ! 
The  stronger  motive  that  inspir'd  my 
Ye  frown  as  if  my  hasty  fault, 
My  ill-directed  blow, 
Had  spared  the  enemy  ; 
And  not  the  Stars  that  would  not  give 
And  not  your  feeble  spells         7: 
That  could  not  force,  the  sign 
Which  of  the  whole  was  he. 
Did  ye  not  bid  me  strike  them  all  ? 
Said  ye  not  root  and  branch  should  bs 
destroyed  ? 
I  heard  Hodeirah's  dying  groan, 
I  heard  his  Children's  shriek  of  death. 
And  sought  to  consummate  the  work  ; 
But  o'er  the  two  remaining  lives 
A  cloud  unpierceable  had  risen,    8 
A  cloud  that  mock'd  my  searching  eyeg 
I  would  have  probed  it  with  the 
dagger-point. 
The  dagger  was  repell'd  ; 
A  Voice  came  forth  and  said,         > 
"  Son  of  Perdition,  cease  !    Thou  cans 
not  change  i 

What  in  the  Book  of  Destiny  is  written." 

9 

Khawla  to  the  Teraph  turn'd, 

'  Tell  me  where  the  Prophet's  hand 

Hides  our  destined  enemy  ? ' 

The  dead  lips  spake  again,         ^ 

*  I  view  the  seas,  I  view  the  land, 

I  search  the  Ocean  and  the  Earth ! 

Not  on  Ocean  is  the  Boy, 

Not  on  Earth  his  steps  are  seen.' 

10 

'A  mightier  power  than  we,' Lobaba  cried 

'  Protects  our  destined  foe. 

Look  !   look  !  one  Fire  burns  dim  J 

It  quivers  !  it  goes  out  !  ' 


THE  SECOND   BOOK 


36 


11 

It  quiver'd,  it  was  quench' d. 

One  Flame  alone  was  loft,         loo 

A  pale  blue  Flame  that  trembled  on  the 

floor,  [»>dgt? 

A  hovering  light,  upon  whose  shrinking 

The  darkness  seem'd  to  press. 

Stronijer  it  grew,  and  spread 

Its  lucid  swell  around. 

Extending  now  where  all  the  ten  had 

stood 

With  lustre  more  than  all. 

12 

At  that  portentous  sight 

The  Children  of  Evil  trembled. 

And  terror  smote  their  souls,       no 

Over  the  den  the  Fire 

Its  fearful  splendour  cast, 

The    broad    base   rolling    up   in    wavy 

streams,  [spreads 

Bright  as  the  summer  lightning  when  it 

Its  glory  o'er  the  midnight  heaven. 

The  Teraph's  eyes  were  dimm'd, 

Which  like  two  twinkling  stars 

Shone  in  the  darkness  late. 

The  Sorcerers  on  each  other  gazed. 

And  every  face,  all  pale  with  fear,  120 

And  ghastly,  in  that  light  was  seen 

Like  a  dead  man's  by  the  sepulchral 

lamp. 

13 

Even  Khawla,  fiercest  of  the  enchanter 

brood. 

Not  without  effort  drew 

Her  fear-suspended  breath. 

Anon  a  deeper  rage 

Inflamed  her  reddening  eye. 

*  Mighty  is  thy  power,  Mahommed  ! ' 

Loud  in  blasphemy  she  cried  ; 

'  But  Eblis  would  not  stoop  to  Man, 

WTien  Man,  fair-statured  as  the  stately 

palm  131 

From  his  Creator's  hand 

Was  undefiled  and  pure. 


Thou  art  mighty,  0  Son  of  Abdallah  ! 

But  who  is  he  of  woman  born 

That  shall  vie  with  the  might  of  Eblis  \ 

That  shall  rival  the  Prince  of  the 

Morning  V ' 

14 

She  said,  and  raised  her  skinny  hand 

As  in  defiance  to  high  Hea\en, 

And  stretch'd  her  long  lean  finger  forth. 

And  spake  aloud  the  words  of  power. 

The  Spirits  heard  her  call,        142 

And  lo  !  before  her  stands 

Her  Demon  Minister. 

'  Spirit  ! '  the  Enchantress  cried, 

'  Where  lives  the  Boy,  coeval  with  whose 

life 

Yon  magic  Fire  must  burn  ? ' 

15 

DEMON 

Mistress  of  the  mighty  Spell, 
Not  on  Ocean,  not  on  Earth, 

Only  eyes  that  view  150 

Allah's  glory-throne, 
See  his  hiding-place.       [learn. 
From   some   believing   Spirit,   ask   and 

Ifi 

'  Bring  the  dead  Hodeirah  here,' 

Khawla  cried,  '  and  he  shall  tell  ! ' 

The  Demon  heard  her  bidding,  and  was 

gone. 

A  moment  pass'd,  and  at  her  feet 

Hodeirah's  corpse  was  laid  ; 

His  hand  still  held  the  sword  he  grasp'd 

in  death. 
The  blood  not  yet  had  clotted  on   his 
wound.  I  to 

17 

The  Sorceress  look'd,  and  with  a  smile 
That  kindled  to  more  fiendishness 

Her  hideous  features,  cried, 

'  Where  art  thou,  Hodeirah,  now  ? 

Is  thy  soul  in  Zemzem-well  ? 

Is  it  in  the  Eden  groves  ? 


S6 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


Waits  it  for  the  judgement-blast 

In  the  trump  of  Israfil  ? 

Is  it,  plumed  with  silver  wings, 

Underneath  the  throne  of  God  ?     170 

Even  though  beneath  His  throne, 

Hodeirah,  thou  shalt  hear 

Thou  shalt  obey  my  voice  ! ' 

18 

She  said,  and  m utter' d  charms  which 

Hell  in  fear, 

And  Heaven  in  horror  heard. 

Soon  the  stiff  eye- balls  roll'd. 

The    muscles    with    convulsive    motion 

shook,  [her  soul 

The  white  lips  quiver'd.     Khawla  saw, 

Exulted,  and  she  cried, 

'  Prophet !   behold  my  power  !     1 80 

Not  even  death  secures 

Thy  slaves  from  Khawla' s  spell  ! 

Where,  Hodeirah,  is  thy  child  ? ' 

19 

Hodeirah  groan' d  and  closed  his  eyes, 

A3  if  in  the  night  and  the  blindness  of 

death 

He  would  have  hid  himself. 

20 

*  Speak  to  my  question  !  '  she  exclaim' d, 

*  Or  in  that  mangled  body  thou  shalt  live 

Ages  of  torture  !   Answer  me  ! 
Where  can  we  find  the  boy  ?  '     190 

21 

'  God  !   God  ! '  Hodeirah  cried, 

'  Release  me  from  this  life. 

From  this  intolerable  agony  ! ' 

22 

*  Speak  ! '  cried  the  Sorceress,  and  she 

snatch' d 

A  Viper  from  the  floor 

And  with  the  living  reptile  lash'd  his 

neck. 

Wreath'd  round  him  with  the  blow. 

The  reptile  tighter  drew  her  folds, 

And  raised  her  wrathful  head, 

And  fix'd  into  his  face  200 


Her  deadly  teeth  and  shed 
Poison  in  every  wound,  [prayer,  1 
In   vain !   for   Allah   heard   Hodeirah's' 
And  Khawla  on  a  corpse 
Had  wreak' d  her  baffled  rage. 
The  fated  Fire  moved  on,  [flames. 
And  round  the  Body  wrapt  its  funeral 
The  flesh  and  bones  in  that  portentous 
pile 
Consumed  ;   the  Sword  alone. 
Circled  with  fire,  was  left.         210.J 
23  ' 

Where  is  the  Boy  for  whose  hand  it  is 
destined  ?  [wield 

Where  the  Destroyer  who  one  day  shall 
The  Sword  that  is  circled  with  fire  ? 
Race  accursed,  try  your  charms  ! 

Masters  of  the  mighty  Spell, 

Mutter  o'er  your  words  of  power  I 

Ye  can  shatter  the  dwellings  of  man  ; 

Ye  can  open  the  womb  of  the  rock ; 

Ye  can  shake  the  foundations  of  earth, 

But  not  the  Word  of  God  :        220 

But  not  one  letter  can  ye  change 

Of  what  his  Will  hath  written. 

24 

Who  shall  seek  through  Araby 

Hodeirah's  dreaded  son  ? 

They  mingle  the  Arrows  of  Chance, 

The  lot  of  Abdaldar  is  drawn. 

Thirteen  moons  must  wax  and  wane 

Ere  the  Sorcerer  quit  his  quest. 

He  must  visit  every  tribe 

That  roam  ihe  desert  wilderness,  230 

Or  dwell  beside  perennial  streams  ; 

Nor  leave  a  solitary  tent  unsearch'd. 

Till  he  hath  found  the  Boy,  .  . 
The  dreaded  Boy,  whose  blood  alone 
Can  quench  that  fated  Fire.     ,  _ 

23  I 

A  crystal  ring  Abdaldar  wore  ; 

The  powerful  gem  condensed 

Primeval  dews,  that  upon  Caucasus 

Felt  the  first  winter's  frost. 


THE   SECOND   BOOK 


37 


Ripening  there  it  lay  beiK-ath     240 
Rock  above  rock,  and  mountain  ice  up- 
piled  [assumed, 
On  mountain,  till  the  incumbent  mass 
So  huge  its  bulk,  the  Ocean's  azure  hue. 
2() 
With  this  he  sought  the  inner  den 
Where  burnt  the  Eternal  Fire. 
iLiko  waters  gushing  from  some  chan- 
neird  rock  [a  chasm 
Full  through  a  narrow  opening,  from 
The  Eternal  Fire  stream'd  up. 
No  eye  beheld  the  spring 
Of  that  up-tlowing  Flame,        250 
'Which  blazed  self-nurtured,  and  for  ever, 
I                              there. 
It  was  no  mortal  element ;    the  Abyss 
jSupplied  it,  from  the  fountains  at  the 
I                                 first             [and  glows 
Prepared.    In  the  heart  of  earth  it  lives 
Her  vital  heat,  till,  at  the  day  decreed, 
The  voice  of  God  shall  let  its  billows  loose, 
!  To  deluge  o'er  with  no  abating  flood 

Our  consummated  World  ; 
'  Which  must  from  that  day  in  infinity 
Through  endless  ages  roll,        260 
A  penal  orb  of  Fire. 

27 

I'nturban'd  and  unsandal'd  there, 
Abdaldar  stood  before  the  Flame, 
And  held  the  Ring  beside,  and  spake 
The  language  that  the  Elements  obe}'. 
The  obedient  Flame  detach' d  a  portion 
forth,  [densed, 

Whicii,  in  the  crystal  entering,  was  con- 
Gem  of  the  gem,  its  living  Eye  of  fire. 
I    When  the  hand  that  wears  the  spell 
Shall  touch  the  destined  Boy,    270 
Then  shall  that  Eye  be  quench'd, 
And  the  freed  Element 
Fly  to  its  sacred  and  remember'd  Spring. 

28 

Now  go  thy  way,  Abdaldar  ! 

Servant  of  Eblis, 


Over  Arabia 

Seek  the  Destroyer  ! 

Over  the  sands  of  the  scorching  Tehama, 

Over  the  waterless  mountains  of  Nayd  ; 

In  Arud  pursue  him,  and  Yemen  tho 

hapi)y,  280 

And  Hejaz,  the  country  beloved  by 

believers, 

Over  Arabia, 

Servant  of  Eblis, 

Seek  the  Destroyer ! 

29 
From  tribe  to  tribe,  from  town  to  town, 

From  tent  to  tent,  Abdaldar  pass'd. 
Him  every  morn  the  all-beholding  Eye 
Saw  from  his  couch,  unhallow'd  by  a 
prayer. 
Rise  to  the  scent  of  blood  ; 
And  every  night  lie  down,        290 
That  rankling  hope  within  him,  that  by 
day  [sleep, 

Goaded  his  steps,  still  stinging  him  in 
And  startling  him  with  vain  accomplish- 
ment 
From  visions  still  the  same. 
Many  a  time  his  wary  hand 
To  many  a  youth  applied  the  Ring  ; 

And  still  the  imprison'd  Fire 

Within  its  crystal  socket  lay  comprest, 

Imi)atient  to  be  free. 

30 

At  length  to  the  cords  of  a  tent,  300 

That   were   strctch'd   by   an    Island    of 

Palms, 

In  the  desolate  sea  of  the  sands, 

The  seemly  traveller  came. 

Under  a  shapely  palm, 

Herself  as  shapely,  there  a  Damsel  stood ; 

She  held  her  ready  robe. 

And  look'd  towards  a  Boy, 

Who  from  the  tree  above. 

With  one  hand  clinging  to  its  trunk. 

Cast  with  the  other  down  the  clusterM 

dates.  3« 


38 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


31 

The  Magician  approach' d  the  Tree, 
He  lean'd  on  his  staff,  hke  a  way-faring 
man,  [his  brow. 

And  the  sweat  of  his  travel  was  seen  on 

He  ask'd  for  food,  and  lo  ! 

The  Damsel  proffers  him  her  lap  of  dates ; 

And  the  Striphng  descends,  and  runs 

to  the  tent, 

And  brings  him  forth  water,  the  draught 

of  delight. 

32 

Anon  the  Master  of  the  tent, 

The  Father  of  the  family, 

Came  forth,  a  man  in  years,  of  aspect 

mild.  320 

To  the  stranger  approaching  he  gave 

The  friendly  saluting  of  peace, 

And  bade  the  skin  be  spread. 

Before  the  tent  they  spread  the  skin. 

Under  a  Tamarind's  shade. 

That,  bending  forward,  stretch'd 

Its  boughs  of  beauty  far. 

33 

They  brought  the  Traveller  rice. 

With  no  false  colours  tinged  to  tempt 

the  eye, 

But  white  as  the  new-fallen  snow,  330 

When  never  yet  the  sullying  Sun 

Hath  seen  its  purity, 

Nor  the  warm  zephyr  touch' d  and 

tainted  it. 

The  dates  of  the  grove  before  their  guest 

They  laid,  and  the  luscious  fig, 

And  water  from  the  well. 

34 

The  Damsel  from  the  Tamarind  tree 

Had  pluck' d  its  acid  fruit, 

And  steep' d  it  in  water  long  ; 

And  whoso  drank  of  the  cooling  draught, 

He  would  not  wish  for  wine.       341 

This  to  their  guest  the  Damsel  brought. 

And  a  modest  pleasure  kindled  her 

cheek. 


When  raising  from  the  cup  his  moisten'd 
lips,         [drank  again. 
The  stranger  smiled,  and  praised,  and 
35 
Whither  is  gone  the  Boy  V 
He  had  pierced  the  Melon's  pulji, 
And  closed  with  wax  the  wound,      t 
And  he  had  duly  gone  at  morn         i 
And  watch' d  its  ripening  rind,     350 
And  now  all  joyfull}'  he  brings 
The  treasure  now  matured  ; 
His  dark  e3'es  sparkling  with  a  boy's 

delight. 

As  out  he  pours  its  liquid  lusciousness, 

And  proffers  to  the  guest. 

36 

Abdaldar  ate,  and  he  was  satisfied  : 

And  now  his  tongue  discoursed 

Of  regions  far  remote,       [long. 

As  one  whose  busy  feet  had  travell'd 

The  father  of  the  family,  360 

With  a  calm  eye  and  quiet  smile, 

•Sate  pleased  to  hearken  him. 

The  Damsel  who  removed  the  meal, 

She  loiter' d  on  the  way, 

And  listen" d  with  full  hands 

A  moment  motionless. 

37 

All  eagerly  the  Boy 

Watches  the  Traveller's  lips; 

And  still  the  wily  man 

With  seemly  kindness,  to  the  eager  Eo, 

Directs  his  winning  tale.  371 

Ah,  cursed  one  !    if  this  be  he. 

If  thou  hast  found  the  object  of   thyl 

search, 

Thy  hate,  thy  bloody  aim,  .  . 

Into  what  deep  damnation   wilt  thou 

plunge 

Thy  miserable  soul !  .  . 

38 

Look  !    how  his  eye  delighted  v-atches 

thine  !  .  . 

Look  !    how  his  open  lips 


1 


THE  SECOND   BOOK 


39 


Gape  at  the  winning  tale  !  .  . 
And  nearer  now  he  comes,        380 
I  To  lose  no  word  of  that  delightful  talk. 

Then,  as  in  familiar  mood, 
'  ■  Upon  the  strii)liiig's  arm 

The  Sorcerer  laid  his  hand, 
'  And  the  Fire  of  the  Crystal  lied. 

30 

While  the  sudden  shoot  of  joy 

Made  pale  Abdaldar's  cheek, 

The  Master's  voice  was  heard  ; 

'  It  is  the  hour  of  prayer,  .  . 

I        My  children,  let  us  purify  ourselves, 

I         And  praise  the  Lord  our  God  ! '  391 

The  Boy  the  water  brought ; 

After  the  law  they  puritied  themselves, 

I     And  bent  their  faces  to  the  earth  in 

prayer. 

40 
Ail,  save  Abdaldar  ;    over  Thalaba 
j  H6  stands,  and  lifts  the  dagger  to  destroy. 
I  Before  his  lifted  arm  received 

i  Its  impulse  to  descend. 

The  Blast  of  the  Desert  came. 
Prostrate  in  prayer,  the  pious  family 

Felt  not  the  .Simoom  pass.        40* 
They  rose,  and  lo  I  the  Sorcerer  lying 
dead, 


THE  THIRD  BOOK 

Time  will  produce  events  of  which  thou 
canst  have  no  idea  ;  and  he  to  whom  thou 
gavest  no  commission,  will  bring  theeunex- 
IM.-c ted  news. — MosLLAKAT,roem  ojTarajal 

1 

THALABA 

'  'N  LIZA,  look  !  the  dead  man  has  a  ring, . . 
Should  it  be  buried  with  him  V 

ONEIZA 

Oh  yes  .  .  yes  !  [needs 

A  wicked  man  !    whate'er  is  his  must 
Bo  wicked  too  ! 


THALABA 

But  see,  .  .  the  sparkling  stone  ? 
How  it  hath  caught  the  glory  of  the  Sun, 
And  shoots  it  back  again  in  lines  of  light ! 

ONEIZA 

Why  do  you  take  it  from  him,  Thalaba  ? 
And  look  at  it  so  close  ?  .  .  it  may  have 

charms  10 

To  blind,  or  poison  ;  .  .  throw  it  in  the 

grave  ! 
I  would  not  touch  it ! 

TUALABA 

And  around  its  rim 
Strange  letters  .  . 

ONEIZA 

Bury  it  .  .  oh  !    bur}'  it  ! 

THALABA 

It  is  not  written  as  the  Koran  is  : 

Some  other  tongue  perchance  ;  .   .   the 

accursed  man 

Said  he  had  been  a  traveller. 

MOATH  {cominy  from  the  tent) 
Thalaba, 
What  hast  thou  there  ?  20 

THALABA 

A  ring  the  dead  man  wore  ; 

Perhaps,  my  father,  you  can  read  its 

meaning. 

MOATH 

No,  Boy  ;  .  .  the  letters  are  not  such  as 

ours. 

Heap  the  sand  over  it !    a  wicked  man 

Wears  nothing  holy. 

THALABA 

Nay  !  not  bury  it  ! 
It  may  be  that  some  traveller,  who  thall 

enter 

Our  tent,  may  read  it  :  or  if  we  a]»proach 

Cities  where  strangers  dwell  and  learned 

men. 

They  may  interpret.  30 


40 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


MOATH 

It  were  better  hid 
Under  the  desert  sands.    This  wretched 
man,  [purpose 

Whom  God  hath  smitten  in  the  very 
And  impulse  of  liis  unpermitted  crime, 
Belike  was  some  magician,  and  these  lines 
Are  of  the  language  that  the  Demons  use. 

ONEIZA 

Bury  it !  bury  it .  .  dear  Thalaba  ! 

JIOATU 

Such  cursed  men  there  are  upon  the 

earth,  [powers, 

In  league  and  treaty  with  the  Evil 
The  covenanted  enemies  of  God    40 
And  of  all  good  ;   dear  purchase  have 
they  made  [sway, 

Of  rule  and  riches,  and  their  life-long 
Masters,  yet  slaves  of  Hell.   Beneath  the 
roots 
Of  Ocean,  the  Doradaniel  caverns  lie. 
Their  impious  meeting  ;  there  they  learn 
the  words 
Unutterable  by  man  who  holds  his 

hope  [and  let 

Of  heaven ;   there  brood  the  pestilence, 
The  earthquake  loose. 

THALABA 

And  he  who  would  have  kill'd  mo 

Was  one  of  these  ?  50 

MOATH 

I  know  not ;  .  .  but  it  may  be 

That  on  the  Table  of  Destiny,  thy  name 

Is  written  their  Destroyer,  and  for  this 

Thy  life  by  j-onder  miserable  man 

So  sought,  so  saved  by  interfering 

Heaven. 

THALABA 

His  ring  has  some  strange  power  then  ? 

MOATH 

Every  gem,  [science, 

So  sages  say,  hath  virtue  ;    but  the 
Of  difficult  attainment ;  some  grow  pale, 


Conscious   of   poison,    or   with   sudden 

change  60 

Of  darkness,  warn  the  wearer  ;   some 

preserve 

From  spells,  or  blunt  the  hostile 

weapon's  edge  ; 

Some  open  rocks  and  mountains,  and 

lay  bare  [sight 

Their  buried  treasures  ;  others  make  the 

Strong  to  perceive  the  presence  of 

those  Beings      [empty  air 
Through  whose  pure  essence  as  through 
The  unaided  eye  would  pass  ; 
And  in  yon  stone  I  deem 
Some  such  mysterious  quality  resides. 

THALABA 

My  father,  I  will  wear  it.   :_     70 

MOATH  ' 

Thalaba  ! 

THALABA 

In  God's  name,  and  the  Prophet's !    be 

its  power  [evil, 

Good,  let  it  serve  the  righteous  ;   if  for 

God,  and  my  trust  in  Him,  shall  hallow  it. 

So  Thalaba  drew  on 

The  written  ring  of  gold. 

Then  in  the  hollow  grave 

They  laid  Abdaldar's  corpse. 

And  levell'd  over  him  the  desert  dust. 

3 
The  Sun  arose,  ascending  from  beneath 
The  horizon's  circling  line.         81 
As  Thalaba  to  his  ablutions  went, 
Lo  !    the  grave  open,  and  the  corpse  ex- 
posed !  )^^ 
It  was  not  that  the  winds  of  night  • 
Had    8wej)t    away    the    sands    which 
cover'd  it ; 
For  heavy  with  the  undried  dew 
The  desert  dust  lay  dark  and  close 

around ;  [still, 

And  the  night  air  had  been  so  calm  and 
It  had  not  from  the  grove 
Shaken  a  ripe  date  down.         90 


THE   THIRD   BOOK 


41 


Amazed  to  hear  the  tale, 

Forth  from  the  tent  eame  Moath  and  liiy 

child.  [corpse 

AuhiU'  he  btootl  contemplating  the 

iSilent  and  thoughtfully; 

Then   turning,   spake   to  Tiialaba,   and 

said,  [the  abode 

'  I  have  heard  that  there  arc  plaeea  by 

Of  holy  men,  so  holily  possess'd. 

That  should  a  corpse  be  laid  irreverently 

Within  their  precincts,  the  insulted 

ground. 
Impatient  of  ix)llutiou,  heaves  and 

shaked  loc 

The  abomination  out. 

Have  then  in  elder  times  the  happy  feet 

Of  Patriarch,  or  of  Prophet  bless'd 

the  place, 

Ishmael,  or  Houd,  or  iSaleah,  or  than  all, 

Mahommed,  holier  name  ?  Or  is  the  man 

80  foul  with  magic  and  all  blasphemy, 

That  Earth,  like  Heaven,  rejects  him  ? 

It  is  best  [tent. 

Forsake  the  station.     Let  us  strike  our 

The  place  is  tainted  .  .  and  behold 

The  Vulture  hovers  yonder,  and  his 

scream  110 

Chides  us  that  still  we  scare  him  from 

the  prey. 

So  let  the  accursed  one, 

Torn  by  that  beak  obscene. 

Find  fitting  sepulchre.' 

o 

Then  from  the  pollution  of  death 

With  water  they  made  themselves  pure  ; 

And  Thalaba  drew  up 

The  fastening  of  the  cords  ; 

And  Moath  furl'd  the  tent ;       119 

And  from  the  grove  of  palms  Onciza  led 

The  Camels,  ready  to  receive  their  load. 


The  dews  had  ceased  to  steam 
Toward  the  climbing  !Sun, 


When  from  the  Isle  of  Palms  they  went 

their  way  ; 

And    when    the    Sun    had    reach'd    his 

southern  height. 

As  back  they  turn'd  their  eyes. 

The  distant  Palms  arose 

Like  to  the  top-sails  of  some  lleet  far-o(T 

Distinctly  seen,  where  else 

The  Ocean  bounds  had  blended  with  the 

sky ;  ISO 

And  when  the  eve  came  on. 

The  sight  returning  reach'd  the  grove  no 

more. 

They  planted  the  pole  of  their  tent, 

And  they  laid  them  down  to  repose. 

7 

At  midnight  Thalaba  started  up. 

For  he  felt  that  the  ring  on  his  finger 

was  moved  ; 

He  call'd  on  Allah  aloud, 

And  he  calTd  on  the  Prophet's  name. 

Moath  arose  in  alarm  ; 
'  What  ails  thee,  Thalaba  ? '  he  cried,  140 

'  Is  the  robber  of  night  at  hand  '! ' 

'  Dost    thou    not    see,'    the    youth    ex 

claim'd, 

'  A  iSpirit  in  the  tent  ? ' 

Moath  look'd  round  and  said, 

'  The  moon- beam  shines  in  the  tent, 

I  see  thee  stand  in  the  light. 

And  thy  shadow  is  black  on  the  ground,' 

8 

Thalaba  answer" d  not. 

'  Spirit ! '   he  cried,   '  what  brings  thee 

here  ? 

In  the  name  of  the  Prophet,  speak,  150 

In  the  name  of  Allah,  obey  ! ' 

U 
He  ceased,  and  there  was  silence  in  the 

tent. 

'  Dost  thou  not  hear  ? '  (juoth  Thalaba  ; 

The  listening  man  replied, 

*I  hear  the  wind,  that  Hai»s 

The  curtain  of  the  tent.' 


c3 


42 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


10 


the  youth  ex- 


*  The  Ring  !   the  Ring  ! 
claim' d, 
■  For  that  the  Spirit  of  Evil  comes 
By  that  I  see,  by  that  I  hear. 
In  the  name  of  God,  I  aoL-  +^-- 
Who  was  he  that  slew  m 


12 

On  a  sudden  the  rattle  of  arrows  was 

heard, 

And  a  quiver  was  laid  at  the  feet  of 

aw  Hodeirah'sl 


DEMON 

Master  of  the  powerft 
Okba,  the  dread  Magician, 

THALABA 

Where  does  the  Murderer  dwell  ? 

DEMON 

In  the  Domdaniel  caverns, 
Under  the  Roots  of  the  Ocean. 

THALABA 

Why  were  my  Father  and  my  brethren 
slain  ? 

DEMON 

We  knew  from  the  race  of  Hodeirah 
The  destined  Destroyer  would  come. 

THALABA 

Bring  me  my  father's  sword  !     170 

DEMON 

A  Fire  surrounds  the  fatal  sv/ord  ; 
No  Spirit  or  Magician's  hand 
Can  pierce  that  fated  Flame. 

THALABA 

Bring  me  his  bow  and  his  arrows  ! 

11 

Distinctly  Moath  heard  the  youth,  and 
She  [  watch' d 

Who,  through  the  Veil  of  Separation, 
The  while  in  listening  terror,  and 
suspense 
All  too  intent  for  prayer. 
They  heard  the  voice  of  Thalaba  ; 
But  when  the  Spirit  spake,  the  motion- 
less air  180 
Felt  not  the  subtile  sounds, 
Too  tine  for  mortal  sense. 


g  d  the  string,} 
to  the  joyous 
tone. 

Anon  he  raised  his  voice  and  cried, 
'  Go  thy  way,  and  never  more. 
Evil  spirit,  haunt  our  tent !        190! 

By  the  virtue  of  the  Ring, 

By  Mahommed's  holier  might,  ' 

By  the  holiest  name  of  God, 

Thee,  and  all  the  Powers  of  Hell, 

I  adjure  and  I  command 

Never  more  to  trouble  us  ! ' 

13 

Nor  ever  from  that  hour 

Did  rebel  Spirit  on  the  tent  intrude, 

Such  virtue  had  the  Spell. 

1^ 

Thus  peacefully  the  vernal  years  200 

Of  Thalaba  pass'd  on, 

Till  now,  without  an  effort,  he  could  bend 

Hodeirah' s  stubborn  bow. 

Black  were  his  eyes  and  bright. 

The  sunny  hue  of  health 

Glow'd  on  liis  tawny  cheek. 

His  lip  was  darken' d  by  maturing  life ; 

Strong  were  his  shapely  limbs,  his 

stature  tall ; 

Peerless  among  Arabian  youths  was  he. 

15 

Compassion  for  the  child         210 
Had  first  old  Moath' s  kindly  heart  pos- 
sess'd. 
An  orphan,  wailing  in  the  wilderness  ; 
But  when  he  heard  his  tale,  his  wondrous 
tale,  [truth. 

Told  by  the  Boy,  with  such  eye-speaking 


THE  THlllD   BOOK 


43 


Now  with  sudden  burst  of  anger, 

Now  in  the  agony  of  tears, 

And  now  with  flashes  of  prophetic  joy, 

What  had  been  pity  became  reverence 

then, 

And,  Hke  a  sacred  trust  from  Heaven, 

The  Old  Man  chcrish'd  him,      220 

Now,  with  a  father's  love. 

Child  of  his  choice,  he  loved  tlie  Boy, 

And,  like  a  father,  to  the  B03'  was  dear. 

Oneizacaird  him  brother;  and  tlie  youth 

More  fondly  than  a  brother  loved 

the  maid  ; 

The  loveliest  of  Arabian  maidens  she. 

How  happily  the  years 

Of  Thalaba  went  by  ! 

10 

It  was  the  wisdom  and  the  will  of 

Heaven, 

That  in  a  lonely  tent  had  cast    230 

The  lot  of  Thalaba  ; 

There  might  his  soul  develope  best 

Its  strengthening  energies ; 

There  might  he  from  the  world 

^.  ep  his  heart  pure  and  uncontaminate, 

Till  at  the  written  hour  he  should  be 

found 

Fit  servant  of  the  Lord,  without  a  spot. 

17 
Years  of  his  youth,  how  rapidly  ye  lied 

In  that  beloved  solitude  ! 
Is  the  morn  fair,  and  doth  the  freshening 
breeze  240 

Flow  with  cool  current  o'er  his  cheek  "/ 
Lo  !    underneath  the  broad-leaved 
sycamore 
With  lids  half-closed  he  lies. 
Dreaming  of  days  to  come. 
His  dog  beside  him,  in  mute  blandish- 
ment. 
Now  licks  his  listless  hand  ; 
Now  lifts  an  anxious  and  expectant  eye, 
Courting  the  wonted  caress. 


18 

Or  comes  the  Father  of  the  Rains 

From  his  caves  in  the  uttermost  West, 

Comes  he  in  darkness  and  storms  ?  251 

When  the  blast  is  loud  ; 

^^  hen  the  waters  fill 

The  traveller's  tread  in  the  sands  ; 

When  the  pouring  shower 

{Streams  adown  the  roof ; 

When  the  door-curtain  hangs  in  heavier 

folds  : 

When  the  out-strain'd  tent  flags  loosely  ; 

Within  there  is  the  embers'  cheerful 

glow. 

The  sound  of  the  familiar  voice,  260 

The  song  that  lightens  toil,  .  . 

Domestic  Teace  and  Comfort  are  within. 

Under  the  common  shelter,  on  dry  sand. 

The  (juict  Camels  ruminate  their  food  ; 

The  lengthening  cord  from  Moath  falls. 

As  patiently  the  Old  Man 

Entwines   the   strong   palm-Hbres ;     by 

the  hearth 

The  Damsel  shakes  the  cofl'ee-grains, 

That  with  warm  fragrance  fill  the  tent  ; 

And  while,  with  dexterous  fingers, 

Thalaba  270 

Shapes  the  green  basket,  hai)ly  at  his  feet 
Her  favourite  kidling  gnaws  the  twig, 
Forgiven  plunderer,  for  Oneiza's  sake. 

10 

Or  when  the  winter  torrent  rolls 

Down    the   deep-channel' d   rain-course, 

foamiiigly. 

Dark  with  its  mountain  spoil?. 

With  bare  feet  pressing  the  wet  saiul, 

There  wanders  Thalaba, 
The  rushing  flow,  the  flowing  roar. 

Filling  his  yielded  faculties,       2 So 
A  vague,  a  dizzy,  a  tumultuous  joy. 

20 

Or  lingers  it  a  vernal  brook 

(Ucaming  o'er  yellow  sands  ? 

Beneath  the  lofty  bank  reclined. 


44 


THALABA  THE  DESTEOYEE 


With  idle  eye  he  views  its  little  waves, 

Quietly  listening  to  the  quiet  flow  ; 

While  in  the  breathings  of  the  stiiring 

gale. 

The  tall  caues  bend  above, 

Floating  like  streamers  on  the  wind 

Their  lank  uplifted  leaves.        290 

21 

Xor  rich,  nor  poor,  was  Moath ;    God 

hath  given  [content. 

Enough,  and  blest  him  with  a  mind 

xNO  hoarded  gold  disquieted  his  dreams  : 

But  ever  round  his  station  he  beheld 

Camels  that  knew  his  voice, 

And  home-birds,  grouping  at  Oneiza's 

call, 

And  goats  that,  morn  and  eve, 

Came  with  full  udders  to  the  Damsel's 

hand. 

Dear  child  !    the  tent  beneath  whose 

shade  they  dwelt 

It  was  her  work  ;  and  she  had  twined  300 

His  girdle's  many  hues  ; 

And  he  had  seen  his  robe 

Grow  in  Oneiza's  loom. 

How  often,  with  a  memory- mingled  joy 

Which  made  her  Mother  live  before  his 

sight,  [the  woof  ! 

He  watch' d  her  nimble  fingers  thread 

Or  at  the  hand-mill,  when  she  knelt  and 

toil'd, 

Toss'd  the  thin  cake  on  spreading  palm, 

Or  fix'd  it  on  the  glowing  oven's  side 

With  bare  wet  arm,  and  safe  dexterity. 

22 
'Tis  the  cool  evening  hour  :       311 
The  Tamarind  from  the  dew 
8heathes  its  young  fruit,  yet  green. 
Before  their  tent  the  mat  is  spread  ; 
The  Old  Man's  solemn  voice 
Intones  the  holy  Book. 
What  if  beneath  no  lamp-illumined 
dome,  [truth, 

Its  marble  walls  bedeck' d  with  flourish' d 


Azure  and  gold  adornment  ?    sinks  the 

word 

With  deeper  influence  from  the  Imam's 

voice,  320 

\Vhere  in  the  day  of  congregation, 

crowds 

Perform  the  duty- task  ? 

Their  Father  is  their  Priest, 

The   tStars   of    Heaven   their   point   of 

prayer, 

And  the  blue  Firmament 

The  glorious  Temple,  where  they  feel 

The  present  Deity. 

23 

Yet  through  the  purple  glow  of  eve 
Shines  dimly  the  white  moon. 
The  slacken' d  bow,  the  quiver,  the  long 
lance,  330 

Rest  on  the  pillar  of  the  Tent. 
Knitting  light  palm-leaves  for  her  bro- 
ther's brow. 
The  dark-eyed  damsel  sits  ; 

The  old  Man  tranquilly 

Up  his  curl'd  pipe  inhales 

The  tranquillizing  herb. 

So  listen  they  the  reed  of  Thalaba, 

While  his  skill'd  fingers  modulate 

The  low,  sweet,  soothing,  melancholy 

tones. 

24 

Or  if  he  strung  the  pearls  of  Poesy,  340 

Singing  with  agitated  face 
And  eloquent  arms,  and  sobs  that  reach 
the  heart, 
A  tale  of  love  and  woe  ; 
Then,  if  the  brightening  Moon  that  lit 
his  face. 
In  darkness  favour'd  hers,     [say, 
Oh  !    even  with  such  a  look,  as  fables 
The  Mother  Ostrich  fixes  on  her  egg, 
Till  that  intense  affection 
Kindle  its  light  of  life, 
Even  in  such  deep  and  breathless  ten- 
derness 350 


THE   THIRD   BOOK 


45 


Onciza's  soul  is  centred  on  the  youth, 

So  motionless,  with  such  an  ardent 

gaze,  .  . 

Savo  when  from  her  full  eye.s 

She  wijx^s  away  the  swelliiii;;  tears 

That  ilim  his  imajie  there. 

2.-. 
.".he  c.xllM  him  Brother;    was  it  sister- 
love 
For  wiiich  the  silver  rings 
Round  her  smooth  ankles  and  her  tawn^' 
arms,  [eye 

Shone  daily  brighten'd  ?  for  a  brother's 
Were  her  long  fingers  tinged,     360 
As  when  she  trimm'd  the  lamp. 
And  through  the  veins  and  delicate  skin 
The  light  shone  rosy  ?  that  the  darken'd 
lids 
Gave  yet  a  softer  lustre  to  her  eye  ? 

That  with  such  pride  she  trick'd 

Her  glossy  tresses,  and  on  holy-day 

Wreathed  the  red  flower-crown  round 

Their  waves  of  glossy  jet  ? 

How  happily  the  days 

Of  Thalaba  went  by  !  370 

Years  of  his  youth  how  rapidly  yo  fled  ! 

20 
Yet  was  the  heart  of  Thalaba 
Impatient  of  repose  ; 
Restless  he  pondcr'd  still 
The  task  for  him  decreed. 
The  mighty  and  mysterious  work  an- 
nounced. 
Day  by  day,  with  youthful  ardour. 
He  the  call  of  Heaven  awaits  ; 
And  oft  in  visions,  o'er  the  murderer's 
head, 
He  lifts  the  avenging  arm  !       380 
And  oft,  in  dreams,  he  sees 
The  Sword  that  is  circled  with  fire. 

27 
One  morn,  as  was  their  wont,  in  sportive 
mood,  [bow ; 

The  vouth  and  damsel  bent  Hodeirahs 


For  with  no  feeble  hand,  ncr  erring  aim, 
Oneiza  could  let  loose  the  obedient  shaft. 

With  head  baek-bending,  Thahiba 

Shot  up  the  aimless  arrow  high  in  air. 

Whose    Hue    in    vain    the   aching   .«ivht 

pursued, 

Lost  in  the  depth  of  Heaven.       390 

'  When  will  the  hour  arrive,'  exclaim'd 

the  youth. 

'That  I  shall  aim  these  fated  shafts 

To  vengeance  long  delay'd  ? 

Have  I  not  strength,  my  father,  for  the 

deed  ? 

Or  can  the  will  of  Providence 

Be  mutable  like  man  ? 

Shall  I  never  be  call'd  to  the  task  ? ' 

28 

'  Impatient  boy  ! '   quoth  ^loath,   with 

a  smile  : 

'  Impatient  Thalaba  !  '  Oneiza  cried. 

And  she  too  smiled  ;   but  in  her  smile  400 

A  mild  reproachful  melancholy  mi.x'd. 

20 

Then  Moath  pointed  where  a  cloud 

Of  locusts,  from  the  desolated  fields 

Of  Syria  wing'd  their  way. 

'  Lo  !    how  created  things 

Obey  the  written  doom  ! ' 

30 

Onward  they  came,  a  dark  continuous 

cloud 

Of  congregated  myriads  numberless. 

The  rushing  of  whose  wings  was  as  the 

sound 

Of  some  broad  river,  headlong  in  its 

course  410 

Plunged  from  a  mountain  summit  ;    or 

the  roar 

Of  a  wild  ocean  in  the  autumnal  storm. 

Shattering  its  billows  on  a  shore  of  rocks, 

Onward  they  came,  the  winds  impell'd 

them  on. 

Their  work  was  done,  their  path  of 

ruin  past. 

Their  graves  were  ready  in  the  wiKhrnes-s. 


46 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


31 

'  Behold    the    mighty    army !  '    Moath 
cried, 
'  Blindly  they  move,  impell'd 
By  the  blind  Element. 
And  yonder  birds  our  welcome  visitants, 
See  !     where  they  soar  above  the  em- 
bodied host,  421 
Pursue  their  way,  and  hang  upon  the 
rear, 
And  thin  the  spreading  flanks, 
Rejoicing  o'er  their  banquet  !    Deemest 
thou                  [mosque 
The  scent  of  water  on  some  .Syrian 
Placed  with  priest- mummery  and  fan- 
tastic rites                  [here  I 
Which  fool  the  multitude,  hath  led  them  ' 
From  far  Khorassan  ?      Allah  who      I 
appoints  1 
Yon  swarms  to  be  a  punishment  of  man, 
These  also  hath  he  doom'd  to  meet  their 
way :                            430 
Both  passive  instruments 
Of  his  all-acting  will. 
Sole  mover  He,  and  only  spring  of  all.' 

32 

While  thus  he  spake,  Oneiza's  eye  looks 

up 

Where  one  toward  her  flew, 

Satiate,  for  so  it  seem'd,  with  sport  and 

food. 

The  Bird  flew  over  her. 

And  as  he  pass'd  above. 

From  his  relaxing  grasp  a  Locust  fell ;  .  . 

It  fell  upon  the  Maiden's  robe,     440 

And  feebly  there  it  stood,   recovering 

slow. 

33 

The  admiring  girl  survey'd 
His  out- spread  sails  of  green  ; 
His  gauzy  underwings,    [furl'd, 
One  closely  to  the  grass-green  body 
One  ruffled  in  the  fall,  and  half  unclosed. 
She  view'd  his  jet-orb'd  eyes,  1 


His  glossy  gorget  bright. 
Green  glittering  in  the  sun  ; 
His  plumy  pliant  horns,  450 

That,  nearer  as  she  gazed, 
Bent  tremblingly  before  her  breath. 
She  mark'd  his  yellow-circled  front 
With  lines  m3'sterious  vein'd  ; 
And    '  know'st   thou    what   is   here   in- 
scribed, 
:My  father  ? '   said  the  Maid. 
'  Look,  Thalaba  !  perchance  these  lines 

Are  in  the  letters  of  the  Ring, 
Nature's  own  language  written  here.' 

34 

The  youth  bent  down,  and  suddenly 

He  started,  and  his  heart         461 

Sprung,  and  his  cheek  grew  red, 

For  these  mysterious  lines  were  legible,. . 

When  the  sun  shall  be  darkened  at 

NOON, 

Son  of  Hodeirah,  depart. 
And  Moath  look'd,  and  read  the  lines 

aloud  ; 

The  Locust  shook  his  wings  and  fled, 

And  the}'  were  silent  all. 

35 

Who  then  rejoiced  but  Tlialaba  ? 

Who  then  was  troubled  but  the  Arabian 

Maid  ?  470 

And  ]\Ioath  sad  of  heart, 

Though  with  a  grief  supprest,   beheld 

the  youth 

Sharpen  his  arrows  now. 

And  now  new-plume  their  shafts, 

Now,  to  beguile  impatient  hope. 

Feel  every  sharpen'd  point. 

30 

'  Why  is  that  anxious  look,'  Oneiza  ask'd, 

'  Still  upward  cast  at  noon  ? 

Is  Thalaba  aweary  of  our  tent  ? ' 

'  I  would  be  gone,'  the  youth  replied,  480 

'  That  I  might  do  my  task, 

And  full  of  glory  to  the  tent  return. 

Whence  I  should  part  no  more.' 


i 


THE    THIRD    BOOK 


47 


But  on  the  noontide  sun. 

As  anxious  and  as  oft,  Oneiza's  eye 

Was  upward  <ilanced  in  fear. 

And  now,  as  Thalaba  replied,  her  cheek 

Lost  its  fresh  and  hvely  hue  ; 

For  in  the  Sun's  bright  edge 

She  saw,  or  thought  she  saw,  a  little 

speck.  490 

The  sage  Astronomer 

Who,  with  the  love  of  science  full, 

Trembled    that   day   at   every    passing 

cloud,  .  .  [small. 

He  had  not  seen  it,  'twas  a  speck  so 

38 
Alas  !    Oneiza  sees  the  spot  increase  ! 
I  And  lo  !   the  ready  youth 

Over  his  shoulder  the  full  quiver  slings, 

And  grasps  the  slacken' d  bow. 

It  spreads,  and  spreads,  and  now 

Hatli  shadow'd  half  the  sun,      500 

Whose  crescent-pointed  horns 

Now  momently  decrease. 

i  30 

I    The  day  grows  dark,  the  birds  retire  to 

I  rest  : 

Forth  from  her  shadowy  haunt 

Flies  the  large-headed  screamer  of  the 

night. 

Far  off  the  affrighted  African, 

Deeming  his  God  deceased. 

Falls  on  his  knees  in  prayer. 

And  trembles  as  he  sees 

The  fierce  hyena's  eyes  510 

Olare  in  the  darkness  of  that  dreadful 

noon. 

40 

Then  Thalaba  exdaim'd,  '  Farewell, 

My  father  !    my  Oneiza  ! '  tlie  Old  Man 

Felt  his  throat  swell  with  grief. 

'  Where  wilt   thou  go,   my  child  ? '   lie 

cried, 

'  Wilt  thou  not  wait  a  sign 


To  point  th}'  destined  way  ? ' 

'  Ood  will  conduct  me  ! '  said  the  faith- 
ful youth. 
He  said,  and  from  the  tent. 
In  the  depth  of  the  darkness  departed. 
They  heard  his  parting  steps,     521 
The  quiver  rattling  as  he  pas.i'd  away. 

THE   FOURTH  BOOK 

Fas  est  quoquc  briitao 

Telluvi,  docilem  monitis  coolest ibus  esse. 
Mambntni  Conslayttinus. 

Whose  is  yon  dawning  form. 

That  in  the  darkness  meet.s 

The  delegated  youth  ? 

Dim  as  the  shadow  of  a  tire  at  noon, 

Or  pale  reflection  on  the  evening  brook 

I  Of  glow-worm  on  the  bank, 

;  Kindled  to  guide  her  winged  paramour. 

I  2 

A  moment,  and  the  brightening  image 
shaped  [she  cried. 

His  Mother's  form  and  features,    '  Go,' 
'  To  Babylon,  and  from  the  Angels  learn 
What  talisman  thy  task  requires.'  11 
3 
The  Spirit  hung  toward  him  when  she 
ceased. 
As  though  with  actual  lips  she  would 
have  given 
A  mother's  kiss.    His  arms  outstretch'd. 

His  bofly  bending  on. 
His  mouth  unclo.sed  and  trembling  into 
speech,  [wind 

He  prest  to  meet  the  l)le.s.sing,  .  .  but  the 
Play'd  on  his  cheek  :    he  look'il,  and 
he  beheld  [he  cried. 

The  darkness  clo.se.     '  Again  !    again  ! ' 
'  Let  me  again  behold  thee  ! '  from  the 
darkness  20 

His  Mother's  voice  went  forth  ; 


I  , 


Thou  shalt  behold  me  in  the  hour  of 
death.' 


48 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


Day  dawns,  the  twilight  gleam  dilates, 

The  Run  comes  forth,  and  like  a  god 

Rides  through  rejoicing  heaven. 

Old  Moath  and  his  daughter,  from  their 

tent, 

Beheld  the  adventurous  youth. 

Dark-moving  o'er  the  sands, 

A  lessening  image,   trembling  through 

their  tears. 

Visions  of  high  emprize  30 

Beguiled  his  lonely  road  ; 

And  if  sometimes  to  Moath's  tent 

The  involuntary  mind  recurr'd. 

Fancy,  impatient  of  all  painful  thoughts, 

Pictured  the  bliss  should  welcome  his 

return. 

In  dreams  like  these  he  went. 

And  still  of  every  dream 

Oneiza  form'd  a  part, 

And  hope  and  memory  made  a  mingled 

joy. 


In  the  eve  he  arrived  at  a  Well ;    40 
An  Acacia  bent  over  its  side, 
Under  whose  long  light-hanging  boughs 

He  chose  his  night's  abode. 

There,  due  ablutions  made,  and  prayers 

perform' d, 

The  youth  his  mantle  spread. 

And  silently  produced 

His  solitary  meal. 

The  silence  and  the  solitude  recall'd 

Dear   recollections ;     and    with    folded 

arms. 

Thinking  of  other  days,  he  sate,  till 

thought  50 

Had  left  him,  and  the  Acacia's  moving 

shade 

Upon  the  sunny  sand. 

Had  caught  his  idle  eye  ; 

And  his  awaken'd  ear 

Heard  the  grey  Lizard's  chirp, 

The  only  sound  of  life. 


As  thus  in  vacant  quietness  he  sate, 

A  Traveller  on  a  Camel  reached  the  Well, 

And  courteous  greeting  gave. 

The  mutual  salutation  past,        60 

He  by  the  cistern  too  his  garment  spread 

And  friendly  converse  cheer' d  the  social 

meal. 


The  Stranger  was  an  ancient  man, 

Yet  one  whose  green  old  age 

Bore  the  fair  characters  of  temperate 

youth  : 

So  much  of  manhood's  .strength  his 

limbs  retain' d,  [bore. 

It  seem'd  he  needed  not   the  staff  he 

His  beard  was  long,  and  grey,  and  crisp  ;i^ 

Lively  his  eyes  and  quick, 

And  reaching  over  them  70 

The  large  broad  eye-brow  curl'd. 

His  speech  was  copious,  and  his  winning 

words  [tive  youth 

Enrich'd  with  knowledge,  that  the  atten- 

Sate  listening  with  a  thirsty  joy. 

8 

So  m  the  cour.se  of  talk, 

The  adventurer  youth  enquired 

Whither  his  cour.se  was  bent  ? 

The  Old  Man  answered,  '  To  Bagdad  I 

go-' 

At  that  so  welcome  .sound,  a  flash  of  joy 

Kindled  the  eye  of  Thalaba  ;       80 

'  And  I  too,'  he  replied,  1 

'  Am  journeying  thitherward  ; 

Let  me  become  companion  of  thy  way  !  '  j 

Courteous  the  Old  Man  smiled. 

And  willing  in  assent. 

0 

OLD  MAX 

Son,  thou  art  young  for  travel. 

THALABA 

L'ntil  now 
I  never  pass'd  the  desert  boundary. 


THE    FOURTH    BOOK 


49 


OLD  MAN 

It  is  a  nnble  city  that  wo  srok. 
Thou  wilt  behold  magnificent  palaces, 
And  lofty  minarets,  and  high-domed 

Mosques.  90 

And  rich  Bazars,  whither  from  all  the 

world  [ket  there 

Industrious  merchants  meet,  and  mar- 
The  W  ,"s.  ted  wealth. 


S»     5     ^\gdad 

Near  to  th    <^  >^  ^  i^nt  Babylc 

And  Xin  ^^^   '^        is  temple  ? 


Ion 


1  ^    ^       'Is 
"Tis  but  .   y     ^       distance. 

A  mighty  mt   r^     ^^    enough  to 

How  great  our  ^^.e,  how  little 

we. 

Men  are  not  what  they  were  ;    their 

crimes  and  follies 

Have  dwarfd  tliem  down  from  the  old 

hero  race 

To  such  poor  things  as  we  ! 

THAL.A.BA 

At  Babylon 

£  have  heard  tlie  Angels  expiate  their 

guilt, 

Haruth  and  Maruth. 

OLD  MAX 

'Tis  a  history 
Handed  from  ages  down  ;  a  nurse's 

tale  .  .  109 

Wliich  children  ojx^n-eyed  and  mouth'd 

devour ;  [relates. 

And  thus  as  garrulous  ignorance 

We  learn  it  and  believe.  .  .  But  all  things 

feel  [and  grass 

The  power  of  Time  and  Change  ;  thistles 


Usurp  the  desolate  palace,  and  the 

weeds  [Truth. 

Of  falsehood  root  in   the  npe<l   pile  of 
How  have  you  heard  the  talc  ? 

thalaha 

Thus  ..  on  a  time 

The  Angels  at  the  wickedness  of  man 

Expressed  indignant   wonder ;    that   in 

vain 

Tokens  and  signs  were  given,  and 

Prophets  sent,  ,  .  120 

Strange  obstinacy  this  !   a  stubbornness 
Of  sin,  they  said,  that  should  for  ever 
bar  [heard 

The  gates  of  mercy  on  them.     Allah 
Their  unforgiving  pride,  and  bade  that 
two 
Of  these  untempted  Spirits  should 
descend. 
Judges  on  Earth.     Haruth  and  Maruth 
went,  [heard 

The  chosen  Sentencers  ;  they  fairly 
The  appeals  of   men   to  their  tribunal 

brought. 

And  rightfully  decided.    At  the  length 

A  Woman  came  before  them  ;    beautiful 

Zohara  was,  as  yonder  Evening  Star,  131 

In  the  mild  lustre  of  whose  lovely  light 

Even  now  her  beauty  shines.  They  gazed 

on  her  [sin. 

W^ith  fleshly  eyes,  they  tempted  her  to 

'  The  wily  woman  listen'd.  and  required 

A  previous  price,  the  knowledge  of  the 

name  [name. 

Of  God.    She  learnt  the  wonder-working 

And  gave  il  utterance,  and  its  viitue 

bore  her 

I  Up  to  the  glorious  Presence,  and  she  told 

'  Before  the  awefiil  Judgement-St-at  her 

tale.  140 

j  OLD  ,man- 

I  know  the  rest.     The  accused    Spirit ^ 
were  calPd  ; 
'  Unable  of  defence,  and  jxMiiltnt, 


50 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


They  own'd  their  crime,  and  heard  the 

doom  deserved. 

Then  they  besouglit  the  Lord,  that 

not  for  ever 

His  wrath  might  be  upon  them  ;  and 

implored 

That  penal  ages  might  at  length  restore 

them  [Babylon, 

Oean  from  offence  ;  since  then  by 

In  the  cavern  of  their  punishment,  they 

dwell. 

Runs  the  conclusion  so  ? 


THALABA 

So  I  am  taught. 


150 


OLD  MAN 

The  common  tale  !  And  likely  thou  hast 

heard 

How  that  the  bold  and  bad,  with 

impious  rites 

Intrude  upon  their  penitence,  and  force, 

Albeit  from  loathing  and  reluctant  lips, 

The  sorcery-secret  ? 

THALABA 

Is  it  not  the  truth  ? 

OLD  MAN 

Son,  thou  hast  seen  the  Traveller  in  the 

sands 

Move  through  the  dizzy  liglit  of  hot 

noon-day. 

Huge  as  the  giant  race  of  elder  times  ; 

And  his  Camel,  than  the  monstrous 

Elephant,  160 

Seem  of  a  vaster  bulk. 

THALABA 

A  frequent  sight. 

OLD  MAN 

And  hast  thou  never,  in  the  twilight, 

fancied 

Familiar  object  into  some  strange  shape 

And  form  uncouth  ? 

THALABA 

Ay  !   many  a  time. 


OLD  MAN 

Even  so 

Things  view'd  at  distance  through  the 

mist  of  fear. 

By  their  distortion  terrify  and  shock 

The  abused  sight.  170 

THALABA 

But  of  these  Angels'  fate 
Thus  in  the  uncreated  book  is  written. 

OLD  MAN 

Wisely  from  legendary  fables,  Heaven 
Inculcates  wisdom. 

THALABA 

How  then  is  the  truth  ? 
Is  not  the  dungeon  of  their  punishment 
•  By  ruin'd  Babylon  ? 

OLD  MAN 

By  Babylon 
Haruth  and  Maruth  may  be  found. 

THALABA 

And  there  180 

Magicians  learn  their  impious  sorcery  ? 

OLD  MAN 

Son,  what  thou  say'st  is  true,  and  it  is 

false. 

But  night  approaches  fast ;   I  have 

travell'd  far, 

And  ray  old  lids  are  heavy  ;  .  .  on  our 

way  [us  now 

We  shall  have  hours  for  converse  ;  .  .  let 

Turn  to  our  due  repose.     Son,  peace 

be  with  thee  ! 

10 

So  in  his  loosen'd  cloak 

The  Old  !Man  vvTapt  himself. 

And  laid  his  limbs  at  length  ; 

And  Thalaba  in  silence  laid  him  down. 

Awhile  he  lay,  and  watch'd  the  lovely 

!Moon,  191 

O'er  whose  broad  orb  the  boughs 

A  mazy  fretting  framed. 

Or  with  a  pale  transparent  green 

Lighting  the  restless  leaves. 

The  thin  Acacia  leaves  that  play'd  above. 


THE  FOURTH    BOOK 


61 


The    murtnnring    wind,     the    moving 

leaves. 

Soothed  him  at  length  to  sleep, 

With    mingled    lullabies    of    sight    and 

sound. 

II 

Not  so  the  dark  Magician  by  his  side,  aoo 

Lobaba.  who  from  tlie  Donidaniel  caves 

j  I        Had  sought  the  dreaded  youth. 

ji-*    Silent  he  lay.  and  simulating  sleep. 

Till  by  the  long  and  regular  breath  he 

knew 

The  youth  beside  him  slept. 

Carefully  then  he  rose. 

And   bending  over  him,   aurvey'd  him 

near ; 

And  secretly  he  cursed 

The  dead  Abdaldar's  ring, 

Arm'd  by  whose  amulet  210 

He  slept  from  danger  safe. 

12 

Wrapt  in  his  mantle  Thalaba  reposed, 

Hi.s  loose  right  arm  pillowing  his  easy 

head. 

The  Moon  was  on  the  Ring, 

Whose  crystal  gem  return'd 

A  quiet,  moveless  light. 

Vainly  the    Wizard   vile    put   forth   his 

hand. 

And  strove  to  reach  the  gem  ; 

Charms,  strong  as  hell  could  make  them, 

kept  it  safe. 

He  call'd  his  servant-fiends,       220 

He  bade  the  Oenii  rob  the  sleeping  yout  h . 

By  the  virtue  of  the  Ring, 

By  Mahommed's  holier  power, 

By  the  holiest  name  of  (!od, 

Had  Thalaba  disarm'd  the  evil  race. 

1.*^ 

Baffled   and    weary,    and   convinced   at 

length,  [him. 

Anger,  and  fear,  and  rancour  gnawing 

The  accursed  Sorcerer  ceased  his  vain 

attempts, 


Content  jwrforce  to  wait 

Temptation's  likelier  aid.         230 

Restless  he  lay,  and   brcKxling  many  11 

wile. 

And  tortured  with  imjiatient  hope, 

And  envying  with  the  bitterness  of  bate 

The  innocent  youth,  who  slejjt  so 

sweetly  by. 

14 

The  ray  of  morning  on  his  eye-lids  ffll. 

And  Thalaba  awoke. 

And  folded  his  mantle  around  him. 

And  girded  his  loins  for  the  day  ; 

Then  the  due  rites  of  holiness  observed. 

His  comrade  too  arose,  240 

And  with  the  outward  forms 

Of   righteousness   and   prayer   insulted 

God. 
They  fill'd  their  water  skin,  they  gave 

The  Camel  his  full  draught. 

Then  on  the  road,  while  yet  the  morn 

was  young. 

And  the  air  was  fresh  with  dew, 

Forward  the  travellers  went. 

With  various  talk  beguiling  the  long  way. 

But  .soon  the  youth,  whose  busy  mind 

Dwelt  on  Lobaba' s  wonder- stirring 

words,  250 

Renew'd  the  unfinish'd  conver.-e  of  the 
night. 
15 

THALABA 

Thou  said'st  that  it  is  true,  and  yrt  is 

false. 

That  men  accurst  attain  at  Babylon 

Forbidden   knowledge  from   the  Angel 

pair  :  .  . 

How  ni«'an  yon  ? 

I.tllJAHA 

All  things  have  a  double  powrT, 
Alike  for  good  and  evil.    The  sann-  Htd 
That  on  the  comfortable  hearth  at  eve 


house  at  night 


ol 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


Should  we  for  this  forego         260 

The  needful  element  ? 

Because  the  scorchinfi^  summer  Sun 

Darts  fever,  would'st  thou  quencli  the 

or!)  of  day  ?  [form'd 

Or  deemest  thou  that  Heaven  in  anger 

Iron  to  till  the  field,  because  when  man 

Had  tipt  his  arrows  for  the  chase,  he 

rush'd 

A  murderer  to  the  war  ? 

THALABA 

What  follows  hence  ? 

LOBABA 

That  nothing  in  itself  is  good  or  evil. 

But  only  in  its  use.     Think  you  the  man 

Praiseworthy,  who  by  painful  study 

learns  271 

The  knowledge  of  all  simples,  and  their 

power. 

Healing  or  harmful  ? 

THALABA 

All  men  hold  in  honour 

The  skilful  Leech.   From  land  to  land 

he  goes 

Safe  in  his  privilege  ;    the  sword  of  war 

Spares  him  ;  Kings  welcome  him  with 

costly  gifts  ;  [pain 

And  he  who  late  had  from  the  couch  of 

Lifted  a  languid  look  to  him  for  aid, 
Beholds  him  with  glad  eyes,  and  blesses 
him  280 

In  his  first  thankful  prayer. 

LOBABA 

Yet  some  there  are 

A\Tio  to  the  purposes  of  wickedness 

Apply  this  knowledge,  and  from  herbs 

distil 
Poison,  to  mix  it  in  the  trusted  draught. 

THALABA 

Allah  shall  cast  them  in  the  eternal  fire 

Whose  fuel  is  the  cursed  !  there  shall 

they 

Endure  the  ever-burning  agony. 


Consuming    still    in    flames,    and    still 
renew' d. 

LOBABA 

But  is  their  knowledge  therefore  in  itself 
Unlawful  ?  290 

THALABA 

That  were  foolishness  to  think.        1 

LOBABA 

0  what  a  glorious  animal  were  Man, 
Knew  he    but    his    own    powers,   and, 

knowing,  gave  them 

Room  for  their  growth  and  spread  !  The 

Horse  obeys 

His  guiding  will ;  the  patient  Camel 

bears  him  [wafts 

Over  these  wastes  of  sand  ;   the  Pigeon 

His  bidding  through  the  sky  ;  .  .   and 

with  these  triumphs 

He  rests  contented  !  .  .  with  these 

ministers,   .   . 

When  he  might  awe  the  Elements,  and 

make 

Myriads  of  Spirits  serve  him  !    300 

THALABA 

But  as  how  ? 

By  a  league  with  Hell,  a  covenant  that 

binds 

The  soul  to  utter  death  ! 

LOBABA 

Was  Solomon 
Accurst  of  God  ?   Yet  to  his  talismans 
Obedient,  o'er  his  throne  the  birds  of 

Heaven, 
Their  waving  wings  his  sun-shield,  fann'd 
around  him         [to  place. 
The  motionless  air  of  noon  ;   from  place 
As  his  will  rein'd  the  viewless  Element, 
He  rode  the  Wind  ;   the  Oenii  rear'd 
his  temple,  310 

And  ceaselessly  in  fear  while  his  dread 
eye  [their  toil, 

O'erlook'd  them,  day  and  night  pursued 
So  dreadful  was  his  power. 


THE  FOURTH  BOOK 


63 


THALABA 

But  'twas  from  Heaven 
His  wisdom  eame  ;   (jlod's  special  gift,  .  . 
I  the  guerdon 

Of  early  virtue. 

LOBABA 

Learn  thou,  O  young  man  I 
Cfod  hath  appointed  wisdom  the  reward 
Of  study  !    'Tis  a  well  of  living  waters, 
Whose  inexhaustible  bounties  all  might 
drink,  320 

But  few  dig  deep  enough.     .Son  !   thou 

art  silent,  .  . 

Perhaps  I  say   too   much,   .   .    perhaps 

offend  thee. 

THALABA 

Nay,    I    am   young,    and   willingly,    as 

becomes  me, 

Hear  the  wise  words  of  age. 

LOBABA 

Is  it  a  crime 

To  mount  the  Horse,  because  forsooth 

thy  feet  [sin, 

Can  serve  thee  for  the  journey  '!  .  .  Is  it 

Because  the  Hern  soars  upward  in 

the  sky  [Falcon 

Above  the  arrow's  flight,  to  train  the 

Whose  beak  shall  pierce  him  there  '!   The 

powers  which  Allah  330 

Granted  to  man,  were  granted  for  his 

use ;  [weakness 

All  knowledge  that  befits  not  human 

Is  placed  beyond  its  reach.  .  .  They  who 

repair 
Tlo  Babylon,  and  from  the  Angels  learn 
Mysterious  wisdom,  sin  not  in  the  deed. 

THALABA 

Know  you  these  secrets  ? 

Lc.tBABA 

I  V  alas  !   my  Son, 
My  age  just  knows  enough  to  understand 
How  little  all  its  knowledge!  Later  years 
Sacred  to  study,  leach  me  to  regret   340 


Youths  unforcsccing  indolence,  and 

hours  [I  know 

That  eainiot  be  recall'd  !     Sometliing 
The  prt)i)erties  of  herbs,  and  have  some- 
times [relief 
Brought  to  the  afHicted  comfort  and 
By  the  secrets  of  my  art ;    under  His 
blesshig                  [Oems 
\\  ithout  whom  all  had  fail'd  !    Also  of 
I  have  some  knowledge,  and  the 

characters  [set. 

That  tell  beneath  what  aspect  they  were 

THALABA 

Belikeyou  can  interpret  then  the  graving 
Around  this  Ring  !  350 

LOBABA 

My  sight  is  feeble,  Son, 
And  I  must  view  it  closer ;   let  me  try  ! 

IG 

The  unsuspecting  Youth 

Held  forth  his  finger  to  draw  oif  the  spell. 

Even  whilst  he  held  it  forth, 

There  settled  there  a  Wasp, 

And  just  above  the  Oem  infix'd  its  dart  ; 

All  purple-swoln  the  hot  and  painful  flesh 

Rose  round  the  tighten'd  Ring. 
The  baffled  Sorcerer  knew  the  hand  of 
Heaven,  360 

And  inwardly  blasphemed. 

17 

Ere  long  Lobaba's  heart. 

Fruitful  in  wiles,  devised  new  stratagem. 

A  mist  arose  at  noon. 

Like  the  loose  hanging  skirts 

Of  some  low  cloud  that,  by  the  breeze 

imixjll'd, 

Sweeps  o'er  the  mountain  side. 

With  joy  the  thoughtless  youth 

That  grateful  shadowhig  haiPd  ; 

For  grateful  was  the  shade,       37° 

While  through  the  silver-lighted  haze, 

Ouiding  their  way,  api)ear'd  the  beam- 

lesa  Sun. 


54 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


But  soon  that  beacon  fail'd  ; 
A  heavier  mass  of  cloud, 

Impenetrably  deep, 

Himg  o'er  the  wilderness. 

'  Knowest    thou    the    track  ? '     quoth 

Thalaba, 
'  Or  should  we  pause,  and  wait  the  wind 
To  scatter  this  bewildering  fog  ? ' 
The  Sorcerer  answer' d  him,       380 
•  Now  let  us  hold  right  on,  .  .  for  if  we 
stray,  [course.' 

The  Sun  to-morrow  will  direct  our 
So  saying,  he  toward  the  desert  depths 
^Misleads  the  youth  deceived. 


20 


18 

Earlier  the  night  came  on, 

Nor  moon,   nor  stars,   were   visible  in 

heaven  ;  [his  eyes, 

And  when  at  mom  the  youth  unclosed 

He  knew  not  where  to  turn  his  face  in 

prayer. 

'  What  shall  we  do  ? '  Lobaba  cried, 

'  The  lights  of  heaven  have  ceased 

To  guide  us  on  our  way.         391 

Should  we  remain  and  wait 

]\Iore  favourable  skies. 

Soon  would  our  food  and  water  fail  us 

here  : 

And  if  we  venture  on, 

There  are  the  dangers  of  the  wilderness ! ' 

19 

'  Sure  it  were  best  proceed  ! ' 

The  chosen  youth  replies  ; 

'  So  haply  we  may  reach  some  tent,  or 

grove 

Of  dates,  or  station' d  tribe.       400 

But  idly  to  remain, 

Were   yielding   effortless,    and    waiting 

death.' 

The  wily  sorcerer  willingly  assents. 

And  farther  in  the  sands, 

Elate  of  heart,  he  leads  the  credulous 

youth. 


Still  o'er  the  wilderness 
Settled  the  moveless  mist. 
The  timid  Antelope,   that  heard  their 
steps,  [dim  light ; 

Stood  doubtful  where  to  turn  in  that 
The  Ostrich,  blindly  hastening,  met 
them  full.  410 

At  night,  again  in  hope. 
Young  Thalaba  lay  down  ;      [ray 
The  morning  came,  and  not  one  guiding 

Through  the  thick  mist  was  visible. 

The    same    deep    moveless    mist    that 

mantled  all. 

21 

Oh  for  the  Vulture's  scream. 

Who    haunts    for  prey   the    abode    of 

humankind  ! 

Oh  for  the  Plover's  pleasant  cry 

To  tell  of  water  near  ! 
Oh  for  the  Camel-driver's  song    420 
For  now  the  water-skin  grows  light. 
Though  of  the  draught,   more  eagerly 
desired,  [thirst. 

Im|>erious  prudence  took  with  sparing 
Oft  from  the  third  night's  broken  sleep. 
As  in  his  dreams  he  heard 
The  sound  of  rushing  winds, 
Started  the  anxious  youth,  and  look'd 
abroad,  [dured. 

In  vain  !    for  still  the  deadly  calm  en- 
Another  day  pass'd  on  ; 
The  water-skin  was  drain' d  ;     430 
But  then  one  hope  arrived. 
For  there  was  motion  in  the  air  ! 
The  sound  of  the  wind  arose  anon. 
That  scatter' d  the  thick  mist, 
And  lo  !    at  length  the  lovely  face  of 
Heaven  ! 

22 

Alas  !  .  .  a  wretched  scene 

Was  open'd  on  their  view. 

They  look'd  around,  no  wells  were  near, 

No  tent,  no  human  aid  I 


THE   FOURTH    BOOK 


66 


Flat  on  the  Camel  lay  the  water-skin,  440 

And  their  dumb  servant  difficultly  now. 

Over  hot  bands  and  under  the  iiot  sun, 

Dragg'd  on  with  patient  pain. 

23 

But  oh  the  joy  !   the  blessed  sight ! 
\\'hen  in  that   burning  waste  the 

Travellers  [besprent, 

Saw  a  green  meadow,  fair  with  flowers 
Azure  and  yellow,  like  the  beautiful 

fields  [grass 

Of  England,  when  amid  the  growing 
The  blue- bell  bends,  the  golden  king-cup 
shines,  [air, 

And  the  sweet  cowslip  scents  the  genial 
In  the  merry  month  of  May  !     451 
Uh  joy  !   the  Travellers 
Gaze  on  each  other  with  hope-brighten  d 
eyes,  [flows 

For  sure  through  that  green  meadow 
The  living  stream  !     And  lo  !  their 
famish'd  beast 
Sees  the  restoring  sight ! 
Hope  gives  his  feeble  limbs  a  sudden 
strength, 
He  hurries  on  !  .  . 

21 

The  herbs  so  fair  to  eye 

\^'ere  Senna,  and  the  Gentian's  blossom 

blue,  460 

And  kindred  plants,  that  with  unwater'd 

root  [leaves 

Fed  in  the  burning  sand,  whose  bitter 

Even  frantic  Famine  loathed. 


In  uncommunicatiug  misery 
Silent  they  stood.     At  length  Lobaba 

said, 

'  Son,  we  must  slay  the  Camel,  or  we  die 

For  lack  of  water  !    thy  young  hand 

is  firm,  .  . 

Draw  forth  the  knife  and  pierce  hira  I ' 

Wretch  accurst  I 


Who  that  beheld  thy  venerable  face. 

Thy  features  stiff  with  suffering,  the  dry 

lips,  470 

The  feverish  eyes,  could  deem  that 

all  within 

Wag  magic  case,  and  fearlessness  secure, 

And  wiles  of  hellish  import  ?    The  young 

man 
Paused  with  reluctant  pity  :   but  he  saw 
His  comrade's  red  and  painful  coun- 
tenance, 
J  *^'uning  breath  came  short 


Then  from  his  girdle  Thaic*.  ue 

knife 

With  stern  compassion,  and  from  side 

to  side  480 

Across  the  Camel's  throat. 

Drew  deep  the  crooked  blade. 

Servant  of  man,  that  merciful  deed 

For  ever  ends  thy  suffering  ;    but  what 

doom  [death 

Waits  thy  deliverer  t    •  Little  will  thy 

Avail  us  ! '  thought  the  youth, 

As  in  the  water-skin  he  pour'd 

The  Camel's  hoarded  draught ; 

It  gave  a  scant  supply,  489 

The  poor  allowance  of  one  prudent  day. 


Son  of  Hodeirah,  though  thy  steady  soul 

Despair'd  not,  firm  in  faith, 
Yet  not  the  less  did  suffering  nature  feel 
Its  i)angs  and  trials.    Long  their  craving 

thirst 
Struggled  with  fear,   by  fear  itself  in- 
flamed ; 
But  drop  by  drop,  that  j)ooi". 
That  last  supply  is  drain'd. 
Still  the  same  burning  sun  !  no  cloud  in 
heaven  ! 


56 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


The  hot  air  quivers,  and  the  sultry  mist 

Floats  o'er  the  desert  with  a  show   500 

Of  distant  waters,  mockiag  their  distress. 

28 

The  youth's  parch' d  lips  were  black. 

His  tongue  was  dry  and  rough, 

His  eye- balls  red  with  heat. 

Lobaba  gazed  on  him  with  looks 

That  seem'd  to  speak  of  pity,  and  he 

said, 

'  Let  me  behold  thy  Ring  ; 

It  may  have  virtue  that  can  save  us  yet ! ' 

With  that  he  took  his  hand 

And  view'd  the  writing  close,     510 

Then  cried  with  sudden  joy, 

'  It  is  a  stone  that  whoso  bears. 

The  Genii  must  obey  ! 

Now  raise  thy  voice,  my  Son, 

And  bid  them  in  His  name  that  here  is 

written 

Preserve  us  in  our  need.' 

29 

*  Nay  ! '  answer'd  Thalaba, 

'  Shall  I  distrust  the  providence  of  God  ? 

Is  it  not  He  must  save  '1 

If  Allah  wills  it  not,  520 

Vain  were  the  Genii's  aid.' 

30 

Whilst  he  spake,  Lobaba' s  eye, 

fpon  the  distance  fix'd. 

Attended  not  his  speech. 

Its  fearfid  meaning  drew 

The  looks  of  Thalaba  ; 

Columns  of  sand  came  moving  on, 

Red  in  the  biu-ning  ray. 

Like  obeHsks  of  fire, 

They  rush'd  before  the  driving  wind.  530 

Vain  were  all  thoughts  of  flight ! 

They  had  not  hoped  escape, 

Could  they  have  back'd  the  Dromedary 

then, 

Who  in  his  rapid  race       [force. 

Gives  to  the  tranquil  air  a  drowning 


31 

High  .  .  high  in  heaven  upcurl'd 

The  dreadful  sand-spouts  moved  : 

Swift  as   the   whirlwind   that  impell'd 

tlieir  way, 

They  came  toward  the  travellers  ! 

The  old  Magician  shriek' d,        540 

And  lo  !  the  foremost  bursts. 

Before  the  whirlwind's  force. 

Scattering   afar    a    burning   shower    of 

sand. 

'  Now  by  the  virtue  of  the  Ring, 

•  Save  us  ! '  Lobaba  cried, 

'  While  yet  thou  hast  the  power, 

Save  us  !  0  save  us  !  now  ! ' 

The  youth  made  no  reply, 

Gazing  in  aweful  wonder  on  the  scene. 

32 

'  W'hy  dost  thou  wait  / '   the  Old  Man 

exclaim' d,  550 

'  If  Allah   and    the    Prophet   will    not 

save. 

Call  on  the  powers  that  will ! ' 

33 
'  Ha  !  do  I  know  thee.  Infidel  accurst  ? ' 

Exclaim' d  the  awaken'd  youth. 

'  And  thou  hast  led  me  hither,  Child  of 

Sin  ! 

That  fear  might  make  me  sell 

My  soul  to  endless  death  ! ' 

3^ 

'  Fool  that  thou  art ! '  Lobaba  cried, 
'  Call  upon  Him  whose  name 
Thy  charmed  signet  bears,        560 
Or  die  the  death  thy  foolishness  deserves !' 


35 


quoth 


'  Servant  of  Hell !    die  thou  ! 

Thalaba. 

And  leaning  on  his  bow 

He  fitted  the  loose  string 

And  laid  the  arrow  in  its  resting-place. 

'  Bow  of  my  Father,  do  thy  duty  now  ! ' 


THE    FOURTH    BOOK 


57 


He  drew  the  arrow  to  its  iwint, 

True  to  bis  eye  it  lied. 

And  full  UY>on  the  breast 

It  smote  the  Sorcerer.  570 

Astonish' d  Thalaba  beheld 
The  blunted  jwint  recoil. 

3G 

A  proud  and  bitter  srailo 

Wrinkled  Lobaba's  cheek. 

'Try  once  again  thine  earthly  arms!' 

he  cried. 

'  Rash  Bo}' !  the  Power  I  servo 

Abandons  not  his  votaries. 

It  is  for  Allah's  wretched  slaves,  like 

thou, 

To  serve  a  master,  who  in  the  hour  of 

need 

Forsakes  them  to  their  fate  !      580 

I  leave  thee  ! '  .  .  and  he  shook  his  staff, 

and  caird 

The  Chariot  of  his  charms. 

37 

Swift  as  the  viewless  wind, 

Self-moved,  the  Chariot  came  ; 

The  Sorcerer  mounts  the  seat. 

'  Vet  once  more  weigh  thy  danger  ! '  he 

resumed, 

'  Ascend  the  car  with  me, 

And  with  the  sj^eed  of  thought 

We  pass  the  desert  bounds.' 

The  indignant  youth  vouchsafed  not  to 

reply,  59° 

And  lo  !  the  magic  car  begins  its  course  ! 

38 

Hark  !    hark  !    .  .  he  shrieks  .  .  Lobaba 

shrieks  ! 

What,  wretch,  and  hast  thou  raised 

The  rushing  terrors  of  the  Wilderness 

To  fall  on  thine  own  head  ? 

Death  !   death  !   inevitable  rleath  ! 

Driven  by  the  breath  of  God, 

A  column  of  the  Desert  met  his  way. 


THE  FIFl^H  BOOK 


Thou  hiist  girded  iiu>  with  slmi^th  tinto 
\\u\  Mattic;  tli'»u  liast  .suhducd  under  mo 
those  Uiut  rose  up  iiguinst  uie.  —  I'salm 
-wiii.  39. 

1 

WuEN  Thalaba  from  adoration  rose, 

The  air  was  cool,  the  sky 

With  welcome  clouds  o'ercast, 

\\'hich  soon  came  down  in  rain. 

He  lifted  up  his  fever'd  face  to  heaven, 

And  bared  his  head  and  stretch'd  his 

hands 

To  that  delightful  shower. 

And  felt   the  coolness  permeate  every 

limb, 

Freshening  his  powers  of  life. 


A  loud  quick  panting  !    Thalaba  looks 

up,  10 

He  starts,  and  his  instinctive  hand 

Grasps  the  knife  hilt ;   for  close  beside 

A  Tiger  passes  him. 

An  indolent  and  languid  eye 

The  passing  Tiger  turn'd  ; 

His  head  was  hanging  down. 

His  dry  tongue  lolling  low. 

And  the  short  panting  of  his  breath 

Came  through  his  hot  parch'd  nostrils 

painfully. 

The  young  Arabian  knew  20 

The  purport  of  his  hurried  pace, 

And  following  him  in  hope. 

Saw  joyful  from  afar 
The  Tiger  stoop  and  drink. 

3 
A  desert  Pelican  had  built  her  nest 

In  that  deep  solitude. 

And  now,  return'd  from  distant  flight. 

Fraught  with  the  river-stream. 

Her  load  of  water  had  disburthen'd  there. 

Her  young  in  the  refreshing  bath    30 

I  Dipt  down  their  callow  heads, 


58- 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


Fill'd  the  swoln  membrane  from  their 
plumelesB  throat 
Pendant,  and  bills  yet  soft ; 
And  buoyant  with  arch'd  breast, 
Plied  in  impractised  stroke 
The  oars  of  their  broad  feet. 
They,  as  the  spotted  prowler  of  the  wild 
Laps  the  cool  wave,  around  their  mother 
crowd,  [wings. 

And  nestle  underneath  her  outspread 
The  spotted  prowler  of  the  wild     40 
Lapt  the  cool  wave,  and  satiate,  from 
the  nest. 
Guiltless  of  blood,  withdrew. 

4 

The  mother-bird  had  moved  not, 
But  cowering  o'er  her  nestlings. 

Sate  confident  and  fearless, 
And  watch' d  the  wonted  guest. 
But  when  the  human  visitantapproach'd, 
The  alarmed  Pelican 
Retiring  from  that  hostile  shape 
Gathers  her  young,  and  menaces  with 
wings,  50 

And   forward   thrusts   her   threatening 
neck, 
Its  feathers  ruffling  in  her  wrat'^ 
Bold  with  m^*^- 
Thalaho  ^ 

B 
Not  all 

And  jou  Q  ,^11  ward,  blest  the  Carrier 

Bird, 

And  blest,  in  thankfulness, 

Their  common  Father,  provident  for  all. 

5 

With  strength  renew'd,  and  confident  in 

faith,  61 

The  son  of  Hodeirah  proceeds  ; 

Till  after  the  long  toil  of  many  a  day. 

At  length  Bagdad  apiieard. 

The  City  of  his  search. 
He  hastening  to  the  gate. 


Roams  o'er  the  city"  with  insatiate  eyes  ; 
Its  thousand  dwellings,  o'er  whose 

level  roofs  [mosques, 

Fair  cupolas  appear'd,  and  high-domed 
And  pointed  minarets,  and  cypress 

groves  70 

Every  where  scatter'd  in  unwithering" 
green. 

0 

Thou  too  art  fallen,  Bagdad  !    City  of 

Peace 

Thou  too  hast  had  thy  day  ; 

And    loathsome   Ignorance    and    brute 

Servitude, 

Pollute  thy  dwellings  now, 

Erst  for  the  Mighty  and  the  Wise  re- 

nown'd. 

0  yet  illustrious  for  remember'd  fame, — 

Thy  founder  the  Victorious, — and  the 

pomp  [defiled. 

Of  Haroun,  for  whose  name  by  blood 

Yahia's,  and  the  blameless  Barmecides', 

Genius  hath  wrought  salvation, — and 

the  years  81 

When  Science  with  the  good  Al-Maimon 

dwelt :  [Mosques 

>ne  day  may  the  Crescent  from  thy 

>e  pluck'd  by  Wisdom,  when  the 

enlighten'd  arm 

rope  conquers  to  redeem  the  East ! 

7 

Then  Pomp  and  Pleasure  dwelt  within 

her  walls  ;  [West 

The  Merchants  of  the  East  and  of  the 

Met  in  her  arch'd  Bazars  ; 

All  day  the  active  poor 

Shower' d  a  cool  comfort  o'er  her 

thronging  streets  ;  90 

Labour  was  busy  in  her  looms ; 

Through  all  her  open  gates 

Long  troops  of  laden  Camels  lined  the 

roads,  [stream 

And  Tigris  bore  upon  his  tameless 

Armenian  harvests  to  her  multitudes. 


rHK    FIFLH    BOOK 


59 


f 


But  uot  in  sumptuous  Caravanscry 

The  adventurer  idles  there. 

Nor  satiates  wonder  with  her  pomp  and 

wealth  ; 

A  long  day's  distanee  from  the  walls 

»  Stands  ruined  Babylon  ;  loo 

The  time  of  action  is  at  hand  ; 

The  hoi)e  that  for  so  many  a  year 

Hath  been  his  daily  thought,  his  nightly 

dream. 

Stings  to  more  restlessness. 

He  loaths  all  lingering  that  delays  the 

hour  [returned, 

When,    full    of    glory,    from    his    quest 

He  on  the  pillar  of  the  Tent  beloved 

Shall  hang  Hodeirah's  sword. 

I) 
The  many-coloured  domes 
Yet  wore  one  dusky  hue  ;         no 
The  Cranes  upon  the  Moscjuc 
Kept  their  night-clatter  still ; 
When  through  the  gate  the  early  Tra- 
veller pass'd.  [plain 
And  when  at  evening  o'er  the  swampy 
The  Bittern's  boom  came  far, 
Distinct  in  darkness  seen 
Above  the  low  horizon's  lingering  light, 
^     Rose  the  near  ruins  of  old  Babylon. 

10 
Once  from  her  lofty  walls  the  Charioteer 
Look'd  down  on  swarming  mjTiads  ; 
once  she  flung  120 

Her  arches   o'er  Euphrates'   conquer'd 
tide,  [she  pour'd 

And  through  her  brazen  })ortals  when 
Her  armies  forth,   the  distant  nations 
look'd  [fear. 

As  men  who  watch  the  thunder-cloud  in 
Lest  it  should  burst  above  them.    She 
was  fallen, 
»  The  Queen  of  cities,  Babylon,  was  fallen  I 
,  >       Low  lay  her  bulwarks  ;    the  black 
\  Scorpion  baskd 


In  the  palace  courts;    within  the  sanc- 
tuary 
The  She-Wolf  hid  her  whelps. 
Is  yonder  huge  and  shapeless  heap, 

what  onco  130 

Hath  been  the  aerial  (iardens,  height  on 

height  [with  wood, 

Rising  like  Media's  mountains  erown'd 

Work  of  imperial  dotage  ".'    Wheic  the 

fane  [now, 

Of  Bclus  ?     Where  the  (Jolden  Image 

Which  at  the  sound  of  dulcimer  and  lute, 

Cornet  and  sacbut,  harp  and  psaltery. 

The  Assyrian  slaves  adored  ? 
*     A  labyrinth  of  ruins,  Babylon 
Spreads  o'er  the  blasted  plain  : 
The  wandering  Arab  never  sets  his  tent 
Within  her  walls  ;   the  Shepherd  eyes 
afar  i4» 

Her  evil  towers,  and  devious  drives  his 
flock.  [tide. 

Alone  unchanged,  a  free  and  bridgeless 
Euphrates  rolls  along, 
Eternal  Nature's  work. 

11 

Through  the  broken  portal. 

Over  weedy  fragments, 

Thalaba  went  his  way. 

Cautious  he  trod,  and  felt 

The  dangerous  ground  before  him  with 

his  bow.  150 

The  Jackal  started  at  his  steps  ; 

The  Stork,  alarm'd  at  sound  of  man. 

From  her  broad  nest  upon  the  old  pillar 

top, 

Allrighted  fled  on  flaj)ping  wings  ; 

The  Adder,  in  her  haunts  disturb'd, 

Lanced  at  the  intruding  stall  her  arrowy 

tongue. 

12 

Twilight  and  moonshine  dimly  mingling 

gave 

An  aweful  light  olwcurc. 

Evening  not  wholly  closed. 


60 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


The  Moon  still  pale  and  faint :     i6o 

An  aweful  light  obscure, 

Broken  by  many  amass  of  blackest  shade; 

^       Long  column  stretching  dark  through 

weeds  and  moss, 

Broad  length  of  lofty  wall, 

Whose  windows  lay  in  light, 

And  of  their  former  shape,  low  arch'd 

or  square, 

Rude  outline  on  the  earth 

Figured,  with  long  grass  fringed. 

13 

Reclined  against  a  column's  broken  shaft, 

Unknowing  whitherward  to  bend  his 

way,  170 

He  stood,  and  gazed  around. 

'^  The  Ruins  closed  him  in  ; 

It  seem'd  as  if  no  foot  of  man 
For  ages  had  intruded  there. 

14 

.Soon  at  approaching  step 

Startling,  he  turn'd  and  saw 

A  Warrior  in  the  moon- beam  dra\ving 

near. 

Forward  the  Stranger  came, 

And  with  a  curious  eye 

Perused  the  Arab  youth.         180 

15 

'  And  who  art  thou,'  the  Stranger  cried, 

'  That  at  an  hour  like  this 

Wanderest  in  Babylon  ? 

A  way-bewilderd  traveller,  seekest  thou 

?    The  ruinous  shelter  here  ? 

Or  comest  thou  to  hide 

Tlie  plunder  of  the  night  ? 

Or  hast  thou  sjjeUs  to  make 

These  ruins,  yawning  from  their  rooted 

base, 

Disclose  their  secret  wealth  '/ '     190 

10 

The    youth    replied,    '  Nor    wandering 

traveller, 

Nor  robber  of  the  night, 


Nor  skill' d  in  spells  am  I. 

I  seek  the  Angels  here, 

Haruth  and  Maruth.     Stranger,  m  thy 

turn, 
'    Why  wanderest  thou  in  Babylon, 
And  who  art  thou,  the  questioner  ? ' 

17 

The  man  was  fearless,  and  the  temper' d 

pride 

Which  toned  the  voice  of  Thalaba 

Displeased  not  him,  himself  of  haughty 

heart.  200 

Heedless  he  answered,  '  Knowest  thou 

Their  cave  of  punishment  "/ ' 

18 

THALABA 

Vainly  I  seek  it. 

STKAJTGER 

Art  thou  firm  of  foot 
To  tread  the  ways  of  danger  ? 

THALABA 

Point  the  path  ! 

STRANGER 

Young  Arab  !    if  thou  hast  a  heart  can 

beat  [not 

Evenly  in  danger  ;    if  thy  bowels  yearn 

With  human  fears,  at  scenes  where 

undisgraced 

The  soldier  tried  in  battle  might  look 

back  210 


And  tremble,  follow  me 


for  I  am 


bound 
Into  that  cave  of  horrors. 

19 
Thalaba 

!  Gazed  on  his  comrade  :    he  was  young, 

of  port 

Stately  and  strong  ;  belike  his  face 

had  pleased  [in  it 

A  woman's  eye  ;   but  the  youth  read 
Unrestrain'd  passions,  the  obdurate  soul 
Bold  in  all  evil  daring ;    and  it  taught, 


THE   FIFTH   BOOK 


61 


By  Nature's  irresistible  instinct,  doubt 

Well-timed  and  wary.    Of  himself 

assured. 

Fearless  of  man,  and  linn  in  faith,    220 

'  Lead  on  ! '  erieti  Thalaba. 
I  ^loliareb  led  the  way  ; 

\       And  through  the  ruin'd  streets, 
And  through  the  farther  gate. 
They  pass'd  in  sileuee  on. 

20 
What  sound  is  borne  on  the  wind  ? 

Is  it  the  storm  tliat  shakes 

The  tiiOU!*and  oaks  of  the  forest  ? 

But  Thalaba's  long  locks 

Flow  down  his  shoulders  moveless,  and 

the  wind  230 

In  his  loose  mantle  raises  not  a  fold. 

Is  it  the  river's  roar 

Dash'd  down  some  rocky  descent  ? 

Along  the  level  plain 

Euphrates  glides  unheard. 

W^hat  sound  disturbs  the  night. 

Loud  as  the  summer  forest  in  the  storm, 

As  the  river  that  roars  among  rocks  ? 

21 
And  what  the  heavy  cloud 
Tliat  hangs  upon  the  vale,        240 
Thick  as  the  mist  o'er  a  well- water' d 

plain 

Settling  at  evening,  when  the  cooler  air 

Lets  its  day- vapours  fall  ; 

Black  as  the  sulphur-cloud. 

That  through  Vesuvius,  or  from  Hecla's 

mouth,  [fires  ? 

Rolls  up,   ascending  from   the  infernal 

22 

From  Ait's  bitumen-lake 

That  heavy  cloud  ascends  ; 

That  everlasting  roar 

From  where  its  gushing  springs    250 

Boil  their  black  billows  up. 

Silent  the  Arabian  youth. 

Along  the  verge  of  that  wide  lake. 


Follow' d  Moharcb's  way. 

Toward  a  ridge  of  rocks  that  bank'd  its 

side. 

There  from  a  cave,  with  torrrnt  force, 

And  everlasting  roar. 

The  black  bitumen  roll'd. 

The  moonlight  lay  uj)on  the  rocks; 

Their  crags  were  visible,  260 

The  shade  of  jutting  clitls. 

And  where  broad  lichens  whiten'd  some 

smooth  .spot. 

And  where  the  ivy  hung 

Its  flowing  tres.ses  down. 

A  little  way  within  the  cave 

The  moonlight   fell,   glossing  the  sable 

tide 

That  gush'd  tumultuous  out. 

A  little  way  it  entered,  then  the  rock 

Arching  its  entrance,  and  the  winding 

way. 

Darken' d  the  unseen  depths.     270 

23 

No  eye  of  mortal  man. 

If  unenabled  by  enchanted  spell. 

Had  pierced  those  fearful  depths  ; 

For  mingling  with  the  roar 

Of  the  portentous  torrent,  off  were  heard 

Shrieks,  and  wild  yells  that  scared 

The  brooding  Eagle  from  her  midnight 

nest. 

The  affrighted  countrymen 

Call  it  the  mouth  of  Hell ; 

And  ever  when  their  way  leads  near 

They  hurry  with  averted  eyes,    281 

And  dropping  their  beads  fast. 

Pronounce  the  Holy  Name. 

24 

There  pausing  at  the  cavorn-mouth, 

Mohareb  turn'd  to  Thalaba  : 

'  Now  darest  thou  enter  in  ?  ' 

'  Behold  ! '  the  youth  replied. 

And  leading  in  his  turn  the  dangerous 

way, 

St't  foot  within  the  cave. 


62 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


25 

'  Stay,  Madman  ! '  cried  his  comrade  : 

'  Wouldst  thou  rush  290 

Headlong  to  certain  death  ? 

Where  are  thine  arms  to  meet 

The  Keeper  of  the  Passage  ? '    A  loud 

shriek,  [cave, 

That  shook  along  the  windings  of  the 

Scatter' d  the  youth's  reply. 

26 

Mohareb,     when    the    long    re-echoing 

ceased, 

Exclaim'd,  '  Fate  favour'd  theo, 

Young  Arab  !   when  she  wrote  upon  thy 

brow 

The  meeting  of  to-night  ; 

Else  surely  had  thj^  name        300 

Tliis  hour  been  blotted  from  the  Book 

of  Life  ! ' 

27 

So  saying,  from  beneath 

His  cloak  a  bag  he  drew  : 

'  Young  Arab  !  thou  art  brave,'  he  cried, 

'  But  thus  to  rush  on  danger  unprepared, 

As  lions  spring  upon  the  hunter's  spear. 

Is  blind,  brute  courage.     Zohak  keeps 

the  cave  : 

Against  that  Giant  of  primeval  da3's 

No  force  can  win  the  passage.'    Tlius  he 

said, 

And  from  his  wallet  drew  a  human  hand, 

Shrivell'd  and  dry  and  black  ;     311 

And  fitting  as  he  spake 

A  taper  in  its  hold. 

Pursued  :   '  A  murderer  on  the  stake 

had  died  !  [lopt 

I  drove  the  Vulture  from  his  limbs,  and 

The  hand  that  did  the  murder,  and 

drew  up 

The  tendon  strings  to  close  its  grasp. 

And  in  the  sun  and  wind 

Parch' d  it,  nine  weeks  exposed. 

The  Taper,  .  .  but  not  here  the  place  to 

impart,  320 


Nor  hast  thou  undergone  the  rites. 

That  fit  thee  to  partake  the  mystery. 

Look  !    it  bums  clear,  but  with  the  air  , 

around,  j 

Its  dead  ingredients  mingle  deathines.«i.  ' 

This  when  the  Keeper  of  the  Cave  shall 

feel, 

Maugre  the  doom  of  Heaven, 

The  salutary  spell 

Shall  lull  his  penal  agony  to  sleep. 

And  leave  the  passage  free.' 

28 

Thalaba  answer  d  not.  330 

Nor  was  there  time  for  answer  now. 

For  lo  !  Mohareb  leads, 

And  o'er  the  vaulted  cave. 

Trembles    the    accursed    taper's    feeble 

light. 

There  where  the  narrowing  chasm 

Rose  loftier  in  the  hill. 

Stood  Zohak,  wretched  man,  condemn' d 

to  keep 

His  Cave  of  punishment. 

His  was  the  frequent  scream 

WTiich  when  far  off  the  prowling  Jackal 

heard,  340 

He  howl'd  in  terror  back  : 

For  from  his  shoulders  grew  ' 

Two  snakes  of  monster  size. 

Which  ever  at  his  head 

Aim'd  their  rapacious  teeth 

To  satiate  raving  hunger  with  his  brain. 

j     He,  in  the  eternal  conflict,  oft  would 

i  seize  [grasp 

j  Their  swelling  necks,  and  in  his  giant 

Bruise  them,  and  rend  their  flesh  with 

bloody  nails. 

And  howl  for  agony,  350 

Feeling  the  pangs  he  gave,  for  of  himself 

Co-sentient  and  inseparable  parts. 

The  snaky  torturers  grew. 

29 

To  him  approaching  now, 

Mohareb  held  the  wither' d  arm. 


THE   FIFTH    BOOK 


63 


I  The  taper  of  enchanted  power. 

The   unhallow'd   spell   in   hand   unholy 
held. 
Then  minister'd  to  mercy  ;   heavily 
The  wretch's  eyelids  closed  ; 
And  welcome  and  unfclt,         360 
Like  the  release  of  death, 
A  sudden  sleep  surprised  his  vital  powers. 

.30 
Yet  though  along  the  cave  relax'd 
I  Lay  Zohak's  giant  limbs,    [pass, 

I    The  twin-born  serpents  kept  the  narrow 
Kindled  their  fiery  eyes, 
Darted    their    tongues    of    terror,    and 
roird  out 
Their  undulating  length.      [ship 
Like  the  long  streamers  of  some  gallant 
Buoy'd  on  the  wavy  air,         370 
Still  struggling  to  flow  on.  and  still  with- 
held. 
I  The  scent  of  living  flesh 

Inflamed  their  appetite, 

31 
Prepared  for  all  the  perils  of  the  cave, 
Mohareb  came.   He  from  his  wallet  drew 
^  Two  human  heads,  yet  warm. 

0  hard  of  heart !    whom  not  the  visible 
power 
Of  retributive  Justice,  and  the  doom 
Of  Zohak  in  his  sight, 
Deferred  from  equal  crime  !        380 
Two  human  heads,  j-et  warm,  he  laid 
Before  the  scaly  guardians  of  the  pass  ; 
Tliey  to  their  wonted   banquet  of  old 
years  [free. 

Turn'd  eager,  and  the  narrow  pa.ss  was 

32 

And  now  before  their  path 

The  opening  cave  dilates  ; 

They  reach  a  spacious  vault. 

Where  the  black  river-fountains  burst 

their  waj'. 

Now  as  a  whirlwind's  force 


Had  centor'd  on  the  spring,      390 

The  gushing  flood  roll'd  up  ; 

And  now  the  denden'd  roar 

Echoed  beneath,  collapsing  as  it  sunk 

Within  a  dark  abyss, 

Adown  whose  fathomless  gulphs  the  eye 

was  lost. 

33 

Blue  flames  that  hover'd  o'er  the  springs 

Flung  through  the  cavern  their  luicer- 

tain  light  ; 

Now  waving  on  the  waves  they  lay. 

And  now  their  fiery  curls 

FlowM  in  long  tresses  up,         400 

And  now  contracting,  glow'd  with 

whiter  heat  ! 

Then  up  they  shot  again, 

Darting  pale  flashes  through  the 

tremulous  air ;  [smoke. 

The  flames,  the  red  and  yellow  sulphur- 
And  the  black  darkness  of  the  vault. 
Commingling  indivisibly. 

34 
'  Here,'  quoth  Moharob,  '  do  the  Angels 

dwell. 
The  Teachers  of  Enchantment."  Thalaba 

Then  raised  his  voice,  and  cried. 
'  Haruth  and  Maruth,   hear   me  !     Not 
with  rites  410 

Accursed,  to  disturb  your  penitence. 

And  learn  forbidden  lore. 

Repentant  Angels,  seek  I  your  abode  ; 

But  sent  by  Allah  and  the  Prophet  here. 

Obediently  I  come. 

Their  cho.sen  .'servant  L 

Tell  me  the  Talisman  ' — 

3."; 

'  And  dost  thou  think." 

Mohareb  cried,  as  with  a  smile  of  scorn 

He  glanced  upon  his  comrade.   '  dost 

thou  think  4" 

To  trick  them  of  their  secret  ?    For  the 

dupes 


64 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


Of  human-kind  keep  this  lip-righteous- 
ness ! 
'Twill  serve  thee  in  the  Mosque 
And  in  the  Market-place, 
But  Spirits  view  the  heart. 
Only  by  strong  and  torturing  spells 
enforced, 
Those  stubborn  angels  teach  the  charm 
By  which  we  must  descend.' 

36 

'  Descend  ? '  said  Thalaba. 

But  then  the  wrinkling  smile     430 

Forsook  Mohareb's  cheek. 

And  darker  feelings  settled  on  his  brow. 

'  Now  by  my  soul,'  quoth  he,  '  and  I 

believe. 

Idiot !  that  I  have  led 

Some  camel-knee' d  prayer- monger 

through  the  cave  ! 
What  brings  thee  hither  ?    Thou 

should' st  have  a  hut        [way, 

By  some  Saint's  grave  beside  the  public 

There  to  less-knowing  fools 

Retail  thy  Koran-scraps,         439 

And  in  thy  turn  die  civet-like  at  last 

In  the  dung- perfume  of  thy  sanctity  !  .  . 

Ye  whom  I  seek  !  that,  led  by  me, 

Feet  uninitiate  tread 

Your  threshold,  this  atones  ! — 

Fit  sacrifice  he  falls  ! ' 

And  forth  he  flash' d  his  scymetar. 

And  raised  the  murderous  blow. 

37 

There  ceased  his  power ;   his  lifted  arm. 

Suspended  by  the  spell, 

Hung  impotent  to  strike.  450 

*  Poor  hypocrite  ! '  cried  he, 

'  And  this  then  is  thy  faith 

In  Allah  and  the  Prophet !    They  had 

fail'd 

To  save  thee,  but  for  Magic's  stolen  aid  ; 

Yea,  they  had  left  thee  yonder  Serpent's 

meal. 


But  that,  in  prudent  cowardice. 

The  chosen  Servant  of  the  Lord  came  in, 

Safe  follower  of  my  path  ! ' 


'  Blasphen 


Quoth 


ou  boast  of  guid- 
? ' 

,    virtuous    pride 
id,  460 

iked  work 
1  of  Heaven  ! 
fident  of  God, 
I  trust  ? 
33  this  ! ' 
laldar's  Ring, 
le  gulph. 
)ame  up, 
,s  it  fell. 

And  peals  01  aevinsn  laughter  shook  the 
Cave.  470 

39 

Then  joy  suffused  Mohareb's  cheek. 

And  Thalaba  beheld 

The   blue   blade  gleam,   descending  to 

destroy. 

40 
The  undefended  youth  | 

Sprung  forward,  and  he  seized        | 
^Mohareb  in  his  grasp,  \ 

And  grappled  with  him  breast  to  breast. 
Sinewy  and  large  of  limb  Mohareb  was, 
Broad-shoulder' d,  and  his  joints 
Knit  firm,  and  in  the  strife       480 
Of  danger  practised  well. 
Time    had    not    thus    matured    young 
Thalaba  ; 
But  high- wrought  feehng  now, 
The  inspiration  and  the  mood  divine. 
Infused    a   force    portentous,    Hke    the 
strength 
Of  madness  through  his  frame. 
Mohareb  reels  before  him  ;   he  right  on. 
With  knee,  with  breast,  with  arm. 
Presses  the  staggering  foe  ; 


I 


THE  FIFTH  BOOK 


65 


And  now  upon  the  brink         490 

Of  that  tremendous  spring,  .  . 

There  with  fresh  impulse  and  a  rush  of 

force, 

He  thrust  him  from  his  hold. 

The  upwliirling  Hood  received 

)^,       Mohareb,  then,  absorb'd, 
i    Engulph'd  him  in  the  abyss. 
41 
Thalaba's  breath  came  fast, 
And  panting,  he  breath'd  out 
A  broken  prayer  of  thankfulness. 
At  length  he  spake  and  said,      500 
'  Haruth  and  Maruth  !  are  ye  here  ? 
Or   hath    that    evil    guide    misled    my 
search  ? 
I,  Thalaba,  the  Servant  of  the  Lord, 
Invoke  you.    Hear  me,  Angels  !   so  may 
Heaven 
Accept  and  mitigate  your  penitence. 
il  go  to  root  from  earth  the  Sorcerer 
brood, 
Tell  me  the  needful  Talisman  ! ' 

42 

Tlius  as  he  spake,  recumbent  on  the 

rock 

Beyond  the  blaek  abyss, 

Their  forms  grew  visible.  510 

•  t  led  soiTOw  sate  upon  their  brows. . . 

.  vrrow  alone,  for  trace  of  guilt  and 

shame 

N'ono  now  remain'd  ;    and  gradual  as 

by  prayer 

The  sin  was  purged  away. 

Their  robe  of  glory,  purified  of  stain, 

R'sumed  the  lustre  of  its  native  light. 

43 

n  awe  the  youth  received  the  answering 

voice. 

Son  of  Hodeirah  !    thou  hast  proved  it 

here  ; 

The  Talisman  is  Faith.' 


THE  SIXTH  BOOK 

Then  did  I  see  a  pleasant  Paradise, 

I'ull  of  sweet  flowers  and  daintiest  dclighfs, 

Sucli  us  on  eartli  man  could  not  more  devise 

\N  ith  pleasures  choice  to  feed  his  cheerful 

sprights ; 
Not  tliat  wliich  Merlin  by  liis  magic  slights 
Made  for  the  gentle  squire  to  entertain 
His  fair  Belphoebe,  could  this  garden  stain. 
Spenser,  Huins  of  Time. 

1 

So  from  the  inmost  cave 

Did  Thalaba  retrace 

The  windings  of  the  rock. 

Still  on  the  ground  the  giant  limbs 

Of  Zohak  lay  dispread  ; 

The  spell  of  sleep  had  ceased, 

And  his  broad  eyes  were  glaring  on  the 

youth : 
Yet  raised  he  not  his  arm  to  bar  the  way, 
Fearful  to  rouse  the  snakes 
Now  lingering  o'er  their  meal.       10 


Oh  then,  emerging  from  that  dreadful 

cave. 

How  grateful  did  the  gale  of  night 

Salute  his  freshen'd  sense  ! 

How  full  of  lightsome  joy, 

Thankful  to  Heaven,  he  hastens  by  the 

verge 

Of  that  bitumen-lake. 

Whose  black  and  heavy  fumes. 

Surge  heaving  after  surge,      [sea. 

Roird  like  the  billowy  and  tumultuous 


The  song  of  many  a  bird  at  morn  20 

Aroused  him  from  his  rest. 

Lo  !   at  his  side  a  courser  stood  ; 

More  animate  of  eye. 

Of   form    more   faultless   never   had   lie 

seen,  [strength, 

More  light  of  limbs  and  beautiful  in 

Among  the  race  whose  blood, 


66 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


Pure   and    unraingled,   from    the   royal 

steeds 

Of  Solomon  came  down. 


The  chosen  Arab's  eye 

Glanced  o'er  his  graceful  shape,     30 

His  rich  caparisoni5, 

His  crimson  trappings  gay. 

But  when  he  saw  the  mouth 

Uncurb' d,  the  unbridled  neck, 

Then  his  heart  leapt,  and  then  his  cheek 

was  flush' d  ;  [sent 

For  sure  he  deem'd  that  Heaven  had 

A  courser,  whom  no  erring  hand  might 

guide. 

And  lo  !  the  eager  Steed 

Throws  his  head  and  paws  the  ground. 

Impatient  of  delay  !  40 

Then  up  leapt  Thalaba, 

And  away  went  the  self -govern' d  courser. 

5 

Over  the  plain 

Away  went  the  steed  ; 

With  the  dew  of  the  morning  his  fetlocks 

were  wet,  [of  noon. 

The  foam  froth' d  his  limbs  in  the  journey 

Nor  stay'd  he  till  over  the  westerly  heaven 

The  shadows  of  evening  had  spread. 

Then  on  a  shelter' d  bank 

The  appointed  Youth  reposed,      50 

And  by  him  laid  the  docile  courser  down. 

Again  in  the  grey  of  the  morning 

Thalaba  bounded  up  ; 

Over  hill,  over  dale. 

Away  goes  the  steed. 

I  Again  at  eve  he  stops. 

Again  the  Youth  alights  ; 

His  load  discharg'd,  his  errand  done. 

The  courser  then  bounded  away. 

6 
Heavy  and  dark  the  eve  ;  60 

The  Moon  was  hid  on  high, 
A  dim  light  tinged  the  mist 


That  crost  her  in  the  path  of  Heaven. 

All  living  sounds  had  ceased. 
Only  the  flow  of  waters  near  was  heard, 
A  low  and  lulling  melody. 

7 

Fasting,  yet  not  of  want 

Percipient,  he  on  that  mysterious  steed 

Had  reach' d  his  resting-place, 

For  expectation  kept  his  nature  up. 

Now  as  the  flow  of  waters  near     71 ; 

Awoke  a  feverish  thirst. 

Led  by  the  sound  he  moved 

To  seek  the  grateful  wave. 

8 

A  meteor  in  the  hazy  air 

Play'd  before  his  path  ; 

Before  him  now  it  roll'd 

A  globe  of  living  fire  ; 

And  now  contracted  to  a  steady  light. 

As  when  the  solitary  hermit  prunes  80 

His  lamp's  long  undulating  flame  ; 

And  now  its  wavy  point 

Up-blazing  rose,  like  a  young  cypress  tree 

Sway'd  by  the  heavy  wind  ; 

Anon  to  Thalaba  it  moved, 

And  wrapt  him  in  its  pale  innocuous  fire ; 

Now,  in  the  darkness  drown' d. 

Left  him  with  eyes  bedimm'd, 

And  now,  emerging,  spread  the  scene  to 

sight. 


Led  by  the  sound  and  meteor-flame, 

The  Arabian  youth  advanced.      91 

Now  to  the  nearest  of  the  many  rills 

He  stoops  ;   ascending  steam 

Timely  repels  his  hand, 

For  from  its  source  it  sprung,  a  boiling 

tide. 

A  second  course  with  better  hap  he  tries. 

The  wave  intensely  cold 

Tempts  to  a  copious  draught. 

There  was  a  virtue  in  the  wave  : 

His  limbs,  that  stiff  with  toil      100 


THE  SIXTH   BOOK 


DraggM  heavy,  from  t  lie  copious  draught 

received 

Lightness  and  8U])ple  strength. 

O'erjoyed,  and  weening  tlie  benignant 

Power, 

Who  sent  the  reinless  steed, 

Had  blest  these  healing  waters  to  his  use, 

He  laid  him  down  to  sleep, 
Lull'd   by   the   soothing   and   incessant 

sound, 

The  flow  of  many  waters,  blending  oft 

With  shriller  tones  and  deep  low  mur- 

murings, 

Which  from  the  fountain  caves   no 

In  mingled  melody        [came. 

Like  faery  music,   heard  at  midnight, 

10 

The  sounds  which  last  he  heard  at  night 

Awoke  his  recollection  first  at  morn. 

A  scene  of  wonders  lay  before  his  eyes. 

In  mazy  windings  o'er  the  vale 

A  thousand  streamlets  stray'd, 

And  in  their  endless  course 

Had  intersected  deep  the  stony  soil, 

With  labyrinthine  channels  islanding  120 

A  thousand  rocks,  which  seem'd 

Amid  the  multitudinous  waters  there 

Like  clouds  that  freckle  o'er  the  summer 

sky. 

The  blue  ethereal  ocean  circling  each, 

And  insulating  all. 

11 

Those  islets  of  the  living  rock 
Were  of  a  thousand  shapes, 
And  Nature  with  her  various  tints 
lJi\eTsiried  anew  their  thousand  forms; 
For  some  were  green  with  moss,   130 
>orae  ruddier  tinged,  or  grey,  or  silver- 
white. 
And  some  with  yellow  lichens  glow'd 

like  gold,  [sun. 

"Jome  sparkled  sparry  radiance  to  the 
Here  gush'd  the  fountains  up. 


Alternate  light  and  blackness,  like  the 
play  [armii. 

Of  sunbeams  on  a  warrior's  burnish' d 
Yonder  the  river  roH'd,  whose  ample  l)ed. 

Their  sportive  lingerings  o'er, 

Received  and  bore  away  the  confluent 

rills. 

12 

This  was  a  wild  and  wondrous  scene,   140 

Strange  and  beautiful,  as  where 

By  Oton-tala,  like  a  sea  of  stars, 

The  hundred  sources  of  Hoangho  burst. 

High  mountains  closed  the  vale, 
Bare    rocky    mountains,    to    all    living 

things 

Inhospitable  ;   on  whose  sides  no  herb 

Rooted,  no  insect  fed,  no  bird  awoke 

Their  echoes,  save  the  Eagle,  strong  of 

wing, 

A  lonely  plunderer,  that  afar 

Sought  in  the  vales  his  prey.       150 

13 

Thither  toward  those  mountains  Thalaba 
Following,    as    he    believed,    the    path 
prescribed 
By  Destiny,  advanced. 
Up  a  wide  vale  that  led  into  their  depths, 
A  stony  vale  between  receding  heights 

Of  stone,  he  wound  his  way. 

A  cheerless  place  !    the  solitary  Bee, 

Wliose  buzzing  was  the  only  sound  of 

life. 

Flew  there  on  restless  wing,     [fix. 

Seeking  in  vain  one  flower,  whereon  to 

14 

Still  Thalaba  holds  on  ;  161 

The  winding  vale  now  narrows  on  his 

view. 

And  steeper  of  ascent, 

Rightward  and  leftward  rise  the  rocks, 

And  now  they  meet  across  the  vale. 

Was  it  the  toil  of  human  hands 

Had  hewn  a  passage  in  the  rock. 


68 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


Through  whose  rude  portal-way 

Not  now  in  thunder  spake  the  horn, 

The  light  of  heaven  was  seen  ? 

But  breathed  a  sweet  and  thrilling 

Rude  and  low  the  portal- way  ;   170 

melody : 

Beyond,  the  same  ascending  straits 

The  gates  flew  open,  and  a  flood  of  ligh 

Went  winding  up  the  wilds. 

15 

Still  a  bare,  silent,  solitary  glen, 

Rush'd  on  his  dazzled  eyes. 

18 
Was  it  to  earthly  Eden,  lost  so  long. 

A  fearful  silence,  and  a  solitude 

The  fated  Youth  had  found  his  won 

That  made  itself  be  felt ; 

drous  way  ?                     2n 
But  earthly  Eden  boasts 

And  steeper  now  the  ascent, 

A  rugged  path,  that  tired 

No  terraced  palaces. 

The  straining  muscles,  toiling  slowly  up. 

No  rich  pavilions  bright  with  woven  gold 

At  length  again  a  rock 

Like  these  that  in  the  vale 

Stretch' d  o'er  the  narrow  vale  ;    180 

Rise  amid  odorous  groves. 

There  also  had  a  portal- way  been  hewn, 

The  astonish' d  Thalaba, 

But  gates  of  massy  iron  barr'd  the  pass, 

Doubting  as  though  an  unsubstantia 

Huge,  solid,  heavy- hinged. 

dream 

16 

Beguiled  him,  closed  his  eyes. 

There  hung  a  horn  beside  the  gate. 

And  open'd  them  again  ; 

Ivory- tipt  and  brazen- mouth' d  ; 

And  yet  uncertified,              221 

He  took  the  ivory  tip. 

He  prest  them  close,  and  as  he  look'( 

And  through  the  brazen- mouth  he 

around 

breath' d ; 

Question' d  the  strange  reality  again. 

Like  a  long  thunder-peal. 

He  did  not  dream  ; 

From  rock  to  rock  rebounding  rung  the 

They  still  were  there. 

blast  ; 

The  glittering  tents. 

The  gates  of  iron,  by  no  human  arm  190 

The  odorous  groves. 

Unfolded,  turning  on  their  hinges  slow, 

The  gorgeous  palaces. 

Disclosed  the  passage  of  the  rock. 

19 

He  enter' d,  and  the  iron  gates  fell  to, 

And  lo  !  a  man,  reverend  in  comely  age 
Advancing  greets  the  youth. 

And  with  a  clap  like  thunder  closed 
him  in. 

'  Favour' d   of   Fortune,'    thus   he  said 

17 

'  go  taste                       23. 

It  was  a  narrow  winding  way ; 

The  joys  of  Paradise  ! 

Dim  lamps  suspended  from  the  vault. 

The  reinless  steed  that  ranges  o'er  thi 

Lent  to  the  gloom  an  agitated  light. 

world, 

Winding  it  pierced  the  rock. 

Brings  hither  those  alone  for  lofty  deed 

A  long  descending  path 

Mark'd  by  their  horoscope;  permitted 

By  gates  of  iron  closed  ;          200 

thus 

There  also  hung  a  horn  beside 

A  foretaste  of  the  full  beatitude. 

Of  ivory  tip  and  brazen  mouth  ; 

That  in  heroic  acts  they  may  go  on 

Again  he  took  the  ivory  tip, 

More  ardent,  eager  to  return  and  reap 

And  gave  the  brazen  mouth  its  voice 

Endless  enjoyment  here,  their  destine( 

again. 

meed. 

THE  SIXTH   BOOK 


69 


Favoured  of  Fortune  thou,  go  taste 
~i  The  joys  of  raratlise  ! '  240 

20 

This  said,  he  tuni'd  awa}',  and  left 

The  Youth  in  wonder  mute; 

For  Thalaba  stood  mute, 

And  passively  received 

The  mingled  joy  which  flow'd  on  every 

sense. 

Where'er  his  eye  could  reach, 

Fair  structures,  rainbow-hucd,  arose  ; 

And  rich  pavilions  through  the  opening 

woods 

Gleam* d  from  their  waving  curtains 

sunn}-  gold  ; 

And  winding  through  the  verdant  vale, 

Went  streams  of  liquid  light ;      251 

And  fluted  cypresses  reard  up 

Their  living  obelisks ; 

And    broad-lea v'd    plane-trees   in    long 

colonnades 

O'er-arch'd  delightful  walks, 

Where  round  their  trunks  the  thousand 

tendrill'd  vine 
Wound  up  and  hung  the  boughs  with 
greener  wreaths, 
And  clusters  not  their  own.   [eyes 
Wearied   with   endless   beauty,   did   his 
Return  for  rest  ?  beside  him  teems  the 
earth  260 

With    tulips,    hke    the    ruddy    evening 
I  streak' d  ; 

.And  here  the  lily  hangs  her  head  of  snow  ; 
And  here  amid  her  sable  cup 
Shines   the   red-eye   spot,    like    one 
brightest  star, 
j     The  solitary  twinkler  of  the  night  ; 
j  And  here  the  rose  expands 

Her  paradise  of  leaves. 
21 
Then  on  his  ear  what  sounds 
Of  harmony  arose  ! 
Far   mudic   and   the  dititauce-mcllow'd 
song  270 


From  bowers  of  merriment ; 

The  waterfall  remote  ; 

The  murmuring  of  the  leafy  groves  ; 

The  single  nigiitingale 

Pcrcird  in  the  rosier  by,  so  richly  toned, 

That  never  from  that  most  melodious 

bird. 

Singing  a  love-song  to  his  brooding  mate, 

Did  Thracian  shepherd  by  the  grave 

Of  Orpheus  hear  a  sweeter  melody, 

Though  there  the  Spirit  of  the  Sepulchre 

All  his  own  power  infuse,  to  swell    281 

The  incense  that  he  loves. 

22 

And  oh  !     what  odours  the  volu})tuous 

vale 

Scatters  from  jasmine  bowers, 

From  yon  rose  wilderness, 

From  clusterd  henna  and  from  orange 

groves. 

That  with  such  perfumes  fill  the  breeze 

As  Peris  to  their  Sister  bear, 

When  from  the  summit  of  some  lofty 

tree 

She  hangs  encaged,  the  ca2)tive  of  the 

Dives.  290 

They  from  their  pinions  shake 

The  sweetness  of  celestial  flowers. 

And,  as  her  enemies  imjjure 

From  that  impervious  poison  far  away 

Fly  groaning  with  the  torment,  she  the 

while 

Inhales  her  fragrant  food. 

23 

Such  odours  flow'd  upon  the  world, 

When  at  Mohammed's  nuptials,  word 

A\'ent  forth  in  Heaven,  to  roll 

The  everlasting  gates  of  Paradise  300 

Back  on   their   living    hinges,    that    its 

gales 
Might  visit  all  below  ;    the  general  blihs 

Thrilfd  every  bosom,  and  the  family 
Of  uian,  for  once,  partook  one  common 

joy- 


70 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


24 

Full  of  the  bliss,  yet  still  awake 

To  wonder,  on  went  Thalaba  ; 

On  every  side  the  song  of  mirth, 

The  music  of  festivity, 

Invite  the  passing  youth. 

Wearied  at  length  with  hunger  and  with 

heat,  310 

He  enters  in  a  banquet  room. 

Where  round  a  fountain  brink. 

On  silken  carpets  sate  the  festive  train. 

Instant  through  all  his  frame 

Delightful  coolness  spread ; 

The  playing  fount  refresh' d 

The  agitated  air ; 

The    very   light    came    cool'd    through 

silvering  panes        [tinged  ; 

Of  pearly  shell,  like  the  pale  moon-beam 

Or  where  the  wine- vase  fill'd  the 

aperture,  320 

Rosy  as  rising  morn,  or  softer  gleam 

Of  saffron,  like  the  sunny  evening  mist : 

Through  every  hue,  and  streak' d  by  all, 

The  flowing  fountain  play'd. 

Around  the  water-edge 

Vessels  of  wine,  alternate  placed. 

Ruby  and  amber,  tinged  its  little  waves. 

From  golden  goblets  there 
The  guests  sate  quaffing  the  delicious 
juice 
Of  Shiraz'  golden  grape.  330 

25 

But  Thalaba  took  not  the  draught ; 

For  rightly  he  knew  had  the  Proi^het 

forbidden 

That  beverage,  the  mother  of  sins. 

Nor  did  the  urgent  guests 

Proffer  a  second  time  the  liquid  fire, 

When  in  the  youth's  strong  eye  they  saw 

No  moveable  resolve. 

Yet  not  uncourteous,  Thalaba 

Drank  the  cool  draught  of  innocence. 

That  fragrant  from  its  dewy  vase    340 

Came  purer  than  it  left  its  native  bed ; 


And  he  partook  the  odorous  fruits. 

For  all  rich  fruits  were  there  ; 

Water-melons  rough  of  rind. 

Whose  pulp  the  thirsty  lip 

Dissolved  into  a  draught ; 

Pistachios  from  the  heavy-cluster'd  freest 

Of  Mala  vert,  or  Haleb's  fertile  soil ; 

And  Casbin's  luscious  grapes  of  amber!] 

hue,  ( 

That  many  a  week  endure        3501; 

The  summer  sun  intense. 

Till  by  its  powerful  heat 

All  watery  particles  exhaled,  alone      1 

The   strong   essential   sweetness  ripens  ^ 

there. 

Here  cased  in  ice  the  apricot, 

A  topaz,  crystal-set : 

Here,  on  a  plate  of  snow. 

The  sunn}'  orange  rests  ; 

And  still  the  aloes  and  the  sandal- wood. 

From  golden  censers,  o'er  the  banquet 

room  360 

Diffuse  their  dying  sweets. 

26 

Anon  a  troop  of  females  form' d  the  dance, 

Their  ankles  bound  with  bracelet-bells, 

That  made  the  modulating  harmony. 
Transparent  garments  to  the  greedy  eye 

Exposed  their  harlot  limbs, 

Which  moved,  in  every  wanton  gesture 

skill' d. 

27 

With  earnest  eyes  the  banqueters 

Fed  on  the  sight  impure  ; 

And  Thalaba,  he  gazed,  370 

But  in  his  heart  he  bore  a  talisman, 

Whose  blessed  alchemy 

To  virtuous  thoughts  refined 

The  loose  suggestions  of  the  scene  impure. 

Oneiza's  image  swam  before  his  sight. 

His  own  Arabian  Maid. 

He  rose,  and  from  the  banquet  room  he 

rush'd. 

Tears  coursed  his  burning  cheek  ; 


THE  SIXTH  BOOK 


71 


And  nature  for  a  moment  woke  the 

thought, 

And  muiiuur'd,  that,  from  all  domestic 

joys  380 

Estranged,  he  uaudcr'd  o'er  the  world 

A  lonely  being,  far  from  all  he  loved. 

Son  of  Hodeirah,  not  among  thy  crimes 

That  momentary  murmur  shall  be 

written  ! 

28 

From  tents  of  revelry, 

From  festal  bowers,  to  solitude  he  ran  ; 

And  now  he  came  where  all  the  rills 

Of  that  well-water'd  garden  in  one  tide 

Roird  their  collected  waves. 

A  straight  and  stately  bridge      390 

Stretch'd  its  long  arches  o'er  the  ample 

stream.  [shade 

Strong  in  the  evening  and  distinct  its 

Lay  on  the  watery  mirror,  and  his  eye 

Saw  it  united  with  its  parent  pile, 

One  huge  fantastic  fabric.  Drawing  near, 

Loud  from  the  chambers  of  the  bridge 

below. 

Sounds  of  carousal  came  and  sons, 

And  unveil'd  women  bade  the  advancing 

j-outh 

Come  merry- make  with  them  ! 

Unhearing,  or  unheeding,  he      400 

Pass'd  o'er  with  hurried  pace. 

And  sought  the  shade  and  silence  of  the 

grove. 

29 

Deserts  of  Araby  ! 

His  soul  ret  urn' d  to  you. 

He  cast  himself  upon  the  earth. 

And  closed  his  eyes  and  call'd 

The  voluntary  vision  up. 

A  cry,  as  of  distress. 

Aroused  him  ;    loud  it  came  and  near  ! 

He  started  up,  he  strung  his  bow,  410 

He  pluck'd  an  arrow  forth. 

Again  a  shriek  .  .  a  woman's  shriek  ! 

And  lo  !   she  rushes  through  the  trees, 


Her  veil  is  rent,  her  garmcnta  torn  ! 

The  ravisher  follows  close. 

'  Prophet,  save  me  !   save  me,  (Jod  ! 

Help  !    help  me,  man  ! '  to  Thalaba  she 

cried  ; 

Thalaba  drew  the  bow. 

The  unerring  arrow  did  its  work  of  death. 

Then  turning  to  the  woman,  he  beheld 

His  own  Oneiza,  his  Arabian  Maid.  421 


THE  SEVENTH  BOOK 

Now  all  is  done ;  bring  home  the  Bride  again, 
Bring  home  the  triumph  of  our  victory  ! 

Bring  home  with  you  the  glory  of  her  gain, 
With  joyance  bring  hor,  and  with  jollity. 

Never  had  man  moro  joyful  dav  than  this, 

^^■hom  Heaven  would  heap  with  bliss. 

Spenser,  Epithalamium. 


From  fear,  and  from  amazement,  and 

from  joy,  [speech. 

At  length  the  Arabian  Maid  recovering 

Threw  around  Thalaba  her  arms,  and 

cried, 

'  My  father  !  0  my  father  ! '  .  .  Thalaba 

In  wonder  lost,  yet  fearing  to  enquire. 

Bent  down  his  cheek  on  hers. 

And   their  tears   met,   and   mingled  as 

they  fell. 

2 

ONEIZA 

At  night  they  seized  me,  Thalaba  !    in 

my  sleep  ;  .  . 
Thou  wert  not  near,  .  .  and  yet  when 

in  their  grasp 

I  woke,  my  shriek  of  terror  called  on 

thee.  10 

My  father  could  not  save  me,  .  .  an  old 

man  !  [my  CJod, 

And  they  were  strong  and  many  :  .  .  O 

The  hearts  they  must  have  had  to  hear 

his  prayers, 

And  yet  to  leave  him  childless  ! 


72 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


THALABA 

3 

We  will  seek  him  ; 

So  she  took  his  hand,              40 

We  will  return  to  Araby. 

And  gently  drew  him  forward,  and  they 

went 

OXEIZA 

Alas  ! 

Toward  the  mountain  chain. 

We  should  uot  find  him,  Thalaba  !    Our 

4 

tent 

It  was  broad  moonlight,  and  obscure  or 

Is  desolate  !  the  wind  hath  heap'd 

lost 

the  sands                [is  left 

The  garden  beauties  lay, 

Within  its  door  ;    the  lizard's  track 

But  the  great  boundary  rose,  distinctly 

Fresh  on  the  untrodden  dust ;  prowling 

mark'd. 

by  night                         20 

These  were  no  little  hills. 

The  tiger,  as  he  passes,  hears  no 

No  sloping  uplands  lifting  to  the  sun 

breath 

Their  vineyards,  with  fresh  verdure,  and 

Of  man,  and  turns  to  search  the  vacancy. 

the  shade 

Alas  !    he  strays  a  wretched  wanderer 

Of  ancient  woods,  courting  the  loiterer 

Seeking  his  child  !   old  man,  he  will 

To  win  the  easy  ascent :    stone  moun- 

not rest,  .  . 

tains  these,                       50 

He  cannot  rest,  .  .  his  sleep  is  misery,  .  . 

Desolate  rock  on  rock, 

His  dreams  are  of  my  wretchedness,  my 

The  burthens  of  the  earth, 

wrongs. 

Whose  snowy  summits  met  the  mornmg 

0  Thalaba  !   this  is  a  wicked  place  ! 

beam 

Let  us  be  gone  ! 

When  night  was  in  the  vale,  whose 

THALABA 

feet  were  fix'd            [beheld 

But  how  to  pass  again 

In  the  world's  foundations.   Thalaba 

The  iron  doors  that  opening  at  a  breath 

The  heights  precipitous, 

Gave  easy  entrance  ?  armies  in  their 

Impending  crags,  rocks  unascendible. 

might                           31 

And  summits  that  had  tired  the  eagle's 

Would  fail   to   move   those   hinges  for 

wing  ; 

return. 

'  There  is  no  way  ! '  he  said  ; 

Paler  Oneiza  grew,                60 

ON  EI  Z  A 

And  hung  upon  his  arm  a  feebler  weight. 

But  we  can  climb  the  mountains  that 

shut  in 

5 

This  dreadful  garden. 

But  soon  again  to  hope 

Revives  the  Arabian  Maid, 

THALABA 

Are  Oneiza's  limbs 

As  Thalaba  imparts  the  sudden  thought. 

Equal  to  that  long  toil  ? 

;     '  I  pass'd  a  river,'  cried  the  youth, 
'  A  full  and  copious  stream. 

ONEIZA 

The  flowing  waters  cannot  be  restrain' d, 

Oh  I  am  strong, 

And  where  they  find  or  force  their  way. 

Dear  Tiialaba  !  for  this  .  .  fear  gives  me 

There  we  perchance  may  follow  ; 

strength, 

thitherward 

And  you  are  with  me  ! 

The  current  roll'd  along.'          70 

THE   SEVENTH   BOOK 


73 


So  saying,  yet  again  in  hope 

Quickening  their  eager  steps, 

They  tuni'd  them  thitherward. 

6 

Silent  and  calm  the  river  roH'd  along, 

And  at  the  verge  arrived 

Of  that  fair  garden,  o'er  a  rocky  bed 

Toward  the  mountain-base, 

Still  full  and  silent,  held  its  even  way. 

But  farther  as  they  went  its  deepening 

sound 

Louder  and  louder  in  the  distance  rose. 

As  if  it  forced  its  stream  8i 

Struggling  through  crags  along  a  narrow 

pass.  [course 

And   lo  !     where   raving   o'er   a   hollow 

The  ever-flowing  flood 

Foams  in  a  thousand  whirlpools  !  There 

adown 

The  perforated  rock 

Plunge  the  whole  waters;  so  precipitous. 

So  fathomless  a  fall, 
That    their    earth-shaking    roar    came 
deaden' d  up 
Like  subterranean  thunders.        90 


'  Allah  save  us  ! 

Onciza  cried  ;    '  there  is  no  path    for 

man 

From  this  accursed  place  ! ' 

And  as  she  spake,  her  joints 

Were  loosen' d,  and  her  knees  sunk  under 

her. 

'  Cheer  up,  Oneiza  ! '     Thalaba  replied  ; 

■  Be  of  good  heart.     We  cannot  fly 

The  dangers  of  the  place, 

But  we  can  conquer  them  ! ' 

8 

And  the  young  Arab's  soul        100 

Arose   within   him  ;     '  What  is  he,'   he 

cried,  [delight, 

*  Who    hath    prepared    this    garden    of 

And  wherefore  are  its  snares  ? ' 


0 

The  Arabian  Maid  replied, 
'  The  Women,  when  1  enter'd,  welcomed 
mo 
To  Paradise,  by  Aloadin's  will 
Chosen,  like  themselves,  a  Houri  of  the 
Earth.  [phemie8, 

They   told   me,   credulous   of   his   bias- 
That  Aloadin  placed  them  to  reward 
His  faithful  servants  with  the  joys  of 
Heaven.  no 

0  Thalaba,  and  all  are  ready  hero 
To  wreak  his  wicked  will,  and  work  all 
crimes  ! 
How  then  shall  we  escape  't ' 

10 
'  Woe  to  him .' '    cried  the  Appointed,  a 

stern  smile 

Darkening    with    stronger    shades    his 

countenance ; 

'  Woe  to  him  !   he  hath  laid  his  toils 

To  take  the  Antelope  ; 

The  Lion  is  come  in  ! ' 

11 

She  shook  her  head,  '  A  Sorcerer  he, 
And  guarded  by  so  many  !   Thalaba,  .  . 
And  thou  but  one  ! '  120 

12 

He  raised  his  hand  to  Heaven, 

'  Is  there  not  God,  Oneiza  ? 

I  have  a  Talisman,  that,  whoso  bears. 

Him,  nor  the  Earthly,  nor  the  Infernal 

Powers 

Of  Evil,  can  cast  down. 

Remember,  Destiny 

Hath  mark'd  me  from  mankind  ! 

Now  rest  in  faith,  and  I  will  guard  thy 

sleep  ! ' 

13 

So  on  a  violet  bank  130 

The  Arabian  Maid  laid  down. 
Her  soft  cheek  pillow'd  \x\ion  moss  and 
flowers. 


d3 


74 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


She  lay  in  silent  prayer, 

Till  prayer  had  tranquillized  her  fears, 

And  sleep  fell  on  her.    By  her  side 

Silent  sate  Thalaba, 

And  gazed  upon  the  Maid, 

And  as  he  gazed,  drew  in 

New  courage  and  intenser  faith,   139 

And  waited  calmly  for  the  eventful  day. 

14 

Loud  sung  the  Lark,  the  awaken' d  Maid 

Beheld  him  twinkling  in  the  morning 

light. 

And  wish'd  for  wings  and  liberty  like  his. 

The  flush  of  fear  inflamed  her  cheek, 

But  Thalaba  was  calm  of  soul. 

Collected  for  the  work. 

He  ponder' d  in  his  mind 

How  from  Lobaba's  breast 

His  blunted  arrow  fell. 

Aloadin  too  might  wear  150 

Spell  perchance  of  equal  power 

To  blunt  the  weapon's  edge. 

15 

Beside  the  river-brink 

Grew  a  young  poplar,  whose  unsteady 

leaves 

Varying  their  verdure  to  the  gale, 

With  silver  glitter  caught 

His  meditating  eye. 

Then  to  Oneiza  turn'd  the  youth. 

And  gave  his  father's  bow. 

And  o'er  her  shoulders  slung      160 

The  quiver  arrow-stored. 

'  Me  other  weapon  suits,'  said  he  ; 

'  Bear  thou  the  Bow  :  dear  Maid, 

The  days  return  upon  me,  when  these 

.shafts,  [palm 

True  to  thy  guidance,  from  the  lofty 

Brought  down  its  cluster,  and  thy 

gladden' d  eye,  [praise. 

Exulting,  turn'd  to  seek  the  voice  of 

Oh  !    yet  again,  Oneiza,  we  shall  share 

Our  desert-joys ! '    So  saying,  to  the  bank 

He  moved,  and  stooping  low,     170 


With  double  grasp,  hand  below  hand, 

he  clench' d, 

And  from  its  watery  soil 

Uptore  the  poplar  trunk. 

16 

Then  off  he  shook  the  clotted  earth, 

And  broke  away  the  head 

'   And  boughs,  and  lesser  roots  ; 

And  lifting  it  aloft, 

Wielded  with  able  sway  the  massy  club. 

'  Now  for  this  child  of  Hell ! '     quoth 

Thalaba ; 

'  Belike  he  shall  exchange  to-day   180 

His  dainty  Paradise 

For  other  dwelling,  and  its  cups  of  joy 

For  the  unallayable  bitterness 

Of  Zaccoum's  fruit  accurst.' 

17 

With  that  the  Arabian  youth  and  maid 

Toward  the  centre  of  the  garden  went. 

It  chanced  that  Aloadin  had  convoked 

The  garden-habitants. 

And  with  the  assembled  throng 

Oneiza    mingled,    and    the    Appointed 

Youth.  190 

Unmark'd  they  mingled  ;   or  if  one 

With  busier  finger  to  his  neighbour  notes 

The  quiver' d  Maid,  '  Haply,'  he  says, 

'  Some  daughter  of  the  Homerites, 
Or  one  who  yet  remembers  with  delight 
Her  native  tents  of  Kimiar.'      '  Nay ! ' 

rejoins 

His  comrade,  '  a  love-pageant  !    for  the 

man  [club 

Mimics  with  that  fierce  eye  and  knotty 

Some  savage  lion-tamer  ;   she  forsooth 

Must  play  the  heroine  of  the  years 

of  old  ! '  200 

18 

Radiant  with  gems  upon  his  throne  of 

gold  [  head 

Sate  Aloadin  ;    o'er  the  Sorcerer's 

Hover' d  a  Bird,  and  in  the  fraorrant  air 


THE  SEVENTH  BOOK 


75 


Waved  his  wide  winnowing  wings, 

A  living  canopy. 

Large  as  the  hairy  Cassowar 

Was  that  o'ershadowing  Bird  ; 

So  huge  his  talons,  in  their  grasp 

Tiie  Eagle  would  have  hung  a  helpless 

prey. 

His  beak  was  iron,  and  his  plumes 

Glitter'd  like  burnish'd  gold,      211 

And  his  eyes  glow'd,  as  though  an  in- 

waid  fire 

Shone  through  a  diamond  orb. 

10 
The  blinded  multitude 
^/  Adored  the  Sorcerer, 

And  bent  the  knee  before  him. 

And  shouted  forth  his  praise  ; 

'  Mighty  art  tiiou,  the  bestower  of  joy, 

The  Lord  of  Paradise  ! '  219 

Then  Aloadin  rose  and  waved  his  hand. 

And  they  stood  mute,  and  moveless, 

In  idolizing  awe. 

20 

'  Children  of  Earth,'  he  said, 

'  Whom  I  have  guided  here 

Jiy  easier  passage  than  the  gate  of  Death, 

The  infidel  Sultan,  to  whose  lands 

My  mountains  stretch  their  roots. 

Blasphemes  and  threatens  me. 

Strong   are   his   armies,    many   are   his 

guards. 

Yet  may  a  dagger  find  him.       230 

Children  of  Earth,  I  tempt  ye  not 

With  the  vain  promise  of  a  bliss  unseen, 

With  tales  of  a  hereafter  Heaven, 

Whence  never  Traveller  hath  retum'd  ! 

Have  ye  not  tasted  of  the  cup  of  joy 

That  in  these  groves  of  happiness 

For  ever  over-mantling  tempts 

The  ever-thirsty  lip  ? 

Who  is  there  here  that  by  a  deed 

Of  danger  will  deserve  240 

The  eternal  joys  of  actual  Paradise  ? ' 


21 

'  I  ! '   Thalaba  exclaim' d  ; 

And  sj)ringing  forward,  on  the  Sorcerer's 

head 

He  dash'd  his  knotty  club. 


Aloadin  fell  not,  though  his  skull 

Was  shattered  by  the  blow, 

For  by  some  talisman 

His  miserable  life  imprison'd  still 

Dwelt   in    the   body.      The    astonish' d 

crowd 

Stand  motionless  with  fear,        250 

Expecting  to  behold 

Immediate  vengeance  from  the  wrath 

of  Heaven. 

And  lo  !   the  Bird  .  .  the  monster  Bird, 

Soars  up  .  .  then  pounces  down 

To  seize  on  Thalaba  ! 

Now,  Oneiza,  bend  the  bow. 

Now  draw  the  arrow  home  !  .  . 

True  fled  the  arrow  from  Onciza's  hand  ; 

It  pierc'd  the  monster  Bird, 

It  broke  the  Talisman,  .  .         260 

Then  darkness  cover'd  all,  .  . 

Earth   shook.    Heaven   thunder'd,    and 

amid  the  yells 

Of  evil  Spirits  i)erished 

The  Paradise  of  Sin. 

23 

At  last  the  earth  was  still ; 

The  yelling  of  the  Demons  ceased  ! 

Opening  the  wreck  and  ruin  to  their 

sight, 
Tlie  darkness  roll'd  away.   Alone  in  life, 

Amid  the  desolation  and  the  dead. 

Stood  the  Destroyer  and  the  Arabian 

Maid.  270 

They  look'd  around,  the  rocks  were  rent, 

The  path  was  open,  late  by  magic  closed ; 

Awe-struck  and  silent  down  the  stony 

glen 

They  wound  their  thoughtful  way. 


76 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


24 

Amid  the  vale  below 

Tents  rose,  and  streamers  play'd, 

And  javelins  sparkled  to  the  sun  ; 

And  multitudes  encamp'd 

Swarm' d,  far  as  eye  could  travel  o'er  the 

plain. 

There  in  his  war  pavilion  sate    280 

In  council  with  his  Chiefs 

The  Sultan  of  the  Land. 

Before  his  presence  there  a  Captain  led 

Oneiza  and  the  Appointed  Youth. 

25 

'  Obedient  to  our  Lord's  command,'  said 

he,  [began 

*  We  pass'd  toward  the  mountains,  and 

The  ascending  strait ;   when  suddenly 

Earth  shook. 

And  darkness,  like  the  midnight,  fell 

around, 

And  fire  and  thunder  came  from  Heaven, 

As  though  the  Retribution-day  were 

come.  290 

After  the  terror  ceased,  and  when  with 

hearts  [on, 

Somewhat  assured,  again  we  ventured 

This  youth  and  woman  met  us  on  the 

way. 

They  told  us,  that  from  Aloadin's  hold 

They  came,  on  whom  the  judgement 

stroke  hath  fallen, 

He  and  his  sinful  Paradise  at  once 

Destroy' d  by  them,  the  agents  they  of 

Heaven.  [rej)eat 

Therefore  I  brought  them  hither  to 

The  tale  before  thy  presence ;    that  as 

search 

Shall  jjrove  it  false  or  faithful,  to  their 

merit  I300 

Thou  mayest  reward  them.' 

'  Be  it  done  to  us,' 

Thalaba  answer  d,  '  as  the  truth  shall 

prove ! ' 


26 
The  Sultan  while  he  spake 
Fix'd  on    him  the  proud  eye  of  sove- 
reignty ;  ; 
'  If  thou  hast  play'd  with  us,            j 
By  Allah  and  by  Ali,  Death  shall  seal    I 
The  lying  lips  for  ever  !   But  if  the  thing 
Be  as  thou  say'st,  Arabian,  thou  shalt 
stand 
Next  to  ourself ! '  .  .              310 
Hark  !   while  he  speaks,  the  cry. 
The    lengthening    cry,    the    increasing 
shout 
Of  joyful  multitudes  ! 
Breathless  and  panting  to  the  tent 
The  bearer  of  good  tidings  comes, 
'  0  Sultan,  live  for  ever  !    be  th}-  foes 

Like  Aloadin  all ! 
The  wrath  of  God  hath  smitten  him.' 

27 

J03'  at  the  welcome  tale 

Shone  in  the  Sultan's  check  ;    320  i 

'  Array  the  Arabian  in  the  robe  1 

Of  honour,'  he  exclaim' d, 

'And  place  a  chain  of  gold  around  his  i 

neck, 

And  bind  around  his  brow  the  diadem, 

x\nd  mount  him  on  my  steed  of  state, 

And  lead  him  through  the  camj). 

And  let  the  Heralds  go  before  and  cry, 

Thus  shall  the  Sultan  reward 

The  man  who  serves  him  well  I ' 


28 


330 


Then  in  the  purple  robe 

They  vested  Thalaba, 

And  hung  around  his  neck  the  golden 

chain, 

And  bound  his  forehead  with  the  diadem, 

And  on  the  royal  steed 

They  led  him  through  the  camp. 

And  Heralds  went  before  and  cried, 

'  Thus  shall  the  Sultan  reward 

The  man  who  serves  him  well ! ' 


THE   SEVENTH    BOOK 


77 


20 

When  from  the  pomp  of  triumph 

And  presence  of  tlie  King,        340 

Thalaba  sought  tlic  tent  allotted  him, 

.  Thoughtful  the  Arabian  ^laid  beheld 

^  His  animated  eye, 

His  cheek  intlamed  with  pride, 

'  Oneiza  ! '   cried  the  youth, 

'The  King  hath  done  according  to  his 

word. 

And  made  me  in  the  land 

Next  to  himself  be  named  !  ,  . 

But  why  tiiat  serious  melancholy  smile  ? 

Uneiza,  when  I  heard   the  voice   that 

gave  me  350 

Honour,  and  wealth,  and  fame,  the 

instant  thought  [hear 

Arose  to  fill  my  joy,  that  thou  would'st 
The  tidings,  and  be  happy.' 

ONEIZA 

Thalaba, 

Thou  would'st  not  have  me  mirthful  ! 

Am  I  not 

An  orphan,  .  .  among  strangers  ? 

THALABA 

But  with  me  ! 

ONEIZA 

My  Father  !  .  . 

THALABA 

Nay,  be  comforted  !   Last  night 
To  what  wert  thou  exposed  !   in  what  a 
peril  [wealth, 

The  morning  found  us ! . .  safety,  honour, 
These  now  are  ours.    This  instant  who 
thou  wert  361 

The  Sultan  ask'd.    I  told  him  from  our 
childhood  I 

We  had  been  plighted  ;  .  .  was  I  wrong, 
Oneiza  ? 
And  when  he  said  with  bounties  he 
would  heap 
Our  nuptials,  .  .  wilt  thou  blame  me  if 
I  blest 


His  will,  that  bade  me  fix  the  marriage 

day  !  .  . 

In  tears,  my  love  ?  .  . 

ONEIZA 

Rem  KM  HER,  Destiny 
Hath  makk'd  thee  from  mankind! 

THALABA 

Perhaps  when  Aloadin  was  dcstroy'd 

The    mission    ceased ;     and    therefore 

Providence  371 

With  its  rewards  and  blessings  strews 

my  path 

Thus  for  the  accomplished  service. 

ONEIZA 

Thalaba ! 

thalaba 

Or  if  haply  not.  yet  whither  should  I  go? 

Is  it  not  prudent  to  abide  in  peace 

Till  I  am  summon'd  ? 

ONEIZA 

Take  me  to  the  Deserts  ! 

THALABA 

But  Moath  is  not  there  ;    and  would'st 

thou  dwell      [might  seek 

In  a  stranger's  tent  ?    thy  father  then 

In  long  and  fruitless  wandering  for  his 

child.  381 

ONEIZA 

Take  me  then  to  Mecca  ! 

Tiiero  let  me  dwell  a  servant  of  the 

Temple.  [eye 

Bind  thou  thyself  my  veil,  .  .  to  human 

It  never  shall  be  lifted.    There,  whilst 

thou  [prayers, 

Shalt  go  upon  thine  enterprize,  my 

Dear  Thalaba !  shall  rise  to  succour  thee. 

And  I  shall  live,  .  .  if  not  in  happineso, 

Surely  in  hope. 

THALABA 

Oh  think  of  better  things  !        390 
The  will  of  Heaven  is  jjlain  !    by  won- 
drous ways  [voice 
It  led  us  here,  and  soon  the  common 


78 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


Will  tell  what  we  have  done,  and  how 

we  dwell 

Under  the  shadow  of  the  Sultan's  wing  ; 

So  shall  thy  father  hear  the  fame,  and 

find  us  [tears ! 

What  he  hath  wish'd  us  ever  .  .  Still  in 

Still  that  unwilling  eye !  nay  .  .  nay  .  . 

Oneiza  .  . 

I  dare  not  leave  thee  other  than  my 

own,  .  . 

ily  wedded  wife.    Honour  and  gratitude 

As  yet  preserve  the  Sultan  from  all 

thoughts  400 

That  sin  against  thee  ;  but  so  sure  as 

Heaven 

Hath  gifted  thee  above  all  other  maids 

With  loveliness,  so  surely  would  those 

thoughts 

Of  wrong  arise  within  the  heart  of  Power. 

If  thou  art  mine,  Oneiza,  we  are  safe, 

But  else,  there  is  no  sanctuary  could 

save. 

ONEIZA 

Thalaba!  Thalaba ! 

30 

With  song,  with  music,  and  with  dance, 

The  bridal  pomp  proceeds. 

Following  the  deep- veil' d  Bride    410 

Fifty  female  slaves  attend 

In  costly  robes  that  gleam 

With  interwoven  gold, 

And  sparkle  far  with  gems. 

An  hundred  slaves  behind  them  bear 

Vessels  of  silver  and  vessels  of  gold. 

And  many  a  gorgeous  garment  gay, 

The  presents  that  the  Sultan  gave. 

On  either  hand  the  pages  go      419 

With  torches  flaring  through  the  gloom, 

And  trump  and  timbrel  merriment 

Accompanies  their  way  ; 

And  multitudes  with  loud  acclaim 

Shout  blessings  on  the  Bride. 

And  now  they  reach  the  palace  pile, 

The  palace  home  of  Thalaba, 


[   And  now  the  marriage  feast  is  spread. 
And  from  the  finish' d  banquet  now 
The  wedding  guests  are  gone. 

31 
Who  comes  from  the  bridal  chamber  ? . . 
It  is  Azrael,  the  Angel  of  Death.  431 


THE  EIGHTH  BOOK 

Quas  potius  decuit  nostro  te  inferre  sepul- 
chre, 
Petronilla,  tibi  spargimus  has  lacrimas. 
Spargimus  has  lacrimas  moesti  monumenta 
parentis, — 
Et  tibi  pro  thalamo  sternimus  hunc  tumu- 
lum. 
Sperabam  genitor  taedas  praeferre  jugales, 

Et  titulo  patris  jungere  nomen  avi ; 
Heu  !    gener  est  Orcus  ;    quique,  0  dulois- 
sima  !  per  te 
Se  sperabat  avum,  desinit  esse  pater. 
Joach.  Bellahis. 


WOMAN 

Go  not  among  the  tombs,  Old  Man  ! 
There  is  a  madman  there. 

OLD  MAN 

Will  he  harm  me  if  I  go  ? 

WOMAN 

Not  he,  poor  miserable  man  ! 
But  'tis  a  wretched  sight  to  see 

His  utter  wretchedness. 

For  all  day  long  he  lies  on  a  grave, 

And  never  is  he  seen  to  weep, 

And  never  is  he  heard  to  groan, 

Nor  ever  at  the  hour  of  prayer      10 

Bends  his  knee  nor  moves  his  lips. 

I  have  taken  him  food  for  charity. 

And  never  a  word  he  spake  : 

But  yet  so  ghastly  he  look'd. 

That  I  have  awaken'd  at  night 

With  the  dream  of  liis  ghastly  eyes. 

Now,  go  not  among  the  Tombs,  Old  IMan  ! 

OLD  MAN 

Wherefore  has  the  wrath  of  God 
So  sorelv  stricken  him  ? 


THE   EIGHTH    BOOK 


79 


WOMAN 

He  came  a  stranger  to  the  land,    20 

And  did  good  service  to  the  Sultan, 

And  well  his  service  was  rewarded. 

The  tSultan  named  him  next  himself, 

And  gave  a  palace  for  his  dwelling, 

And  dower'd  his  bride  with  rich  domains. 

But  on  his  wedding  night 
I       There  came  the  Angel  of  Death. 
Since  that  hour,  a  man  distracted 
Among  the  sepulchres  he  wanders. 
The  Sultan,  when  he  heard  the  tale, 
Said  that  for  some  untold  crime    31 
Judgement  thus  had  stricken  him. 
And  asking  Heaven  forgiveness 
•  1     That  he  had  shown  him  favour, 
Abandou'd  him  to  want. 

OLD  MAX 

A  Stranger  did  you  say  ? 

wor^iAN 

An  Arab  born,  like  you. 

But  go  not  among  the  Tombs, 

For  the  sight  of  his  wretchedness 

Might  make  a  hard  heart  ache  !     40 

OLD  MAN 

Nay,  nay,  I  never  yet  have  shunn'd 
A  countrj'man  in  distress  ! 
And  the  sound  of  his  dear  native  tongue 
I         May  be  like  the  voice  of  a  friend. 


Then  to  the  Sepulchre 

Whereto  she  pointed  him. 

Old  Moath  bent  his  way. 

By  the  tomb  lay  Thalaba, 

In  the  light  of  the  setting  eve  ; 

The  sun,  and  the  wind,  and  the  rain,   50 

Had  rusted  his  raven  locks  ; 

"t  His  cheeks  were  fallen  in. 

His  face- bones  prominent ; 

Reclined  against  the  tomb  ho  lay, 

And  his  lean  fingers  play'd. 

Unwitting,    with    the   grass    that   grew 

beside. 


The  Old  Man  knew  him  not. 

But  drawing  near  him,  said, 

'  Countryman,  peace  be  with  thee  ! ' 

The  sound  of  his  dear  native  tongue    60 

Awaken'd  Thalaba  ; 

He  raised  his  countenance, 

And  saw  the  good  Old  Man, 

And  he  arose  and  fell  upon  his  neck. 

And  groan'd  in  bitterness. 

Then  Moath  knew  the  youth, 

And  fear'd  that  he  was  childless ;    and 

ho  turned 

His   asking   eyes,  and    pointed    to    the 

tomb. 

'  Old  Man  ! '  cried  Thalaba, 

'  Thy  search  is  ended  here  ! '        70 


The  father's  cheek  grew  white. 
And  his  lip  quiver'd  with  the  misery; 
Howbeit,  collectedly,  with  painful  voice 
He  answer'd,  '  God  is  good  !   His  will 
be  done  ! ' 


The  woe  in  which  he  spake. 
The  resignation  tliat  inspired  his  speech, 

They  soften'd  Thalaba. 

'Thou  hast  a  solace   in  thy  grief,'   he 

cried, 

'  A  comforter  within  ! 

Moath  !   thou  seest  me  here,        80 

Deliver'd  to  the  Evil  Powers, 

A  God-abandon'd  wretch.' 


The  Old  Man  look'd  at  him  incredulous. 

'  Nightly,'  the  youth  pursued, 

'  Thy  daughter  comes  to  drive   me   to 

despair. 

Moath,  thou  thinkest  me  mad  ; 

But  when  the  Cryer  from  the  Minaret 

Proclaims  the  midnight  hour, 

HaBt  thou  a  heart  to  see  her  ": ' 


80 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


In  the  Meidan  now  90 

The  clang  of  clarions  and  of  drums 
Accompanied  the  Sun's  descent. 
'  Dost  thou  not  pray,  my  son  ?  ' 
Said  Moath,  as  he  saw 
The  white  flag  waving  on  the  neigh- 
bouring Mosque : 
Then  Thalaba's  eye  grew  wild, 
*  Pray ! '   echoed  he ;   'I  must  not  pray ! ' 
And  the  hollow  groan  he  gave 
Went  to  the  Old  Plan's  heart. 
And  bowing  down  his  face  to  earth. 
In  fervent  agony  he  call'd  on  God.  loi 

8 
A  night  of  darkness  and  of  storms  ! 
Into  the  Chamber  of  the  Tomb 
Thalaba  led  the  Old  Man, 
To  roof  him  from  the  rain. 
A  night  of  storms  !  the  wind 
Swept  through  the  moonless  sky, 
And  moan'd  among  the  pillar' d  sepul- 
chres ; 
And  in  the  pauses  of  its  sweep 

They  heard  the  heavy  rain         no 
Beat  on  the  monument  above. 
In  silence  on  Oneiza's  grave 
Her  Father  and  her  husband  sate. 

9 

The  Cryer  from  the  Minaret 

Proclaim' d  the  midnight  hour. 

'  Now,  now  ! '  cried  Thalaba  ; 

And  o'er  the  chamber  of  the  tomb 

There  spread  a  lurid  gleam. 

Like  the  reflection  of  a  sulphur  fire  ; 

And  in  that  hideous  light         120 

Oneiza  stood  before  them.  It  was  She, . . 

Her  very  lineaments, .  .  and  such  as  death 

Had  changed  them,  livid  cheeks,  and 

lips  of  blue  ; 

But  in  her  eyes  there  dwelt 

Brightness  more  terrible 

Than  all  the  loathsomeness  of  death. 

'  Still  art  thou  living,  wretch  ? ' 


In  hollow  tones  she  cried  to  Thalaba ; 
'  And  must  I  nightly  leave  my  grave 

To  tell  thee,  still  in  vain,  130 

God  hath  abandon' d  thee  ? ' 

10 
'  This  is  not  she  ! '   the  Old  Man  ex- 
claim'd  ; 
'  A  Fiend  ;   a  manifest  Fiend  ! ' 
And  to  the  youth  he  held  his  lance ; 
'  Strike,  and  deliver  thyself  ! ' 
'  Strike  her  ! '  cried  Thalaba, 
And,  palsied  of  all  power. 
Gazed  fixedly  upon  the  dreadful  form. 
'  Yea,  strike  her  ! '  cried  a  voice,  whose 

tones 
Flow'd  with  such  sudden  healing  through 
his  soul,  140 

As  when  the  desert  shower 
From  death  deliver' d  him  ; 
But  unobedientto  that  well-known  voice, 
His  eye  was  seeking  it, 
When  Moath,  firm  of  heart, 
Perform'  d   the   bidding :     through   the 
vampire  corpse 
He  thrust  his  lance  ;   it  fell. 
And  howling  with  the  wound,     L 

Its  fiendish  tenant  fled. 
A  sapphire  light  fell  on  them,      150 
And  garmented  with  glory,  in  their  sight 
Oneiza's  Spirit  stood. 

11 

'  0  Thalaba  ! '  she  cried, 

'  Abandon  not  thyself  ! 

Would'st  thou  for  ever  lose  me  ?  .  .  0 

my  husband,  , 

Go  and  fulfil  thy  quest,        ^^ 

That  in  the  Bowers  of  Paradise 

I  may  not  look  for  thee 

In  vain,  nor  wait  thee  long.' 

12 
To  Moath  then  the  Spirit         160 
Turn'd  the  dark  lustre  of  her  heavenly 
eyes  : 


THE   EIGHTH   BOOK 


81 


'  Short  is  thy  destined  path, 
I)  my  dear  Father  !  to  the  abode  of  bliss. 

Return  to  Araby, 

^  There  with  the  tliought  of  death 

Comfort  tliy  lonely  age, 

And  Azrael,  the  Deliverer,  GOOn 

Will  visit  thee  in  peace.' 

13 

They  stood  with  earnest  eyes,     169 

And  arms  out-reaching,  when  again 

The  darkness  closed  around  them. 

The  soul  of  Thalaba  revived  ; 

He  from  the  tioor  his  quiver  took, 

And  as  he  bent  the  bow,  exclaim' d, 

'  Was  it  the  over-ruling  Providence 

That  in  the  hour  of  frenzy  led  my  hands 

Instinctively  to  this  ?      [anew 

To-morrow,  and  the  sun  shall  brace 

The  slacken' d  cord,  that  now  sounds 

loose  and  damp  ;  179 

To-morrow,  and  its  livelier  tone  will  sing, 

In  tort  vibration  to  the  arrow's  flight. 

I  .  .  but  I  also,  with  recover' d  health 

Of  heart,  shall  do  my  duty. 

My  Father  !    here  I  leave  thee  then  ! ' 

he  cried, 

'  And  not  to  meet  again, 

Till  at  the  gate  of  Paradise 

The  eternal  union  of  our  joys  commence. 

We  parted  last  in  darkness  ! '  .  .  and 

the  youth 

Thought  with  what  other  hopes  ; 

But  now  his  heart  was  calm,      190 

For  on  his  soul  a  heavenly  hope  had 

dawn'd. 

14 

The  Old  Man  answered  nothing,  but  he 

held 

His  garment,  and  to  the  door 

Of  the  Tomb  Chamber  followed  him. 

The  rain  had  ceased,  the  sky  was  wild. 

Its  black  clouds  broken  by  the  storm. 

And,  lo  !   it  chanced,  that  in  the  chasm 

Of  Heaven  between,  a  star. 


Leaving  along  its  path  continuous  light. 

Shot  eastward.    '  Soo  my  guide  ! '  »juoth 

Thalaba ;  300 

And  turning,  he  received 

Old  Moath's  last  embrace,  [Man. 

And  the  last  blessing  of  the  good  Old 

15 

Evening  was  drawing  nigh. 

When  an  old  Dervise,  sitting  in  the  .^un 

At  his  cell  door,  invited  for  the  night 

The  traveller  ;   in  the  sun 

He  spread  the  jilain  repast. 

Rice  and  fresh  grapes,  and  at  their  feet 

there  flowed 

The  brook  of  which  they  drank.   210 

16 

80  as  they  sate  at  meal, 

W^ith  song,  with  music,  and  with  dance, 

A  wedding  train  wont  by  ; 

The  deep-veil'd  bride,  the  female  slaves, 

Tho  torches  of  festivity, 

And  tinimp  and  timbrel  merriment 

Accompanied  their  way. 

The  good  old  Dervise  gave 

A  blessing  a?  tliey  pass'd  ; 

But  Thalaba  look'd  on,  220 

And  breathed  a  low  deep  groan,  and  hid 

his  face.  [felt 

The  Dervise  had  known  sorrow,  and  he 

Compassion  ;   and  his  words 

Of  pity  and  of  piety 

Open'd  the  young  man's  heart. 

And  he  told  all  his  tale. 

17 
*  Repine  not,  0  my  Son  ! '   the  Old  Man 

replied, 
'  That  Heaven  hath  chasten'd  thee.    Be- 
hold this  vine. 
I  found  it  a  wild  tree,  whose  wanton 
strength 
Had  swoln  into  irregular  twigs    230 
And  bold  exoroscenoes. 
I  And  spent  it.self  in  leaves  and  little  rinpa, 


82 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


So  in  the  flourish  of  its  outwardness 

Wasting  the  sap  and  strength 

That  should  have  given  forth  fruit. 

But  when  I  pruned  the  plant, 

Then  it  grew  temperate  in  its  vain  ex- 

i^ense  [see'st, 

Of  useless  leaves,  and  knotted,  as  thou 

Into  these  full  clear  clusters,  to  repay 

The  hand  that  wisely  wounded  it. 

Repine  not,  0  my  Son  !  241 

In  wisdom  and  in  mercy  Heaven  inflicts 

Its  painful  remedies.' 

18 

Then  pausing,  .  .  '  Whither  goest  thou 

now  ?  *  he  ask'd. 

'  I  know  not,'  answered  Thalaba  ; 

'  My  purpose  is  to  hold 

Straight  on,  secure  of  this. 

That  travel  where  I  will,  I  cannot  stray. 

For  Destiny  will  lead  my  course  aright.' 

19 

'  Far    be   it   from    me,'    the    Old   Man 

replied,  250 

'  To  shake  that  pious  confidence  ; 

And  yet,  if  knowledge  may  be  gain'd, 

methinks 

Thy  course  should  be  to  seek  it  painfully. 

In  Kaf  the  Simorg  hath  his  dwelling 

place,  [seen 

The  all-knowing  Bird  of  Ages,  who  hath 

The  World,  with  all  its  children,  thrice 

destroy' d. 

Long  is  the  path. 

And  difilieult  the  way,  of  danger  full  ; 

But  that  unerring  Bird 

Could  to  a  certain  end  260 

Direct  thy  weary  search.' 

20 

Easy  assent  the  youth 

Gave  to  the  words  of  v/isdom  ;    and 

behold  [Kaf. 

At  dawn,  the  adventurer  on  his  way  to 

And  he  hath  travelled  many  a  day, 


And  many  a  river  swum  over, 

And  many  a  mountain  ridge  hath  crost, 

And  many  a  measureless  plain  ; 

And  now  amid  the  wilds  advanced, 

Long  is  it  since  his  eyes  270 

Have  seen  the  trace  of  man. 

21 

Cold  !   cold  !  'tis  a  chilly  clime 

That   the  youth  in   his  journey   hath 

reach' d. 

And  he  is  aweary  now. 

And  faint  for  lack  of  food. 

Cold  !  cold  !  there  is  no  Sun  in  Heaven, 

A  heavy  and  uniform  cloud 

Overspreads  the  face  of  the  sky. 

And  the  snows  are  beginning  to  fall. 

Dost  thou  wish  for  thy  deserts,  0  Son  of 

Hodeirah  ?  280 

Dost  thou  long  for  the  gales  of  Arabia  ? 

Cold  !    cold  !    his  blood  flows  languidly, 

His  hands  are  red,  his  lips  are  blue, 

His  feet  are  sore  with  the  frost. 

Cheer  thee  !    cheer  thee  !   Thalaba  ! 

A  little  yet  bear  up  ! 

22 

All  waste  !  no  sign  of  life 

But  the  track  of  the  wolf  and  the  bear  ! 

No  soimd  but  the  wild,  wild  wind. 

And  the  snow  crunching  under  his  feet ! 

Night  is  come  ;  neither  moon,  nor  stars, 

Only  the  light  of  the  snow  !       292 

But  behold  a  fire  in  a  cave  of  the  hill, 

A  heart-reviving  fire  ; 

And  thither  with  strength  renew'd 

Tlialaba  presses  on.  i 

23 
He  found  a  Woman  in  the  cave, 

A  solitary  Woman,  — 

^^^lO  by  the  fire  was  spinning, 

And  singing  as  she  spun.         300 

The  pine  boughs  were  cheerfully  blazing. 

And  her  face  was  bright  with  the  flame  ; 

Her  face  was  as  a  Damsel's  face. 


THE   EIGHTH    BOOK 


83 


And  3et  her  hair  wns  grey. 

*She  bade  him  welcome  with  a  smile, 

And  still  continued  sjiinninj;. 

And  singing  as  siic  spun. 

The  thread  the  woman  drew 

Was  finer  than  the  silkworm's, 

Was  finer  than  tiio  gossamer  ;     310 

The  song  she  sung  was  low  and  sweet, 

But  Thalaba  knew  not  the  words. 

24 
He  laid  his  bow  before  the  hearth, 

For  the  string  was  frozen  stitT  ; 

He  took  the  quiver  from  his  neck. 

For  the  arrow-plumes  were  iced. 

Then  as  the  cheerful  fire 

Revived  his  languid  limbs, 

The  adventurer  ask'd  for  food. 

The  Woman  answer' d  him,       320 

And  still  her  speech  was  song  : 

'  Tlie  She  Bear  she  dwells  near  to  me, 

And  she  hath  cubs,  one,  two,  and  three  ; 

She  hunts  the  deer,  and  brings  him  here. 

And  then  with  her  I  make  good  cheer ; 

And  now  to  the  chase  the  She  Bear  is 

gone. 
And  she  with  her  prey  will  be  here  anon.' 

25 

She  ceased  her  spinning  while  she  spake  ; 

And  when  she  had  answer'd  him. 

Again  her  fingers  twirl'd  the  thread. 

And  again  the  Woman  began,     331 

In  low,  sweet  tones  to  .=ing 

The  unintelligible  song. 

2G 

The  thread  she  spun  it  gleam' d  like  gold 

In  the  light  of  the  odorous  fire. 

Yet  was  it  so  wondrously  thin. 

That,  save  when  it  shone  in  the  light. 

You  might  look  for  it  closely  in  vain. 

The  youth  sate  watching  it. 

And  she  observed  his  wonder,      340 

And  then  again  she  spake. 
And  still  her  speech  was  song; 


*  Now  twine  it  rotmd  thy  Imnd.s  I  say, 

Now  twine  it  round  thy  hands  I  pray  ! 

My  thread  is  small,  my  thread  is  fine, 

But  he  must  be 

A  stronger  than  thee. 

Who  can  break  this  thread  of  mine  ! ' 

27 

And  up  she  raised  her  bright  blue  eyes, 

And  sweetly  she  smiled  on  him,  350 

And  he  conceived  no  ill ; 

And  round  and  round  his  right  hand. 

And  round  and  round  his  left. 

He  wound  the  thread  so  fine. 

And  then  again  the  Woman  spake. 

And  still  her  speech  was  song, 

'  Now  thy  strength,  O  Stranger,  strain  ! 

Now  then  break  the  slender  chain.' 

28 

Thalaba  strove,  but  the  thread 

By  magic  hands  was  spun,        360 

And  in  his  cheek  the  flush  of  shame 

Arose,  commixt  with  fear. 

She  beheld  and  laugh'd  at  him 

And  then  again  she  sung, 

'  My  thread  is  small,  my  thread  is  fine. 

But  he  must  be 

A  stronger  than  thee. 

Who  can  break  this  thread  of  mine  ! ' 

29 

And  up  she  raised  her  bright  blue  eyes. 

And  fiercely  she  smiled  on  him  :  370 

'  I  thank  thee,  I  thank  thee,  Hcxleirah's 

Fon  !  [undone, 

I  thank  thee  for  doing  what  can't  be 

For  binding  thyself  in  the  chain  I  have 

spun  ! ' 

Then  from  his  head  she  wTcnch'd 

A  lock  of  his  raven  hair, 

And  cast  it  in  the  fire, 

And  cried  aloud  as  it  burnt, 

'  Sister  !  Sister  !   hear  my  voice  ! 

Sister  !  Sister  !   come  and  rejoice  1 

The  thread  is  spun,  380 


84 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


The  prize  is  won. 

The  work  is  done, 

For  I   have  made  captive  Hodeirah's 

Son.' 

30 

Borne  in  her  magic  car 

The  Sister  Sorceress  oame, 

Khawla.the  fiercestof  the  Sorcerer  brood. 

She  gazed  upon  the  youth, 
She  bade  him  break  the  slender  thread, 
She  laugh' d  aloud  for  scorn. 
She  clapt  her  hands  for  joy.       390 

31 

The  She  Bear  from  the  chase  oame  in, 

She  bore  the  prey  in  her  bloody  mouth, 

She  laid  it  at  Maimuna's  feet. 

And  then  look'd  up  with  wistful  eyes 

As  if  to  ask  her  share. 

'  There  !  there  ! '   quoth  Maimuna, 

And  pointing  to  the  prisoner-youth, 

She  spurn' d  him  with  her  foot. 

And  bade  her  make  her  meal. 

But  then  their  mockery  fail'd  them,  400 

And  anger  and  shame  arose  ; 

For  the  She  Bear  fawn'd  on  Thalabe, 

And  quietly  liok'd  his  hand. 

32 

The  grey- hair' d   Sorceress  stampt  the 

ground. 

And  call'd  a  Spirit  up  ; 

'  Shall  we  bear  the  Enemy 

To  the  dungeon  dens  below  ? ' 

SPIRIT 

Woe  !  woe  !  to  our  Empire  woe  ! 
If  ever  he  tread  the  caverns  below. 

MAIMUNA 

Shall  we  leave  him  fetter' d  here    410 
With  hunger  and  cold  to  die  ? 

SPIRIT 

Away  from  thy  lonely  dwelling  fly  ! 

Here  I  see  a  danger  nigh, 

That  he  should  live  and  thou  should' et 

die. 


MAIMUNA 

Whither  then  must  we  bear  the  foe  ? 

SPIRIT  I 

To  Mohareb's  island  go,  | 

There  shalt  thou  secure  the  foe, 
There  prevent  thy  future  woe. 

33 

Then  in  the  Car  they  threw 

The  fetter' d  Thalaba,  420 

And  took  their  seats,  and  set 

Their  feet  upon  his  neck  ; 

Maimuna  held  the  reins, 

And  Khawla  shook  the  scourge, 

And  away  !  away  !  away  ! 

34 

They  were  no  steeds  of  mortal  race 

That  drew  the  magic  car 

With  the  swiftness  of  feet  and  of  wings. 

The  snow-dust  rises  behind  them. 

The  ice- rook's  splinters  fly,       430 

And  hark  in  the  valley  below 

The  sound  of  their  chariot  wheels.  .  . 

And  they  are  far  over  the  mountains  ! 

Away  !  away  !  away  ! 

The  Demons  of  the  air 

Shout  their  joy  as  the  Sisters  pass, 

The  Ghosts  of  the  Wicked  that  wander 

by  night 

Flit  over  the  magic  car. 

35 
Away  !  away  !  away  ! 
Over  the  hills  and  the  plains,      440 

Over  the  rivers  and  rocks. 

Over  the  sands  of  the  shore  ; 

The  waves  of  ocean  heave 

Under  the  magic  steeds  ; 

With  unwet  hoofs  they  trample  the  deep. 

And  now  they  reach  the  Island  coast, 

And  away  to  the  city  the  Monarch's  abode. 

Open  fly  the  city  gates. 

Open  fly  the  iron  doors. 

The  doors  of  the  palace-court.     450 

Then  stopt  the  charmed  car. 


THE    EIGHTH  BOOK 


86 


36 

The  Monarch  heard  the  chariot  wheels, 

And  forth  he  came  to  greet 

Tlic  mibtrcss  whom  he  served. 

He  knew  the  captive  youth. 

And  Thalaba  beheld 

Mohareb  in  the  robes  of  royalt}-, 

A\'hom  erst  his  arm  had  thrust 

Down  the  bitumen  pit. 


THE  NINTH  BOOK 

Conscience  I  .  . 
Poor  plodding  Priests  and  preaching  Friars 

may  make 
Their  hollow  pulpits  and  the  empty  aisles 
Of  churches  ring  with  that  romid  word  :  but 

we, 
That  draw  the  subtile  and  more  piercing  air 
In  that  sublimed  region  of  a  court, 
Know  all  is  good  we  make  so,  and  go  on 
Secured  by  the  prosperity  of  our  crimes. 
B.  Jossos]  Mortimer's  Fall. 

1 
'  Go  up  my  Sister  Maimuna, 
Go  up  and  read  the  stars  ! ' 


Lo  !  on  the  terrace  of  the  topmost  tower 
iShe  stands  ;   her  darkening  eyes, 
Her  Hne  face  raised  to  Heaven  ; 

Her  white  hair  flowing  like  the  silver 

streams 

That  streak  the  northern  night. 


They  hear  her  coming  tread. 
They  lift  their  asking  eyes  : 
Her  face  is  serious,  her  unwilling  lips 
iSlow  to  the  tale  of  ill.  ii 

*  What  hast  thou  read  '!  what  hast  thou 
read  ? ' 
Quoth  Khawla  in  alarm. 
,  '  Danger    .    .    death    .    .    judgement ! ' 
11  Maimuna  replied.  { 


'  Is  that  the  language  of  the  lights  of 

Heaven  ? ' 

Exclaim'd  the  sterner  Witch  ; 

'  Creatures  of  Allah,   they  jwrform  his 

will,  [daunt 

And   with   their   lying   menaces   would 

Our  credulous  folly  .  .  .  Maimuna, 

I  never  liked  this  uncongenial  lore  !  20 

Better  betits  to  make  the  .Sacritico 

Of  Divination  ;  so  shall  I 

Be  mine  own  Oracle. 

Command  the  victims  thou,  O  King  ! 

Male  and  female  they  must  be, 

Thou  knowest  the  needful  rites. 

Meanwhile  I  purify  the  place.' 

5 

The  Sultan  went ;   the  Sorceress  rose, 
And  North,  and  South,  and  East,  and 
West, 
She  faced  the  points  of  Heaven  ;    30 

And  ever  where  she  turn'd 

Siie  laid  her  hand  upon  tlic  wall  ; 

And  up  she  look'd,  and  smote  the  air. 

And  down  she  stoopt,  and  smote  the 

floor. 

'  To  Eblis  and  his  servants 

I  consecrate  the  i)lace  ; 

Let  enter  none  but  they  ! 

^Vhatcver  hath  the  breath  of  life. 

Whatever  hath  the  sap  of  life, 

Let  it  be  blasted  and  die  ! '         40 


Now  all  is  prepared  ; 

Mohareb  returns. 

The  Circle  is  drawn. 

The  Victims  have  bled. 

The  Youth  and  the  Maid. 

She  in  the  circle  holds  in  either  hand, 

Clench'd  by  the  hair,  a  head. 
The  heads  of  the  Youth  and  the  Maid. 
'  Go  out,  ye  lights  ! '    (juoth  Khawla, 
And  in  darkness  began  the  bikjU.  50 


86 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


With  spreading  arms  she  whirls  around 

Rapidly,  rapidly, 

Ever  around  and  around  ; 

And  loudly  she  calls  the  while, 

'Ebhsl   EbUs!' 

Loudh',  incessantly. 

Still  she  calls,  '  Eblis  !   Ebhs  ! ' 

Giddih',  giddily,  still  she  whirls, 

Loudl}',  incessantly,  still  she  calls ; 

The  motion  is  ever  the  same,       60 

Ever  around  and  around  ; 

The  calhng  is  still  the  same, 

.Still  it  is,  '  Eblis  !   Eblis  ! ' 

Till  her  voice  is  a  shapeless  yell. 

And  dizzily  rolls  her  brain. 
And  now  she  is  full  of  the  Fiend. 
JShe  stops,  she  rocks,  she  reels  ! 
Look  1   look  !    she  appears  in  the  dark- 
ness ! 
Her  flamy  hau's  curl  up 
All  living,   like  the  3Ieteor"s  locks  of 
light  !  70 

Her  eyes  are  like  the  sickly  Moon  1 

8 

It  is  her  Hps  that  move, 

Her  tongue  that  shapes  the  sound ; 

But  whose  is  the  Voice  that  proceeds  ? .  . 

'  Ye  ma}'  hope  and  ye  may  fear. 

The  danger  of  his  stars  is  near. 

Sultan  !   if  he  perish,  woe  ! 

Fate  hath  WTitten  one  death-blow 

For  Mohareb  and  the  Foe  ! 

Triumph  ;  triumph  !   onh'  she      80 

That  knit  his  bonds  can  set  him  free.' 

9 

She  spake  the  Oracle, 

And  senselessly  she  fell. 

They  knelt  in  care  beside  her, .  . 

Her  Sister  and  the  IsAng  ; 

They  sprinkled  her  palms  with  water, 

They  wetted  her  nostrils  with  blood. 


10 

She  wakes  as  from  a  dream, 

She  asks  the  utter' d  voice  ; 

But  when  she  heard,  an  anger  and  a 

grief  90 

Darken' d  her  wrinkling  brow. 

'  Then  let  him  live  in  long  captivity  ! ' 

She  answer'd  r  but  Mohareb's  quicken'd 

eye 

Perused  her  sullen  countenance. 

That  lied  not  with  the  lips. 

A  miserable  man  ! 

What  boots  it  that  in  central  caves, 

Tlie   Powers   of   Evil   at   his   Baptism 

pledged 

The  Sacrament  of  Hell  ? 

His  death  secures  them  now.     100 

Wliat  boots  it  that  they  gave 

Abdaldar's  guardian  ring, 
When,  through  another's  life. 
The  blow  may  reach  his  own  ? 

11 

He  sought  the  dungeon  cell 

Where  Thalaba  was  laid. 

'Twas  the  grey  moi-ning  twilight,  and 

the  voice 

Of  Thalaba  in  prayer  [his  ear. 

With  words  of  hallow" d  imiwrt  smote 

The  grating  of  the  heavy  hinge    no 

Roused  not  the  Arabian  youth  ; 

Nor  lifted  he  his  earthward  face, 

x\t  sound  of  coming  feet. 

Xor  did  Mohareb  with  imholy  speech 

Distm'b  the  duty  :   silent,  spirit-awed, 

Envious,  heart-humbled,  he  beheld 
The  peace  which  piety  alone  can  give. 

12 

When   Thalaba,   the   perfect   rite   per- 
form'd,     [Island- Chief : 
Raised  liis  calm  eye,   then  spake  the 
'  Arab  !   my  guidance  through  the 

dangerous  Cave  120 

Thy  service  overpaid, 


THE   NINTH  BOOK 


87 


Aa  unintended  friend  in  enmity. 

The  Hand  that  caught  thy  ring 

Kcceivud  and  bore  nie  to  the  scene  1 

sought. 

Now  know  me  grateful.     1  return 

That  amulet,  thy  only  safety  here.' 

13 

Aitful  he  spake,  with  show  of  gratitude 

Veiling  the  selfish  deed. 

Lock'd  in  his  magic  chain, 

Thalaba  on  his  passive  po^^crless  hand 

Received  again  the  8pell.         131 

Kcmembering  then  with  what  an 

ominous  faith 

First  he  drew  on  the  ring, 

The  youth  repeats  his  words  of  augury  ; 

•  In  Clod's  name  and  the  Prophet's  !  be 

its  power  [evil. 

Good,  let  it  serve  the  righteous  !    if  for 

God  and  my  trust  in  Him  shall  hallow  it, 

Blindly  the  wicked  work 

The  righteous  will  of  Heaven  ! ' 

So  Thalaba  received  again         140 

The  written  ring  of  gold. 

14 

Thoughtful  awhile  Mohareb  stood, 

And  eyed  the  captive  youth. 

Then,  building  skilfully  sophistic  speech. 

Thus  he  began.     '  Brave  art  thou, 

Thalaba  !       [would  buy 

And  wherefore  are  we  foes  ?  .  .  for  I 

Thy  friendship  at  a  princely  price,  and 

make  thee 

To  thine  own  welfare  wise. 

Hear  me  !  in  Nature  are  two  hostile 

Gods, 

Makers  and  Masters  of  existing  things. 

Equal  in  power  :  .  .  nay,  hear  me 

patiently  !  .  .  151 

Equal  .  .  for  look  around  thee  !    The 

same  Earth    [Camel  finds 

Bears  fruit  and  poison  ;   where  the 

His    fragrant  food,   the  horned   Vix^er 

there 


Sucks  in  the  juice  of  death  :   the 
Elements 
Now  serve  the  use  of  nuin,  and  now 
assert  [iiear 

Dominion  o'er  his  weakness  :   dost  thou 
The  sound  of  merriment  and  nu^jtial 
song  V  [mourner's  cry. 
From  the  ne.xt  house  proceeds  the 
Lamenting  o'er  the  dead.     Say'st  thou 
that  Sin  160 

Enter'd  the  world  of  Allah  ?   that  the 

Fiend, 

Permitted  for  a  season,  prowls  for  prey  '! 

When  to  thy  tent  the  venomous 

serpent  creeps,  [so, 

Dost  thou  not  crush  the  reptile  V    Even 
Be  sure,  had  Allah  crush' d  his  Enemy, 
But  that  the  power  was  wanting.   From 

the  first, 

Eternal  as  themselves  their  warfare  is  ; 

To  the  end  it  must  endure.     Evil  and 

Good  .  .  [  the  strife 

What  are  they,  Thalaba,  but  words  1  in 

Of  Angels,  as  of  Men,  the  weak  are 

guilty ;  170 

Power  must  decide.     The  Spirits  of  the 

Dead 

Quitting  their  mortal  mansion,  enter 

not,  [seat 

As  falsely  ye  are  preach' d,  their  final 

Of  bliss,  or  bale  ;  nor  in  the  sepulclire 

Sleep  they  the  long,  long  sleep  :    each 

joins  the  host 

Of  his  great  leader,  aiding  in  the  war 

Whose  fate  involves  his  own. 

Woe  to  the  vanquish' d  then  ! 

Woe  to  the  sons  of  man  who  follow'd 

him  !  [eternity. 

They,  with  their  Leader,  through 

Must  howl  in  central  fires.        i8i 

Thou,  Thalaba,  hast  ciiosen  ill  thy  i)art, 

H  choice  it  may  be  call'd,  where  will 

was  not, 

Nor  searching   doubt,    nor    judgement 

wise  to  weigh. 


88 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


Hard  is  the  service  of  the  Power, 

beneath  [discipHne 

Whose   banners   thou   wert   born  ;     his 

Severe,  yea  cruel ;  and  his  wages,  rich 

Only  in  promise ;    who  hath  seen  the 

pay  ?  [ours, 

For  us  .  .  the  pleasures  of  the  world  are 

Riches  and  rule,  the  kingdoms  of  the 

Earth.  190 

We  met  in  Babylon  adventurers  both, 

Each  zealous  for  the  hostile  Power 

he  served  :  [art. 

We  meet  again  ;   thou  feelest  what  thou 
Thou  seest  what  I  am,  the  Sultan  here. 

The  Lord  of  Life  and  Death. 

Abandon  liim  who  has  abandon' d  thee. 

And  be,  as  I  am,  great  among 

mankind  ! ' 

15 

The  Captive  did  not,  hasty  to  confute, 

Break  off  that  subtle  speech  ; 
But  when  the  expectant  silence  of  the 
King  200 

Look'd  for  his  answer,  then  spake 
Thalaba. 
'  And  this  then  is  thy  faith  !   this  mon- 
strous creed !  [Stars, 
This  lie  against  the  Sun,  and  Moon,  and 
And  Earth,  and  Heaven  !  Blind  man, 

who  canst  not  see 

How  all  things  work  the  best !     who 

wilt  not  know,     [whate'er 

That  in  the  Manhood  of  the  World, 

Of  folly  mark'd  its  Infancy,  of  vice 

Sullied  its  Youth,  ripe  Wisdom  shall 

cast  off,  [safe. 

Stablish'd  in  good,  and,  knowing  evil, 

Sultan  Mohareb,  yes,  ye  have  me  here 

In  chains  ;   but  not  forsaken,  though 

opprest ;  211 

Cast  down,  but  not  destroy' d.     Shall 

danger  daunt. 

Shall  death  dismay  his  soul,  whose  Hfe 

is  given 


For  God,  and  for  his  brethren  of  man- 
kind ? 
Alike  rewarded,  in  that  holy  cause. 
The  Conqueror's  and  the  Martyr's  palm 
above  [my  blood 

Beam  with  one  glory.     Hope  ye  that 
Can  quench  the  dreaded  flame  ?     and 
know  ye  not,     [and  Wise, 
That  leagued  against  ye  are  the  Just 
And  all  Good  Actions  of  all  ages  past. 
Yea,  your  own  crimes,  and  Truth,  and 
God  in  Heaven  ? '  221 

16 
'  Slave  ! '    quoth  Mohareb,  and  his  lip 

Quiver' d  with  eager  wrath, 

'  I  have  thee  !  thou  shalt  feel  my  power. 

And  in  thy  dungeon  loathsomeness 

Rot  piece-meal,  limb  from  limb  ! ' 

And  out  the  Tyrant  rushes,        _ 
And  all  impatient  of  the  thoughts 

That  canker' d  in  his  heart. 

Seeks  in  the  giddiness  of  boisterous 

sport  230 

Short  respite  from  the  avenging  power 

witliin. 

17 

What  Woman  is  she 

So  wrinkled  and  old, 

That  goes  to  the  wood  ? 

She  leans  on  her  stafE 

With  a  tottering  step. 

She  tells  her  bead- string  slow 

Through  fingers  dull'd  by  age. 

The  wanton  boys  bemock  her  ; 

The  babe  in  arms  that  meets  her  240 

Turns  round  with  quick  affright 

And  clings  to  his  nurse's  neck. 

18 

Hark  !   hark  !    the  hunter's  cry  ; 

Mohareb  has  gone  to  the  chase.   . 

The  dogs,  with  eager  yelp,        ( 

Are  struggling  to  be  free  ; 

The  hawks  in  frequent  stoop 


THE   NINTH    BOOK 


89 


Token  their  hasto  for  flight ; 
Ami  couchant  on  the  saddle-bow, 
With  tranquil  eye«  and  talons  sheathed, 
The  ounce  expects  his  liberty.    251 

19 
Propt  on  the  staff  that  shakes 
Beneath  her  trembling  weight, 
The  Old  Woman  sees  them  pass. 
Halloa!   halloa! 
The  game  is  up  ! 
The  dogs  are  loosed, 
The  deer  bounds  over  the  plain : 
The  dogs  pursue 
Far,  far  beliind  260 

Though  at  full  stretch. 
With  eager  speed, 
Far,  far  behind. 
But  lo  !   the  Falcon  o'er  his  head 
Hovers  with  hostile  wings. 
And  buffets  him  with  blinding  strokes  ! 
Dizzy  with  the  deafening  strokes 
In  blind  and  interrupted  course, 
Poor  beast,  he  struggles  on  ; 
And  now  the  dogs  are  nigh  !     270 
How  his  heart  pants  !    you  see 
The  panting  of  his  heart ; 
And  tears  like  human  tears 
!    Roll  down,  along  the  big  veins  fever- 
1 1  ^  swoln ;  [dun  hide ; 

And  now  the  death-sweat  darkens  his 
,  His  fear,  his  groans,  his  agony,  his  death, 
LI      Are  the  sport,  and  the  joy,  and  the 
'  I  triumph  ! 

20 

Halloa  !   another  prey. 

The  nimble  Antelope  ! 

The  ounce  is  freed  ;   one  spring,  280 

And  his  talons  are  sheathed  in  her 

shoulders, 

II      And  his  teeth  are  red  in  her  gore. 

There  came  a  sound  from  the  wood. 

Like  the  howl  of  the  winter  wind  at 

night. 

Around  a  lonely  dwelling  ; 


The  ounce,  whose  gums  were  warm  in 

his  prey, 

He  hears  the  summoning  sound 

In  vain  his  master's  voice, 

No  longer  dreaded  now, 

Calls  and  recalls  with  threatful  tone  ; 

Away  to  the  forest  he  goes ;      291 

For  that  Old  Woman  had  laid    [lipp, 

Her  slirivell'd   finger  on  her  shrivcll'd 

And  whistled  with  a  long,  long  breath  ; 

And  that  long  breath  was  the  sound 

Like  the  howl  of  the  winter  wind  ut 

night. 

Around  a  lonely  dwelling. 

21 
Mohareb  knew  her  not, 
As  to  the  chase  he  went. 
The  glance  of  his  proud  eye      300 
Passing  in  scorn  o'er  age  and  wretched- 
ness. 
She  stands  in  the  depth  of  the  wood. 
And  panting  to  her  feet. 
Fawning  and  fearful,  creeps 
The  ounce  by  charms  constrained. 
W^ell  may'st  thou  fear,  and  vainly  dost 
thou  fawn  ! 
Her  form  is  changed,  her  vi.sage  new, 
Her  power,  her  art  the  same  ! 
It  is  Khawla  that  stands  in  the  wood. 

22 

She  knew  the  place  where  tlie  Mandrake 

grew,  3'o 

And  round  the  neck  of  the  ounce. 

And  round  the  Mandrake's  head, 

vShe  tightens  the  ends  of  her  cord. 

Her  ears  are  closed  with  wax, 

And  her  prest  finger  fastens  them. 

Deaf  as  the  Adder,  when,  with  grounded 

head, 

And  circled  form,  both  avenues  of  sound 

Barr'd  safely,  one  slant  eye 

Watches  the  charmer's  lij)S       3»9 

Waste  on  the  wind  his  bafilj'd  witeLcry, 

The  spotted  ounce  bo  beautiful. 


kl 


90 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


Springs  forceful  from  the  scourge  ; 

With  that  the  dying  plant  all  agony, 

Feeling  its  life- strings  crack, 

Utter' d  the  unimaginable  groan 

That  none  can  hear  and  live. 

23 

Then  from  her  victim  servant  Khawla 

loosed  [hand. 

The  precious  poison.     Next  v.ith  naked 

She   pluck' d   the   boughs   of   the   man- 

chineel ; 

And  of  the  wormy  wax  she  took,  330 

That,  from  the  perforated  tree  forced 

out, 

Bewray'd  its  insect-parent'swork  within. 

24 

In  a  cavern  of  the  wood  she  sits, 

And  moulds  the  wax  to  human  form ; 

And,  as  her  fingers  kneaded  it, 

By  magic  accents,  to  the  mj'stic  shape. 

Imparted  with  the  life  of  Thalaba, 

In  all  its  passive  powers. 

Mysterious  sympathy. 

With  the  mandrake  and  the  manchineel 

She  builds  her  pile  accurst.       341 

She  lays  her  finger  to  the  pile, 

And  blue  and  green  the  flesh 

Glows  with  emitted  fire, 

A  fire  to  kindle  that  strange  fuel  meet. 

25 

Before  the  fire  she  placed  the  imaged 

wax :  [cried, 

'  There,  waste  awaj' ! '   the  Enchantress 
'  And  with  thee  waste  Hodeu'ah's  Son  ! ' 

26 

Fool !  fool !  go  thaw  the  everlasting  ice, 

Whose  polar  mountains  bound  the 

human  reign.  350 

Blindly  the  wicked  work 

The  righteous  will  of  Heaven  ! 

The  doom'd  Destroyer  wears  Abdaldar's 

ring; 

Against  the  danger  of  his  horoscope 


Yourselves  have  shielded  him  ; 

And  on  the  sympathizing  wax. 

The  unadmitted  flames  play  power- 

lessly,  [snow. 

As  the  cold  moon- beam  on  a  plain  of 

27 

'  Curse  thee  !    curse  thee  ! '    cried  the 

fiendly  woman, 

'  Hast  thou  yet  a  spell  of  safety  ? '  360 

And  in  the  raging  flames 

She  threw  the  imaged  wax. 

It  lay  amid  the  flames, 

Like  Polycarp  of  old. 

When,   by  the   glories   of   the  burning 

stake 

O'er- vaulted,  his  grey  hairs 

Curl'd,  life-like,  to  the  fire 

That  haloed  round  his  saintly  brow. 

28 
'  Wherefore  is  this  ! '  cried  Khawla,  and 
she  stampt 
Thrice  on  the  cavern  floor  :       370 
'  ]\Iaimuna  !   Maimuna  ! ' 
Thrice  on  the  floor  she  stampt. 
Then  to  the  rocky  gateway  glancejd 
Her  eager  eyes,  and  Maimuna  was  there. 
'  Nay,  Sister,  nay  ! '  quoth  she,  '  Mo- 
hareb's  life  ^^ 

Is  link'd  with  Thalaba' s  !        ' 
Nay,  Sister,  nay  !   the  plighted  oath  ! 
The  common  sacrament ! ' 

29 
'  Idiot ! '  said  IQiawla,  '  one  must  die, 

or  all ! 

Faith  kept  with  him  were  treason  to  the 

rest.  380 

Why  lies  the  wax  like  marble  in  the  fire  ? 

What  powerful  amulet 

Protects  Hodeirah's  Son  ?  ' 

30 

Cold,  marble-cold,  the  wak 

Lay  on  the  raging  pile. 

Cold  in  that  white  intensity  of  fire. 


THE   NINTH  BOOK 


91 


The    ]Jat,    that    with   her   hook'd   and 

leathery  wings 
Clung  to  tlic  cave-roof,  loosed  her  hold, 

Death-sickening  with  the  heat ; 

The  Toad,  whicii  to  the  darkest  nook 

liad  crawl'd,  39° 

Panted  fast  with  fever  pain  ; 

The  Viper  from  her  nest  came  forth, 

Leading  her  quicken'd  brood. 

That,  sportive  with  the  warm  delight, 

roird  out  [rings. 

Their  thin  curls,  tender  as  the  tendril 

Ere  the  green  beauty  of  their  brittle 

youth       [summer  sun. 

Grows  brown,  and  toughens  in  the 

Cold,  marble-cold,  the  wax 

Lay  on  the  raging  pile, 

Tiie  silver  quivering  of  the  element  400 

O'er  its  pale  surface  shedding  a  dim  gloss. 

31 

Amid  the  red  and  fiery  smoke, 

Watching  the  portent  strange, 

The  blue-eyed  vSorceress  and  her  Sister 

stood, 

►Seeming  a  ruined  Angel  by  the  side 

Of  Spirit  born  in  hell. 

Maimuna  raised  at  length  her  thought 

f ul  eyes  : 

'  Whence,  Sister,  was  the  wax  ? 

The  work  of  the  worm,  or  the  bee  ? 

Nay  then  I  marvel  not  !        410 

It  were  as  wise  to  bring  from  Ararat 

The  fore- world's  wood  to  build  the 

magic  pile. 
And  feed  it  from  the  balm  bower, 

through  whose  veins  [out 

The  Mart^T's  blood  sends  such  a  virtue 

That  the  fond  mother  from  beneath  its 

shade      f])layful  child. 

Wreathes  the  horn'd   viper  round   her 

This  is  the  eternal,  universal  strife  1 
There  is  a  Grave-wax,  .  .  I  have  seen  the 
U  Gouls  |ing.'  . 

Fight  for  the  dainty  at  their  banquet 


32 

'  Excellent    Witch  !  '     (piotii    Kliawla 
and  siie  went  420 

To  the  cave-arch  of  entrance,  and 
Bcowl'd  up, 
Mocking  the  blessed  Sun  : 
'  Shine    thou    in    Pleaven,    but    1    will 
shadow  Earth  ! 
Tiiou  wilt  not  shorten  day, 
But  I  will  hasten  darkness  ! '     Then  the 
Witch 
Began  a  magic  song. 
One  long  low  tone,  through  teeth  half- 
closed,  [slow  ; 
Through    lips    slow-moving,    muttered 
One  long-continued  breath. 
Till  to  her  eyes  a  darker  yellowness 
Was  driven,  and  fuller-swoln  the  pro- 
minent veins  431 
On  her  loose  throat  grew  black. 
Then     looking     upward,     thrice     she 
breathed 
Into  the  face  of  Heaven  ; 
The  baneful  breath  infected  Heaven  ; 
A  mildewing  fog  it  spread 
Darker  and  darker ;   so  the  evening  sun 
Pour'd  his  uncntering  glory  on  the  mist, 
And  it  was  night  below. 

33 

'  Bring  now  the  wax,'   cjuoth  Khawla, 

'  for  thou  know'st  440 

The  mine  that  yields  it.'     Forth  went 

Maimuna,  [forth; 

In  mist  and  darkness  wont  the  Sorceress 

Andshehatlireach'd  the  IMace  of  Tombs, 

And  in  their  sepulchres  the  l)ead 
Feel  feet  unholy  trampling  over  them. 

34 

Thou  startest,  Maimuna, 

Because  the  breeze  is  in  thy  lifted  locks  ! 

Is  Khawla's  hjk'11  so  weak  ? 

Sudden  came  the  breeze  and  strong  ; 

The   heavy   mist   wherewith    the   lun^'x 

op])rcbt  4io 


92 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


Were  labouring  late,  flies  now  before  the 

gale, 

Thin  as  an  infant's  breath, 

Seen  in  the  sunshine  of  an  autumn  frost. 

Sudden  it  came,  and  soon  its  work 

was  done, 

And  suddenly  it  ceased  ; 

Cloudless  and  calm  it  left  the  firmament. 

And  beautiful  in  the  blue  sky 

Arose  the  summer  Moon. 

35 

She  heard  the  quicken"  d  action  of  her 

blood. 

She  felt  the  fever  in  her  cheeks.  460 

Daunted,  yet  desperate,  in  a  tomb 

Entering,  with  impious  hand  she  traced 

Circles  and  squares  and  trines 

And  magic  characters, 

Till,  riven  by  her  charms,  the  tomb 

Yawn'd  and  disclosed  its  dead  ; 

Maimuna's  eyes  were  open'd,  and  she  saw 

The  secrets  of  the  Grave. 

36 
There  sate  a  Spirit  in  the  vault,  469 
In  shape,  in  hue,  in  lineaments,  like  life  ; 

And  by  him  couch' d,  as  if  intranced. 

The  hundred- headed  Worm  that  never 

dies. 

37 

'  Nay,  Sorceress  !   not  to-night  ! '  the 

Spirit  cried,  [to-night 

'  The  flesh  in  which  I  sinn'd  may  rest 

From  suffering ;    all  things,  even  I, 

to-night, 

Even  the  Damn'd,  repose  ! ' 

38 

The  flesh  of  Maimuna      [knees 

Crept  on  her  bones  with  terror,  and  her 

Trembled  with  their  trembling  weight. 

'  Only  this  Sabbath  !    and  at  dawn  the 

Worm  480 

Will  wake,  and  this  poor  flesh  must  grow 

to  meet 


The   gnawing   of   his   hundred   poison- 
mouths  !  [death  ! ' 
God  !   God  !  is  there  no  mercy  after 

39 

Soul- struck,  she  rush'd  away. 

She  fled  the  Place  of  Tombs, 

She  cast  herself  upon  the  earth. 

All  agony,  and  tumult,  and  despair. 

And  in  that  Vvild  and  desperate  agony 

Sure  Maimuna  had  died  the  utter  death, 

If  aught  of  evil  had  been  possible 

On  this  mysterious  night ;        491 
For  this  was  that  most  holy  night 
When  all  Created  Things  adore 
The  Power  that  made  them  ;    Insects, 

Beasts,  and  Birds, 
The  Water-Dwellers,  Herbs,  and  Trees, 

and  Stones, 

Yea,  Earth  and  Ocean,  and  the  infinite 

Heaven,  [know 

With  all  its  Worlds.   Man  only  doth  not 

The  universal  Sabbath,  doth  not  join 

With  Nature  in  her  homage.     Yet  the 

prayer  [love, 

Flows  from  the  righteous  with  intenser 

A  holier  calm  succeeds,  and  sweeter 

dreams  501 

Visit  the  slumbers  of  the  penitent. 

40 

Therefore  on  Maimuna  the  Elements 

Shed  healing  ;    every  breath  she  drew 

was  balm.  [up 

For  every  flower  sent  then  in  incense 

Its  richest  odours  ;  and  the  song  of  birds 

Now,  like  the  music  of  the  Seraphim, 

Enter' d  her  soul,  and  now 

Made  silence  aweful   by   their  sudden 

pause. 

It  seem'd  as  if  the  quiet  Moon    510 

Pour'd  quietness  ;   its  lovely  light 

Was  like  the  smile  of  reconciling  Heaven. 

41 

Is  it  the  dew  of  night 

That  on  her  glowing  cheek 


THE    NINTH  BOOK 


93 


Shines  ill  the  moon- beam  ?   Oh  !   she 

weeps  .  .  she  weeps  ! 

And  the  Gooti  Angel  that  abandoned  her 

At  her  hell- baptism,  by  her  tears  drawn 

down, 

Resumes  his  charge.    Then  Maimuna 

Hecaird  to  mind  the  double  oracle  ; 

Quick  as  the  lightning  flash       520 

Its  import  glanced  upon  her,  and  tlic  hope 

Of  pardon  and  salvation  rose, 

As  now  she  understood 

The  lying  prophecy  of  truth. 

She  pauses  not,  she  ponders  not ; 

The  driven  air  before  her  fann'd  the  face 

Of  Thalaba,  and  he  awoke  and  saw 

The  Sorceress  of  the  Silver  Locks. 

42 
One  more  permitted  spell. 
She  takes  the  magic  thread.       530 
With  the  wide  eye  of  wonder,  Thalaba 
Watches  her  snowy  Angers  round  and 
round, 
I      Unwind  the  loosening  chain. 
(Again  he  hears  the  low  sweet  voice, 
The  low  sweet  voice  so  musical, 
That  sure  it  weis  not  strange, 
If  in  those  unintelligible  tones 
Was  more  than  human  potency. 
That  with  such  deep  and  undefined  de- 
light 
Fill'd  the  surrender' d  soul.        540 
The  work  is  done,  t\\?  song  hath  ceased; 
He  wakes  as  from  a  dream  of  Paradise, 
And  feels  his  fetters  gone,  and  with 

the  burst 
Of  wondering  adoration,  praises  God. 

43 

Her  charm  hath  loosed  the  chain  it  bound, 

But  massy  walls  and  iron  gates 

Confine  Hodeirah's  Son. 

Heard  ye  not.  Genii  of  the  Air,  her  spell. 

That  o'er  her  face  there  flits 

The  sudden  flush  of  fear  ?         550 

Ayiin  her  louder  lips  repeat  the  charm  ; 


Her  eye  is  anxiouB,  her  eheok  pale. 

Her  pulse  plays  fast  and  fceblo. 

Nay,  Maimuna !   thy  power  hath  ceased, 

And  the  wind  scatters  now 

The  voice  which  ruled  it  late. 

44 

*  Be  comforted,  my  soul  ! '  she  cried, 

her  eye  [forted  ! 

Brightening  with  sudden  joy,  '  be  com- 

We  have  burst  through  the  bonds  which 

bound  us  down 

To  utter  death;  our  covenant  with  Hell 

Is  blotted  out !  Tlic  Lord  hath  given 

me  strength  !  561 

Great  is  the  Lord,  and  merciful  ! 

Hear  me,  ye  rebel  Spirits  !   in  the  name 

Of  Allah  and  the  Prophet,  hear  the  spell ! ' 

45 

Groans  then  were  heard,  the  ])rison  walls 

were  rent. 

The  whirlwind  wrapt  them  round,  and 

forth  they  flew. 

Borne  in  the  chariot  of  the  \A'ind3 

abroad. 


THE  TENTH  BOOK 

And  the  Angel  that  was  sent  unto  me 
said,  Thinkest  thou  to  comprehend  the  way 
of  the  Most  Higli  !  .  .  Then  said  I,  Yea,  my 
Lord.  And  he  answered  mo,  and  said,  I  am 
sent  to  shew  tliee  three  ways,  and  to  set 
forth  three  similitudes  before  thee  ;  whereof 
if  thou  canst  declare  me  one,  I  will  shew 
thee  also  tlie  way  that  thou  desirest  to  stv, 
and  I  shall  sliew  tliee  from  whence  tl:e 
wicked  heart  conieth.  And  T  said,  Tell  on, 
my  Lord.  Then  said  he  unto  me.  Go  thy 
way,  weigh  me  the  weight  of  the  fire,  or 
measure  me  the  blast  of  the  wind,  or  call 
me  again  the  day  that  is  post. — Esdrae,  ii.4. 

I 

Eee  there  was  time  for  wonder  or  for  fear. 

Tlic  way  waa  pass'd,  and  lo  !    again 

Amid  sunounding  snows. 

Within  the  cavern  of  the  Witch   they 

stand. 


94 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


Then  came  the  weakness  of  her  natural 

age 

At  once  on  Maimuna  ; 

The  burthen  of  her  years 

Fell  on  her,  and  she  knew 

That  her  repentance  in  the  sight  of  God 

Had  now  found  favour,  and  her  hour 

was  come.  lo 

Her  death  was  like  the  righteous :  '  Turn 

my  face 

To  Mecca  ! '  in  her  languid  eyes 

The  joy  of  certain  hoj^e 

Lit  a  last  lustre,  and  in  death 

A  smile  was  on  her  cheek. 

3 

No  faithful  crowded  round  her  bier, 

No  tongue  reported  her  good  deeds, 

For  her  no  mourners  wail'd  and  wept, 

No  Iman  o'er  her  perfumed  corpse 

For  her  soul's  health  intoned  the  prayer ; 

Nor  column  raised  by  the  way-side  21 

Implored  the  passing  traveller 

To  say  a  requiem  for  the  dead. 

Thalaba  laid  her  in  the  snow, 

And  took  his  weapons  from  the  hearth, 

And  then  once  more  the  youth  began 

His  weary  way  of  solitude. 

4 
The  breath  of  the  East  is  in  his  face, 
And  it  drives  the  sleet  and  the  snow.  " 
The  air  is  keen,  the  wind  is  keen,  30 
His  limbs  are  aching  with  the  cold, 
**  His  eyes  are  acliing  with  the  snow. 

His  very  heart  is  cold. 
His  spirit  chill' d  within  him.  He  looks  on 

If  aught  of  life  be  near  ; 
But  all  is  sky,  and  the  white  wilderness. 

And  here  and  there  a  solitary  pine, 

Its  branches  broken  by  the  weight  of 

snow. 

His  pains  abate,  his  senses,  dull 

With  suffering,  cease  to  suffer.      40 

Languidly,  languidly. 


Thalaba  drags  along, 

A  heavy  weight  is  on  his  lids. 

His  limbs  move  slow  for  heaviness. 

And  he  full  fain  would  sleep. 

Not  yet,  not  yet,  0  Thalaba, 

Thy  hour  of  rest  is  come  ! 

Not  yet  may  the  Destroyer  sleep  : 

The  comfortable  sleep : 

His  journey  is  not  over  yet,        50 

His  course  not  yet  fulfill'd  !  .  . 

Run  thou  thy  race,  0  Thalaba  ! 

The  prize  is  at  the  goal. 

5 

It  was  a  Cedar- tree 

Which    woke    him    from    that    deadly 

drowsiness ; 

Its  broad  round-spreading  branches, 

when  they  felt        [heaven. 

The  snow,  rose  upward  in  a  point  to 

And  standing  in  their  strength  erect. 

Defied  the  baffled  storm. 

He  knew  the  lesson  Nature  gave,    60 

And  he  shook  off  his  heaviness, 

And  hope  revived  within  him. 

6 

Now  sunk  the  evening  sun, 

A  broad  and  beamless  orb, 

Adown  the  glowing  sky  ; 

Through  the  red  light  the  snow-flakes 

fell  Hke  fire. 

Louder  grows  the  biting  wind. 

And  it  drifts  the  dust  of  the  snow. 

The  snow  is  f^lott^d  in  his  hair. 

The  breath  of  Thalaba  70 

Is  iced  upon  his  hps. 
He  looks  around  ;   the  darkness. 
The  dizzy  floating  of  the  feathery  sky 
Close  in  his  narrow  view. 

7 

At  length,  through  the  thick  atmosphere, 

a  light 

Not  distant  far  appears. 

He,  doubting  other  wiles  of  sorcery. 


THE  TENTH   BOOK 


06 


With  mingled  joy  and  fear, yet  quicken'd 

step. 

Bends  thitherward  his  way. 

8 
".  It  waa  a  little,  lowly  dwelling-place, 
Amid  a  gai-den  whose  delightful  air  8i 
J     Was  mild  and  fragrant  as  the  evening 
wind 
Passing  in  summer  o'er  the  eofTee-groves 
Of  Yemen,  and  its  blessed  bowers  of 
balm. 
A  fount  of  Fire  that  in  the  centre  play'd 
RoU'd  all  around  its  wondrous  rivulets, 
And  fed  the  garden  with  the  heat  of  life. 
Every  where  magic  !  the  Arabian's  heart 
Yearn' d  after  human  intercourse. 
A  light ;  .  .  the  door  unclosed  !  .  .  90 
All  silent  .  .  he  goes  in. 

9 

There  lay  a  Damsel,  sleeping  on  a  couch: 

His  step  awoke  her,  and  she  gazed  at 

him 

With  pleased  and  wondering  look. 

Fearlessly,  like  a  happy  child. 

Too  innocent  to  fear. 

With  words  of  courtesy 

The  young  intruder  spake. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  a  joy 

Kindled  her  bright  black  eyes  ;    100 

She  rose  and  took  his  hand  ; 

■  But  at  the  touch  the  joy  forsook  her 

cheek : 

I  '  Oh  !  it  is  cold  ! '  she  cried, 

I  *  I  thought  I  should  have  felt  it  warm, 

like  mine, 

But  thou  art  like  the  rest ! ' 

I 

Thalaba  stood  mute  awhile, 

And  wondering  at  her  words  : 

*  Cold  ?   Lady  ! '  then  he  said  :    '  I  have 

travel!' d  long 

In  this  cold  wilderness. 

Till  life  is  well-nigh  spent ! '      no 


11 

LAILA 

Art  thou  a  Man,  then  ? 

THALABA 

Nay  .  .  I  did  not  think 

Sorrow  and  toil  could  so  have  alter'd  me. 

As  to  seem  otherwise. 

LAILA 

And  thou  canst  be  warm 
Sometimes  ?  life- warm  as  I  am  ? 

THALABA 

Surcl}',  Lady 

As  others  are,  I  am,  to  heat  and  cold 

Subject  like  all.     You  see  a  Traveller, 

Bound  upon  hard  adventure,  who 

requests  120 

Only  to  rest  him  here  to-night,  .  .  to- 
morrow 
He  will  pursue  his  way. 

LAILA 

Oh  .  .  not  to-morrow  ! 

Not,  like  a  dream  of  joy,  depart  so  soon  ! 

And  whither  wouldst  thou  go  ?    for  all 

around 

Is  everlasting  winter,  ice  and  snow, 

Deserts  unpassable  of  endless  frost. 

THALABA 

He  who  has  led  me  here,  will  still  sustain 

me 

Through  cold  and  hunger. 

12 
'  Hunger  ? '  Laila  cried  :  130 

She  clapt  her  lily  hands. 
And  whether  from  above,  or  from  below. 
It  came,  sight  could  not  soe,  [food. 
So  suddenly  the  flfX)r  was  spread  with 

13 

LAILA 

Why  dost  thou  watch  with  hesitating 

eyes  fcome. 

Tlie  banquet  ?   'tis  for  thee  !    I  bade  it 

THALABA 

Wlicnce  came  it  ? 


96 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


LAILA 

Matters  it  from  whence  it  came  ? 

My  Father  sent  it :  when  I  call,  he  hears. 

Nay,  .  .  thou  hast  fabled  with  me ! 

and  art  like  140 

The  forms  that  wait  upon  my  solitude, 

Human  to  eye  alone  ;  .  .  thy  hunger 

would  not 

Question  so  idly  else. 

THALABA 

I  will  not  eat ! 

It  came  by  magic  !    fool,  to  think  that 

aught  [here. 

But  fraud  and  danger  could  await  me 

Let  loose  my  cloak  !  .  . 

LAILA 

Begone  then,  insolent ! 
Why  dost  thou  stand  and  gaze  upon 
me  thus  ? 
Ay  !  eye  the  features  well  that  threaten 
thee  150 

With  fraud  and  danger  !  in  the  wilder- 
ness [want, 
They  shall  avenge  me,  .  .  in  the  hour  of 
Rise  on  thy  view,  and  make  thee  feel 

How  innocent  I  am  : 
And  this  remember' d  cowardice  and 

insult,  [thy  cheek. 

With  a  more  painful  shame  will  burn 
Than  now  heats  mine  in  anger  ! 

THALABA 

Mark  me.  Lady  ! 

Many  and  restless  are  my  enemies  ; 

My  daily  paths  have  been  beset  with 

snares  160 

Till  I  have  learnt  suspicion,  bitter 

sufferings 

Teaching  the  needful  vice.     If  I  have 

wrong' d  you,  .  ,     [cence,  .  . 

For  yours  should  be  the  face  of  inno- 

I  pray  you  pardon  me  !   In  the  name 

of  God 

And  of  his  Prophet,  I  partake  your  food. 


LAILA 

Lo,  now  !    thou  wert  afraid  of  sorcery, 
And  yet  hast  said  a  charm  ! 

THALABA 

A  charm  ? 

LAILA 

And  wherefore  ?  .  . 

Is  it  not  delicate  food  ?  .  .     What  mea 

thy  words  ?  170 

I  have  heard  many  spells,  and  many 

names, 

That  rule  the  Genii  and  the  Elements, 

But  never  these. 

THALABA 

How  !  never  heard  the  names 
Of  God  and  of  the  Prophet  ? 

LAILA 

Never  .  .  nay  now  ! 
Again  that  troubled  eye  ?  .  .  thou  art 

a  strange  man. 
And  wondrous  fearful  .  .  .  but  I  must 
not  twice     [pectest  still, 
Be  charged  with  fraud  :  If  thou  sus- 
Depart  and  leave  me  !  180 

THALABA 

And  you  do  not  know 
The  God  that  made  you  ? 

LAILA 

Made  me,  man  !  .  .  my  Father       — 
Made  me.    He  made  this  dwelling,  and 
the  grove,  [morn 

And  yonder  fountain-fire  ;   and  every 
He  visits  me,  and  takes  the  snow,  and 
moulds  [into  them 

Women  and  men,like  thee;  and  breathes 
Motion,  and  life,  and  sense,  .  .  but,  to 
the  toucl>     [night  closes 
They  are  chilling  cold ;    and  ever  when 
Tiiey  melt  away  again,  and  leave  me  v, 
here  190 

Alone  and  sad.    Oh  then  how  I  rejoice 
When  it  is  daj\  and  my  dear  Father 
comes 


THE   TENTH   BOOK 


97 


And  cheers  me  with  kind  words  and 

kinder  looks  ! 

My  dear,  tlear  Father  !  .  .  Were  it  not 

for  him, 

I  am  so  weary  of  this  loneliness, 

That  I  should  wish  I  also  were  of  snow. 

That  I  might  melt  away,  and  cease  to  be. 

TIIALABA 

And  have  you  always  had  your  dwelling 

here 

Amid  this  solitude  of  snow  '! 

LAILA 

I  think  so.  200 

I  can  remember,  with  unsteady  feet 
Tottering    from    room    to    room,    and 

finding  pleasure 
In  flowers,  and  toys,  and  sweetmeats, 

things  which  long 

Have  lost  their  power  to  please  ;   which, 

when  I  see  them. 

Raise  only  now  a  melancholy  wish, 

I  were  the  little  trifler  once  again 

Who  could  be  pleased  so  lightly  ! 

TIIALABA 

Then  you  know  not 
Your  Father's  art  ? 

LAILA 

No.     I  besought  him  once        210 

To  give  me  power  like  his,  that  where  he 

went  [head, 

'  might  go  with  him  ;    but  he  shook  his 

And  said,  it  was  a  power  too  dearly 

bought,  [teai-s. 

And  kiss'd  me  with  the  tenderness  of 

THALABA 

\nd  wherefore  hath  he  hidden  you  thus 

far 
:    From  all  the  ways  of  humankind  ? 

I  LAILA 

'Twas  fear, 

•'atherly  fear  and  love.     He  read  the 

stars, 

And  saw  a  danger  in  my  destiny, 


And  therefore  placed  me  here  amid  the 

snows,  220 

And  laid  a  spell  that  never  human  eye, 

If  foot  of  man  by  chance  should  reach 

the  depth 

Of  this  wide  waste,  shall  see  one  trace  of 

grove,  flire, 

(Jarden  or  tlwelling-place,  or  yonder 

That  thaws  and  mitigates  the  frozen  sky. 

And,  more  than  this,  even  if  the  Enemy 

Should  come,  I  have  a  Guardian  hero. 

THALABA 

A  Guardian  ? 

LAILA 

'Twas  well,  that  when  my  sight  unclosed 

upon  thee,  [face, 

There  was  no  dark  suspicion  in  thj'' 

Else  I  had  called  his  succour  !    Wilt 

thou  see  him  ?  231 

But,  if  a  woman  can  have  tenified  thee, 

How  wilt  thou  bear  his  unrelaxing  brow. 

And  lifted  lightnings  ? 

THALABA 

Lead  me  to  him.  Lady  ! 

14 

She  took  him  by  the  hand, 

And  through  the  porch  they  pass'd. 

Over  the  garden  and  the  grove 

The  fountain-streams  of  tire 

Pour'd  a  broad  light  like  noon  :  240 

A  broad  unnatural  light, 

Which  made  the  rose's  blush  of  beauty 

pale,  [blaze. 

And  dimm'd  the  rich  geranium's  scarlet 

The  various  verdure  of  the  prove 

Wore  here  one  \mdistinguishable  grey, 

Chefjuer'd  with  blacker  shade. 

Suddenly  Laila  stopt, 

'  I  do  not  think  thou  art  the  enemy,' 

She  said.  '  but  He  will  know  ! 

If  thou  hast  meditated  wrong,     250 

Stranger,  depart  in  time  .  . 

I  would  not  lead  thee  to  thy  death.' 


98 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


15 
She  turn'd  her  gentle  eyes 
Toward  him  then  with  anxious  tender- 
ness. [Thalaba, 
'  So  let  him   pierce   my   breast,'    cried 
'  If  it  hide  thought  to  harm  you  ! ' 

LAILA 

'Tis  a  figure, 
Almost  I  fear  to  look  at ! .  .  yet  come  on. 
'Twill  ease  me  of  a  heaviness  that  seems 
To  sink  my  heart ;   and  thou  may'st 
dwell  here  then  260 

In  safety ;  .  .  for  thou  shalt  not  go  to- 
morrow. 
Nor  on  the  after,  nor  the  after  day. 
Nor  ever  !  It  was  only  solitude 
Which  made  my  misery  here,  .  . 
And  now,  that  I  can  see  a  human  face, 
And  hear  a  human  voice  .  .  . 
Oh  no  !  thou  wilt  not  leave  me  ! 

THALABA 

Alas,  I  must  not  rest ! 
The  star  that  ruled  at  my  nativity, 
Shone  with  a  strange  and  blasting  in- 
fluence. 270 
O  gentle  Lady  !  I  should  draw  upon  you 
A  killing  curse  ! 

LAILA 

But  I  will  ask  my  Father 
To  save  you  from  all  danger ;    and  you 
know  not  [I  ask, 

The  wonders  he  can  work  ;    and  when 
It  is  not  in  his  power  to  say  me  nay. 
Perhaps  thou  know'st  the  happiness  it  is 
To  have  a  tender  Father  ? 

THALABA 

He  was  one,  [tainted 

Whom,  like  a  loathsome  leper,  I  have 
With  my  contagious  destiny.      One 

evening  280 

He  kiss'd  me  as  he  wont,  and  laid  his 
hands  [slept. 

Upon  my  head,  and  blest  me  ere  I 


His    dying    groan    awoke    me,    for    the 

Murderer 
Had  stolen  upon  our  sleep  !  .  .  For  me 

was  meant 
The  midnight  blow  of  death  ;  my  Fathei 

died  ; 

The  brother  playmates  of  my  infancy, 

The  baby  at  the  breast,  they  perish' d 

all,  .  .  [savec 

All  in  that  dreadful  hour  !  .  .  but  I  wa^ 

To  remember  and  revenge. 

16 
She  answer' d  not ;  for  now,      29( 
Emerging  from  the  o'er-arch'd  avenue. 
The  finger  of  her  upraised  hand       j 
Mark'd    where    the    Guardian    of    the' 
garden  stood. 
It  was  a  brazen  Image,  every  limb     ■ 
And  swelling  vein  and  muscle  true  to  life: 
The  left  knee  bending  on,    [banc. 
The  other  straight,  firm  planted,  and  hit; 
Lifted  on  high  to  hurl 
The  lightning  that  it  grasp'd. 

17        _ 

When  Thalaba  approach' d,       30CI 

The  enchanted  Image  knew  Hodeirah't; 

son,  [foe.  I 

And  hurl'd  the  lightning  at  the  dreadecj 

But  from  Mohareb's  hand 
Had  Thalaba  received  Abdaldar's  Ring 
Blindly  the  wicked  work 
The  righteous  will  of  Heaven. 
Full  in  his  face  the  lightning-bolt  wai 
driven ;  ! 

The  scatter' d  fire  recoil' d  ; 
Like  the  flowing  of  a  summer  gale  he  fell 
Its  ineffectual  force  ;  3" 

His  countenance  was  not  changed, 
Nor  a  hair  of  his  head  was  singed. 
18 
He  started,  and  his  glance 
Turn'd  angrily  upon  the  Maid. 
The  sight  disarm' d  suspicion  ;  .  .  breath- 
less, pale, 


THE   TENTH   BOOK 


99 


Against  a  tree  slie  stood  ; 
Her  wan  lips  quivering,  and  lier  eyes 
Upraised,  in  silent  supplicating  fear. 
1<) 
Anon  she  started  with  a  scream  of  joy, 
Seeing  her  Father  there,  320 

And  ran  and  threw  her  arms  around  his 
neck.  [come ! 

'  Save  me  ! '  she  cried,  '  the  Enemy  is 
Save  me  !  save  me  !  Okba  I ' 

20 

'  Okba  ! '   repeats  the  youth  ; 

For  never  since  that  hour. 

When  in  the  tent  the  Spirit  told  his  name, 

Had  Thalaba  let  slip 

The  memory  of  his  Father's  murderer; 

'  (^kba  ! '  .  .  and  in  his  hand 

He  graspt  an  arrow-shaft,         33b 

And  ho  rush'd  on  to  strike  him. 

i  21 

; '  Son  of  Hodeirah ! '  the  Okl  Man  replied, 

'  ^fy  hour  is  not  yet  come  ; ' 
!  And  putting  forth  his  hand 

I  Gently  he  repell'd  the  Youth. 

*  My  hour  is  not  yet  come  ! 

But    thou    may'st    shed    this   innocent 

Maiden's  blood  ; 

That  vengeance  God  allows  thee  ! ' 

22 

Around  her  Father's  neck 
j       Still  Laila's  hands  were  clasp' d  ;  340 
!       Her  face  was  turn'd  to  Thalaba, 
A  broad  light  floated  o'er  its  marble 

paleness, 
I  As  the  wind  waved  the  fountain  fire. 
Her  large  dilated  eye,  in  horror  raised, 
Watch'd  every  look  and  movement  of 
1  the  youth  : 

1  '  Not  upon  her,'  said  he, 

*  Not  upon  her,  Hodeirah' s  blood  cries 
out  farm 

For  vengeance  ! '   and  again  his  lifted 
Threaten'd  the  Sorcerer: 


Again  withheld,  it  felt  350 

A  l)arrier  that  no  human  strength  could 
burst. 

23 

'  Tho\i    dost    not    aim    the    blow    more 
eagerly.'  [meet  it  ! 

Okba   replied,   '  than   I   would  rush  to 
But  that  were  poor  revenge. 

0  Thalaba,  thy  God 

Wreaks  on  the  innocent  head 

Hia  vengeance  ;  .  .  I  must  suffer  in  my 

child  !    [victim  '!  Allah 

Why   dost    thou    pause    to   strike    thy 

Permits,  .  .  commands  the  deed.' 

24 
'  Liar  ! '  quoth  Thalaba.         360 
And  Laila's  wondering  eye  [face. 
Look'd  up,  all  anguish,  to  her  father's 
'  By  Allah  and  the  Prophet,'  he  replied, 
'  I  speak  the  words  of  truth. 
Misery  !  misery  ! 
That  I  must  beg  mine  enemy  to  speed 
The  inevitable  vengeance  now  so  near  ! 
I  read  it  in  her  horoscope  ;  [race. 
Her  birth-star  warn'd  me  of  Hodeirah's 
I  laid  a  sjwll,  and  call'd  a  Spirit  up ; 
He  answered,  one  must  die,      371 
Laila  or  Thalaba,  .  . 
Accursed  Spirit !  even  in  truth 
Giving  a  lying  hope  ! 
Last,  I  ascended  the  seventh  Heaven, 
And  on  the  Everlasting  Table  there. 
In  characters  of  light, 
I  read  her  written  doom. 
The  years  that  it  has  gnawn  me  !    and 

the  load 
Of  sin  that  it  has  laid  upon  my  .'•oul  !  3^0 
Curse  on  this  hand,  that  in  the  only  hour 
The  favouring  Stars  allow'd, 
Reek'd  with  other  blood  than  thine. 
Still  dost  thou  stand  and  gaze  incredu- 
lous ? 
Young  man,  be  merciful,  and  keep  her  not 
Longer  in  agony.' 


100 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


25 

Thalaba's  unbelieving  frown 

Scowl' d  on  the  Sorcerer,  [heard, 

When  in  the  air  the  rush  of  wings  was 

And  Azrael  stood  before  them.    390 

In  equal  terror  at  the  sight, 

The  Enchanter,  the  Destroyer  stood, 

And  Laila,  the  victim  Maid. 

26 

'  Son  of  Hodeirah  ! '    said  the  Angel  of 

Death, 

'  The  accursed  fables  not. 

When  from  the  Eternal  Hand  I  took 

The  yearly  scroll  of  Fate, 

Her  name  was  written  there  ;  .  . 

Her  leaf  had  wither' d  on  the  Tree  of  Life. 

This  is  the  hour,  and  from  thy  hands  400 

Commission' d  to  receive  the  Maid 

I  come.' 

27 

'  Hear  me,  0  Angel ! '  Thalaba  replied  ; 
'  To  avenge  my  father's  death, 
To  work  the  will  of  Heaven,  [race, 
To  root  from  earth  the  accursed  sorcerer 

I  have  dared  danger  undismay'd, 
T      I  have  lost  all  my  soul  held  dear, 

I  am  cut  ofif  from  all  the  ties  of  life, 

Unmurmuring.    For  whate'er  awaits  me 

still,  409 

Pursuing  to  the  end  the  enterprize. 

Peril  or  pain,  I  bear  a  ready  heart. 

But  strike  this  Maid  !  this  innocent ! . . 

Angel,  I  dare  not  do  it.' 

28 

•  Remember,'  answer' d  Azrael,  '  all  thou 

say'st  [word 

Is  written  down  for  judgement !    every 

In  the  balance  of  thy  trial  must  be 

weigh' d  ! ' 

29 

'  So  be  it  !  '  said  the  Youth  : 

'  He  who  can  read  the  secrets  of  the 

heart. 


Will  judge  with  righteousness  ! 
This  is  no  doubtful  path  ;         420 
The  voice  of  God  within  me  cannot  lie. . . 
I  will  not  harm  the  innocent.' 

30 

He  said,  and  from  above. 

As  though  it  were  the  Voice  of  Night, 

The  startling  answer  came. 

'  Son  of  Hodeirah,  think  again  ! 

One  must  depart  from  hence, 

Laila,  or  Thalaba  ; 

She  dies  for  thee,  or  thou  for  her  ; 

It  must  be  life  for  life  !  430 

Son  of  Hodeirah,  weigh  it  well. 
While  yet  the  choice  is  thine  ! ' 

31 

He  hesitated  not, 

But,  looking  upward,  spread  his  hands 

to  Heaven, 

'  Oneiza,  in  thy  bower  of  Paradise, 

Receive  me,  still  unstain'd  ! ' 

32 

'  What ! '  exclaim' d  Okba,  '  darest  thou 

disobey. 

Abandoning  all  claim 

To  Allah's  longer  aid  ? ' 

33 

The  eager  exultation  of  his  speech 
Earthward  recall' d  the  thoughts  of 

Thalaba.  441 

'  And  dost  thou  triumph,  Murderer  ? 

dost  thou  deem 

Because  I  perish,  that  the  unsleeping  lids 

Of  Justice  shall  be  closed  upon  thy 

crime  ? 

Poor,  miserable  man !  that  thou  canst 

live 

With  such  beast- blindness  in  the  present 

joy,  [God 

When  o'er  thy  head  the  sword  of 

Hangs  for  the  certain  stroke  ' ' 


THE   TENTH   BOOK 


lor 


34 

^!  'Servant  of  Allah,  thou  hast  ilisobcy'd  ; 
Ood  hath  abandon'd  thee  ;        45° 
This  hour  is  mine  !  '  cried  (~>kba, 
ij  And  shook  his  daughter  off, 

ij      And  drew  the  dagirer  from  his  vest. 
And  aim'd  the  deadly  blow. 

35 

All    was    accomplish'd.       Laila    rush'd 

between 

To  save  the  saviour  Youth. 

.  Sho  met  the  blow,  and  sunk  into  his 

I  arras, 

And  Azrael,  from  the  hands  of  Thalaba, 

Received  her  parting  soul. 


THE   ELEVENTH  BOOK 

Those,  Sir,  that  traflic  in  these  seas, 
Fraught  not  their  bark  with  fears. 

Sir  Robert  How.vrd. 


0  FOOL,  to  think  thy  human  liand 
Could     check     the     chariot- wheels     of 

Destiny  ! 
To    dream    of    weakness    in    the    all- 
knowing  Mind, 
That  its  decrees  should  change  ! 
To  hojjc  that  the  united  Powers 
Of  Earth,  and  Air,  and  Hell, 
Might  blot  one  letter  from  the  Book  of 
Fate,  [chain  ! 

I      Might  break  one  link  of  the  eternal 
Thou  mi.serable,  wicked,  poor  old  man  ! 
Fall  now  upon  the  body  of  thy  cliild,  lo 
Beat  now  thy  breast,  and  pluck  the 
bleeding  hairs 
From  thy  grey  beard,  and  lay 
Thine    inefTectual    hand    to    close    her 
wound, 
And  call  on  Hell  to  aid. 
And  call  on  Heaven  to  scud 
Its  merciful  thunderbolt  ! 


The  yoimg  Arabian  silently 

Beheld  his  frantic  grief. 

The  pre.«!ence  of  the  hated  youth 

To  raging  anguish  stung  20 

The  wretelied  Sorcerer. 

'  Ay  !  look  and  triumph  ! '  he  cxclaim'd  : 

'  This  is  the  justice  of  thy  (Jod  ! 

A  righteous  (Jod  is  he,  to  let 

His  vengeance  fall   upon   the  innocent 

head  !  .  . 

Curse  thee,  curse  thee,  Thalaba  I' 

3 

All  feelings  of  revenge 

Had  left  Hodeirah's  son. 

Pitying  and  silently  he  heard 

The  victim  of  his  own  initjuities  ;   30 

Not  with  the  officious  hand 

Of  consolation,  fretting  the  sore  wound 

He  could  not  hope  to  heal. 

4 

So  as  the  Servant  of  the  Prophet  stood, 
With  sudden  motion  the  night-air 

(lentl}'  fann'd  his  cheek. 

'Twas  a  (Jrcen  Bird,  whose  wings 

Had  waved  the  (juiet  air. 

On  the  hand  of  Thalaba 

The  (Jrcen  l^ird  percli'd,  and  turn'd    40 

A  mild  eye  up,  as  if  to  win 

The  Adventurer's  conlidence  ; 

Then,  springing  on.  Hew  forward  ; 

And  now  attain  returns 

To  court  him  to  the  way  ; 

And  now  his  hand  jicrccives 

Her  rosy  feet  pre.ss  firmer,  as  she  leaps 

Upon  the  wing  again. 

5 

Obedient  to  the  call, 

B}'  the  pale  moonlight  Thalaba  pursued. 

I  O'er  trackless  snows,  his  way;      5» 

Triknowing  he  what  blessed  me.'^srngcr 

Had  come  to  guide  liis  stops,  .  . 

'  That  Laila's  spirit  went  before  his  path. 


102 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


Brought  up  in  darkness,  and  the  child 

of  sin, 

Yet,  as  the  meed  of  spotless  innocence, 

Just  Heaven  permitted  her  by  one  good 

deed  [death ; 

To  work  her  own  redemption  after 

So,  till  the  Judgement  day. 

She  might  abide  in  bliss,  60 

Green  warbler  of  the  Bowers  of  Paradise. 


The  morning  sun  came  forth, 

Wakening  no  eye  to  Hfe 

In  this  wide  solitude  ; 

His  radiance,  with  a  saffron  hue,  like 

heat, 

Suffused  the  desert  snow. 

The  Green  Bird  guided  Thalaba  ; 

Now  oaring  with  slow  wing  her  upward 

way. 

Descending  now  in  slant  descent 

On  out- spread  pinions  motionless  ;  70 

Floating  now,  with  rise  and  fall  alternate, 

As  if  the  billows  of  the  air 

Heaved  her  with  their  sink  and  swell. 

And  when  beneath  the  moon 

The  icy  glitter  of  the  snow 

Dazzled  his  aching  sight. 

Then  on  his  arm  alighted  the  Green  Bird, 

And  spread  before  his  eyes 

Her  plumage  of  refreshing  hue. 


Evening  came  on ;    the  glowing  clouds 

Tinged  with  a  purple  ray  the  mountain 

ridge  81 

That  lay  before  the  Traveller. 

Ah  !    whither  art  thou  gone, 

Guide  and  companion  of  the  youth, 

whose  eye 
Has  lost  thee  in  the  depth  of  Heaven  ? 

Why  hast  thou  left  alone 

The  weary  wanderer  in  the  wilderness  ? 

And  now  the  western  clouds  grow  pale. 

And  night  descends  upon  his  solitude. 


8 
The  Arabian  youth  knelt  down,    90 
And  bow'd  his  forehead  to  the  ground. 

And  made  his  evening  prayer. 

When  he  arose  the  stars  were  bright  in 

heaven. 

The  sky  was  blue,  and  the  cold  Moon 

Shone  over  the  cold  snow. 

A  speck  in  the  air  ! 

Is  it  his  guide  that  approaches  ? 

For  it  moves  with  the  motion  of  life  ! 

Lo  !   she  returns,  and  scatters  from  her 

pinions  [morning 

Odours  diviner  than   the  gales  of 

Waft  from  Sabea.  10 1 


Hovering  before  the  youth  she  hung, 

Till  from  her  rosy  feet,  that  at  his  touch 

Uncurl' d  their  grasp,  he  took 

The  fruitful  bough  they  bore. 

He  took  and  tasted  :   a  new  life 

Flow'd  through  his  renovated  frame  ; 

His  limbs,  that  late  were  sore  and  stiff, 

Felt  all  the  freshness  of  repose  ; 

His  dizzy  brain  was  calm'd,       no 

The  heavy  aching  of  his  lids  w^as  gone ; 

For  Laila,  from  the  Bowers  of  Paradise, 

Had  borne  the  healing  fruit. 

10 

So  up  the  mountain  steep, 

With  untired  foot  he  pass'd. 

The  Green  Bird  guiding  him. 

Mid  crags,  and  ice,  and  rocks, 

A  difficult  way,  winding  the  long  ascent. 

How  then  the  heart  of  Thalaba  rejoiced, 

When,  bosom' d  in  the  mountain  depths, 

A  shelter' d  Valley  open'd  on  his  view  ! 

It  was  the  Simorg's  vale,         122 

The  dwelling  of  the  Ancient  Bird. 

11 


On  a  green  and  mossy  bank. 

Beside  a  rivulet. 

The  Bird  of  Ages  stood. 


i 


THE   ELEVENTH   BOOK 


103 


No  sound  intruded  on  his  solitude. 

Only  the  rivulet  was  heard, 

Whose  everlasting  flow. 

From  the  birth-day  of  the  world,  had 

made  130 

The  same  unvaried  murmuring. 

Here  dwelt  the  all-knowing  Bird 

In  deep  tranquillity. 

His  eye-lids  ever  closed 

In  full  enjoyment  of  profound  repose. 

12 

Reverently  the  youth  approach'd 

Tliat  old  and  only  Bird, 

And  crost  his  arms  upon  his  breast, 

And  bow'd  his  head  and  spake. 

'  Earliest  of  existing  things,       140 

Earliest  thou,  and  wisest  thou, 

Guide  me,  guide  me,  on  my  way  ! 

I  am  bound  to  seek  the  Caverns 

Underneath  the  roots  of  Ocean, 

Where  the  Sorcerers  have  their  seat ; 

Thou  the  eldest,  thou  the  wisest, 

Guide  me,  guide  me,  on  my  way  ! ' 

13 

The  ancient  Simorg  on  the  youth 

Unclosed  his  thoughtful  eyes. 

And  answer'd  to  his  prayer.       150 

'  Northward  by  the  stream  proceed  ; 

In  the  Fountain  of  the  Rock 

Wash  away  thy  worldly  stains 

Kneel  thou  there,  and  seek  the  Lord, 

And  fortify  thy  soul  with  prayer. 

Thus  prepared,  ascend  the  Sledge  ; 

Be  bold,  be  wary  ;   seek  and  find  ! 

God  hath  appointed  all.' 

The  Ancient  Simorg  then  let  fall  his  lids, 

Relapsing  to  repose.  160 

14 

Northward,  along  the  rivulet, 

The  adventurer  went  his  way  ; 

Tracing  its  waters  upward  to  their 

source. 

Green  Bird  of  Paradise, 


Thou  hast  not  left  the  youth  !  .  . 

With  slow  associate  flight, 

She  companies  his  way  ; 

.iVnd  now  they  reach  the  Fountain  of  the 

Rock. 

1.') 

There,  in  the  cold  clear  well,      169 

Thalaba  wash'd  away  his  earthly  stains, 

And  bow'd  his  face  before  the  Lord, 

And  fortified  his  soul  with  prayer. 

The  while,  upon  the  rock, 

Stood  the  celestial  Bird,     [pass. 

And  pondering  all  the  perils  he  must 

With  a  mild,  melancholy  eye. 

Beheld  the  youth  beloved. 

IG 

And  lo  !    beneath  yon  lonely  pine,  the 

Sledge  :  .  . 

There  stand  the  harness'd  Dogs, 

Their  wide  eyes  watching  for  the  youth, 

Their  ears  erect,  and  turn'd  toward  his 

way.  181 

They  were  lean  as  lean  might  be. 

Their  furrow' d  ribs  rose  prominent. 

And  they  were  black  from  head  to  foot, 

Save  a  white  line  on  every  breast. 

Curved  like  the  crescent  moon. 

Thalaba  takes  his  scat  in  the  sledge  ; 

His  arms  are  folded  on  his  breast, 

The  Bird  is  on  his  knees  ; 

There  is  fear  in  the  eyes  of  the  Dogs,  190 

There  is  fear  in  their  pitiful  moan. 

And  now  they  turn  their  heads. 

And  seeing  him  seated,  away  ! 

17 
The  youth,  with  the  start  of  their  speed. 

Falls  back  to  the  bar  of  the  sledge  ; 

His  hair  floats  straight  in  the  stream  of 

the  wind 

Like  the  weeds  in  the  running  brook. 

They  wind  with  speed  their  upward  wn} , 

An  icy  path  through  rot^ks  of  ice  : 

His  eye  is  at  the  summit  now,    200 


104 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


And  thus  far  all  is  dangerless  ; 

And  now  upon  the  height 
The  black.  Dogs  j^ause  and  pant ; 
They  turn  their  eyes  to  Thalaba 

As  if  to  plead  for  pity  ; 
They  moan  and  whine  with  fear. 

18 
Once  more  away  !    and  now 

The  long  descent  is  seen, 

A  long,  long,  narrow  path  ; 

Ice-rocks  aright,  and  hills  of  snow, 

Aleft  the  precipice.  211 

Be  firm,  be  tirm,  0  Thalaba  ! 

One  motion  now,  one  bend. 

And  on  the  crags  below 

Thy  shattered  flesh  will  harden  in  the 

frost. 

Why  howl  the  Dogs  so  mournfully  '! 

And  wherefore  does  the  blood  flow  fast 

All  purple  o'er  their  sable  skin  ? 

His  arms  are  folded  on  his  breast, 

Nor  scourge  nor  goad  hath  he,   220 

No  hand  appears  to  strike, 

No  sounding  lash  is  heard  ; 

But  piteously  they  moan  and  whine, 

And  track  their  way  with  blood. 

19 

Behold  !   on  yonder  height 

A  giant  Fiend  aloft 

Waits    to    thrust    down    the    tottering 

avalanche  ! 

If  Thalaba  looks  back,  he  dies  ; 

The  motion  of  fear  is  death. 

On  .  .  on  .  .  with  swift  and  steady  pace, 

Adown  that  dreadful  way"!        231 

The  Youth  is  firm,  the  Dogs  are  fleet, 

The  Sledge  goes  rapidly  ; 

The  thunder  of  the  avalanche 

Re-echoes  far  behind. 

On  .  .  on  .  .  with  swift  and  steady  pace, 

Adown  that  dreadful  way  ! 
The  Dogs  are  fleet,  the  way  is  steep, 
■*^      The  Sledge  goes  rapidly  ; 

They  reach  the  plain  below.       240 


20 
A  wide,  blank  plain,  all  desolate. 

Nor  tree,  nor  bush,  nor  herb  ! 

On  go  the  Dogs  with  rapid  course. 

The  Sledge  slides  after  rapidly. 

And  now  the  sun  went  down. 

The}^  stopt  and  look'd  at  Thalaba, 

The  Youth  performed  his  prayer  ! 

They  knelt  beside  him  while  he  pray'd, 

They  turn'd  their  heads  to  Mecca, 

And  tears  ran  down  their  cheeks.  250 

Then  down  they  laid  them  in  the  snow. 

As  close  as  they  could  lie, 

They  laid  them  down  and  slept. 

And  backward  in  the  sledge. 

The  Adventurer  laid  himself ; 

There  peacefully  slept  Thalaba, 

And  the  Green  Bird  of  Paradise 

Lay  nestling  in  his  breast. 

21 

The  Dogs  awoke  him  at  the  dawn, 

They  knelt  and  wept  again  ;       260 

Then  rapidly  they  journey' d  on. 

And  still  the  plain  was  desolate. 

Nor  tree,  nor  bush,  nor  herb  ! 

And  ever  at  the  hour  of  prayer. 

They  stopt,  and  knelt,  and  wept ; 

And  still  that  green  and  graceful  Bird 

Was  as  a  friend  to  him  by  day. 

And,  ever  when  at  night  he  slept. 

Lay  nestling  in  his  breast. 

22 

In  that  most  utter  solitude       270 

It  cheer' d  his  heart  to  hear 

Her  soft  and  soothing  voice. 

Her  voice  was  soft  and  sweet. 

It  rose  not  with  the  blackbird's  thrill. 

Nor  warbled  like  that  dearest  bird  that 

holds 

The  solitary  man 

A  loiterer  in  his  thoughtful  walk  at  eve  ; 

But  if  it  swell'd  with  no  exuberant  J03', 

It  had  a  tone  that  touch'd  a  finer  string, 


THE   ELEVENTH   BOOK 


106 


A   music   that   the   soul   received   and 

own'd.  280 

Her  bill  was  not  the  beak  of  blood  ; 

There  was  a  liuman  meaning  in  her  eye 

When  lix'd  on  Tiialaba, 

He  wondcr'd  while  he  gazed, 

And  with  mysterious  love 

Felt  his  heart  drawn  in  powerful  sym- 

patliy. 

23 

Oh  joy  !   the  signs  of  life  appear, 
The  first  and  single  Fir 
That  on  the  limits  of  the  living  world 
Strikes  in  the  ice  its  roots.        290 
/  Another,  and  another  now  ; 

And    now    the    Larch,    that    flings    its 
arms 
Down-curving  like  the  falling  wave ; 
And  now  the  Aspin's  scattered  leaves 
(Jrey-glittering  on  the  moveless  twig  ; 
The  Poplar's  varying  verdure  now, 
And  now  the  Birch  so  beautiful 
Light  as  a  lady's  plumes. 
Oh  joy  !    the  signs  of  life  !    the  Deer 
Hath  left  his  slot  beside  the  way;  300 
The  little  Ermine  now  is  seen, 
White  wanderer  of  the  snow  ; 
And  now  from  yonder  pines  they  hear 
The  clatter  of  the  Grouse's  wings  ; 
And  now  the  snowy  Owl  pursues 
The  Traveller's  sledge,  in  hope  of  food  ; 
And  hark  !   the  rosy- breasted  bird, 

The  Throstle  of  sweet  song  ! 
Joy!  joy!    the  winter-wilds  are  left ! 
Green  bushes  now,  and  greener  grass. 
Red  thickets  here,  all  berry- bright,  311 
I  And  here  the  lovely  flowers  ! 

I 

24 

When   the  last   morning   of   their   way 

was  come, 

After  the  early  prayer, 

The  Green  Bird  fix'd  on  Thalaba 

A  sad  and  supplicating  eye, 


And  speech  was  given  her  then  : 
'  Servant  of  God,  1  leave  thee  now  ; 
If  rightly  I  have  guided  thee. 
Give  me  the  boon  I  beg  ! '       320 

25 

'  O  gentle  Bird  ! "    quoth  Thalaba, 

'  Guide  and  companion  of  my  dangerous 

way, 

Friend  and  sole  solace  of  my  solitude. 

How  can  I  pay  thee  benefits  like  these  ? 

Ask  what  thou  wilt  that  I  can  give, 

0  gentle  Bird,  the  poor  return 

Will  leave  me  debtor  still  ! ' 

2t) 

'  Son  of  Hodcirah  ! '   she  replied, 

'  When  thou  shalt  see  au  Old  Man  bent 

beneath 
The  burthen  of  his  earthly  punishment. 
Forgive  him,  Thalaba  !         331 
Yea,  send  a  prayer  to  God  in  his  behalf!' 

27 

A  flush  o'erspread  the  young  Destroyer's 

cheek  ; 

He  turn'd  his  eye  towards  the  Bird 

As  if  in  half  repentance  ;  for  he  thought 

Of  Okba  ;   and  his  Father's  dying  groan 

Came  on  his  mcmor3\     The  celestial 

Bird 

Saw  and  renew'dr  her  speech  ; 

'  0  Thalaba,  if  she  who  in  thine  arms 

Received  the  dagger-blow  and  died  for 

thee  340 

Deserve  one  kind  remembrance,  .  .  save, 

0  save       [less  death  ! ' 

The  Father  that  she  loves  from  end- 

28 

'  Laila  !    and  is  it  thou  ? '    the  youth 

rephcd,  [thee  ? 

'  What  is  there  that  I  durst  refuse  to 

This  is  no  time  to  harbour  in  my  heart 

One  evil  thought ;  .  .  here  I  put  oil 

revenge, 

3 


106 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


The  last  rebellious  feeling.  ..  Be  it  so  I 

God  grant  to  me  the  pardon  that  I  need, 

As  I  do  pardon  him  I  .  . 

But  who  am  I,  that  I  should  save  350 

The  sinful  soul  alive  ? ' 

29 

'  Enough  I '    said  Laila.  '  When  the 

hour  shall  come, 

Remember  me  !    m^-  task  is  done. 

We  meet  again  in  Paradise  ! ' 

She  said,  and  shook  her  wings,  and  up 

she  soar  d 

AVith  arrowy  swiftness  through  the 

heights  of  Heaven. 

30 

His  aching  eye  pursued  her  path, 

When  starting  onward  Avent  the  Dogs  ; 

More  rapidh-  they  hurried  now, 

In  hope  of  near  repose.         360 

It  was  the  early  morning  j'et. 

When,  by  the  ^Aell-head  of  a  brook 

They  stopt,  their  journey  done. 

The  spring  was  clear,  the  water  deep  ; 

A  venturous  man  were  he,  and  rash, 

That  should  have  jn-obed  its  depths. 

For  all  its  loosen' d  bed  below, 

Heaved  strangely  up  and  down, 

And  to  and  fro,  from  side  to  side. 

It  heaved,  and  waved,  and  toss'd,  370 

And  yet  the  depths  were  clear, 

And  yet  no  ripple  wrinkled  o'er 

The  face  of  that  fair  Well. 

31 

And  on  that  Well,  so  strange  and  fair, 

A  little  boat  there  lay, 

Without  an  oar,  without  a  sail, 

-One  only  seat  it  had,  one  seat. 

As  if  for  only  Thalaba. 

And  at  the  helm  a  Damsel  stood, 

A  Damsel  bright  and  bold  of  eye,  380 

Yet  did  a  maiden  modesty 

Adorn  her  fearless  brow  ; 


Her  face  was  sorrowful,  but  sure 

More  beautiful  for  sorrow. 

To  her  the  Dogs  look'd  wistful  up, 

And  then  their  tongues  were  loosed  : 

'  Have  we  done  well,  O  Mistress  dear  ! 

And  shall  our  sufferings  end  ? ' 

32 

The  gentle  Damsel  made  replj' ;    3891 
'  Poor  servants  of  the  God  I  serve. 
When  all  this  witchery  is  destroy" d, 

Your  woes  will  end  with  mine. 
A  hope,  alas  !    how  long  unknown  ! 

This  new  adventurer  gives  ; 
Now  God  forbid,,  that  he,  like  you, 

Should  perish  for  his  fears  ! 

Poor  servants  of  the  God  I  serve, 

Wait  ye  the  event  in  peace.' 

A  deep  and  total  slumber  as  she  spake 

Seized  them.     Sleep  on,  poor  sufferers  ! 


be  at  rest 


400 


Ye  wake  no  more  to  anguish  :  .  .  ye 

have  borne 

The  Chosen,  the  Destroyer  !  .  .  soon  hisi 

hand 

Shall  strike  the  efficient  blow  ; 
And  shaking  off  your  penal  forms,  shall 

ye, 

With  songs  of  joy,  amid  the  Eden  groves, 

Hymn  the  DeliAerer's  praise. 

33 

Then  did  the  Damsel  say  to  Thalaba, 

'  The  morn  is  young,  the  Sun  is  fair, 

And  pleasantl}-  through  pleasant  banks 

Yon  quiet  stream  flows  on  .  .     410 

AVilt  thou  embark  with  me  ? 

Thou  knowest  not  the  water's  way  ; 

Think,  Stranger,  well !    and  night  must 

come,  .  . 

Da  rest  thou  embark  with  me  ? 

Through  fearful  perils  thou  must  pass, . . 

Stranger,  the  wretched  ask  thine  aid  ! 

Thou  wilt  embark  with  me  ! ' 

She  smiled  in  tears  upon  the  youth  ;  . . 


THE   ELEVENTH   BOOK 


107 


What  lieart  were  liis,  wlio  could  gainsay 
That  melancholy  smile  '!  420 

'  1  will,'  (juoth  Thalaba, 
'  I  will,  in  Allah'a  name  ! ' 

34 

He  sate  him  on  the  single  seat, 

The  little  boat  moved  on. 

Through  pleasant  banks  the  quiet  stream 

Went  winding  pleasantly  ; 

By  fragrant  tir-groves  now  it  pass'd. 

And  now,  through  alder-shores, 

Through  green  and  fertile  meadows  now 

It  silently  ran  by.  430 

The  tlag-tiower  blossom'd  on  its  side, 

The  willow  tresses  waved, 
The  flowing  current  furrow' d  round 

The  water-lily's  floating  leaf. 

The  fly  of  green  and  gauzy  wing. 

Fell  sporting  down  its  course  ; 

And  grateful  to  the  voyager 

The  freshness  that  it  breathed. 

And  soothing  to  his  ear 

Its  murmur  round  the  prow.      440 

The  little  boat  falls  rapidly 

Adowu  the  rapid  stream. 

35 

But  many  a  silent  spring  meantime, 

And  many  a  rivulet  and  rill 

Had  swoln  the  growing  stream  ; 

And  when  the  southern  Sun  began 

To  wind  the  downward  way  of  heaven. 

It  ran  a  river  deep  and  wide, 

Through  banks  that  widen'd  still. 

Then  once  again  the  Damsel  spake  :  450 

'  The  stream  is  strong,  the  river  broad, 

Wilt  thou  go  on  with  me  '! 

The  day  is  fair,  but  night  must  come  .  . 

Wilt  thou  go  on  with  mc  ? 

Far,  far  away,  the  sufferer's  eye 

For  thee  hath  long  been  looking,  .  . 

Thou  wilt  go  on  with  me  ! ' 

'  Sail  on,  sail  on,'  quoth  Thalaba, 

'  Sail  on,  in  Allah's  name  ! ' 


The  little  boat  falls  rapidly       460 
Adown  the  river-stream. 

3(i 

A  broader  and  yet  broader  stream, 

That  rock'd  the  little  boat  ! 

The  Cormorant  stands  upon  its  shoals, 

His  black  and  dripping  wings 

Half  open'd  to  the  wind. 

The  Sun  goes  down,  the  crescent  Moon 

Is  brightening  in  the  firmament ; 

And  what  is  yonder  roar, 

That  sinking  now,  and  swelling  now, 

But  evermore  increasing,       47x 

Still  louder,  louder,  grows  ? 

The  little  boat  falls  rapidly 

Adown  the  rapid  tide  ; 

The  Moon  is  bright  above. 

And  the  great  Ocean  opens  on  their  way. 

37 
Then  did  the  Damsel  speak  again, 

'  Wilt  thou  go  on  with  me  ? 

The  Moon  is  bright,  the  sea  is  calm, 

I  know  the  ocean-paths  ;        480 

Wilt  thou  go  on  with  me  '1  .  . 

Deliverer  !   yes  !   thou  dost  not  fear  ! 

Thou  wilt  go  on  with  me  ! ' 

'  Sail  on,  sail  on  ! '    quoth  Thalaba, 

'  Sail  on,  in  Allah's  name  ! ' 

38 

The  Moon  is  bright,  the  sea  is  calm, 

The  little  boat  rides  rapidly 

Across  the  ocean  waves  ; 

The  line  of  moonlight  on  the  deep 

Still  follows  as  they  voyage  on  ;  490 

The  winds  are  motionless  ; 

The  gentle  waters  gently  part 

In  dimples  round  the  prow. 

He  looks  above,  he  looks  around. 

The   boundless   heaven,    the    boundless 

sea. 

The  crescent  moon,  the  little  boat, 

Nought  else  above,  below. 


108 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


39 
The  Moon  is  sunk  ;   a  dusky  grey 

Spreads  o'er  tlie  Eastern  sky  ; 
The  stars  grow  pale  and  paler  ;  .  .  500 
Oh  beautiful  !   the  godlike  Sun 

Is  rising  o'er  the  sea  ! 

Without  an  oar,  without  a  sail, 

The  little  boat  rides  rapidly  ;  .  . 

Is  that  a  cloud  that  skirts  the  sea  '! 

There  is  no  cloud  in  heaven  ! 
And  nearer  now,  and  darker  now  .  . 

It  is  .  .  it  is  .  .  the  Land  ! 
For  yonder  are  the  rocks  that  rise 

Dark  in  the  reddening  morn  ;    510 
For  loud  around  their  hollow  base 
The  surges  rage  and  foam. 

40 

The  little  boat  rides  rapidly. 

And  pitches  now  with  shorter  toss 

Upon  the  narrower  swell ; 

And  now  so  near,  they  see 

The  shelves  and  shadows  of  the  cliff, 

And  the  low-lurking  rocks, 

O'er  whose  black  summits,  hidden  half, 

The  shivering  billows  burst ;  .  .   520 

And  nearer  now  they  feel  the  breaker's 

spray. 

Then  said  the  Damsel :    '  Yonder  is  our 

path 

Beneath  the  cavern  arch. 

Now  is  the  ebb,  and  till  the  ocean 

How 

We  cannot  over-ride  the  rocks. 

Go  thou,  and  on  the  shore 

Perform   thy   last  ablutions,   and   with 

prayer 

Strengthen  thy  heart .  .  I  too  have  need 

to  pray.' 

41 

She  held  the  helm  with  steady  hand 

Amid  the  stronger  waves  ;        530 
Through  surge  and  surf  she  drove  ; 
The  adventurer  leapt  to  land. 


THE  TWELFTH  BOOK 

^^"h^•  should  he  that  loves  me  sorry  be 
For'^niy  deliverance,  or  at  all  complain 
My  good  to  hear,  and  toward  joys  to  see ! 
I  go,  and  long  desired  have  to  go, 
I  go  witli  gladness  to  my  Avished  rest. 
Spenser,  Daphnaida. 

I 

Then  Thalaba  drew  oft"  Abdaldar's  ring, 

And  cast  it  in  the  sea,  and  cried  aloud, 

*  Tliou  art  my  shield,  my  trust,  my  hope, 

0  God  ! 

Behold  and  guard  me  now, 

Thou  who  alone  canst  save. 

If  from ni}' childhood  up  I  have  look'don 

With  exultation  to  my  destiny  ; 

If  in  the  hour  of  anguish  I  have  own'd 

The  justice  of  the  hand  that  chasten'd 

me ; 

If  of  all  selfish  passions  purified    10 

I  go  to  work  thy  will,  and  from  the  world 

Root  up  the  ill-doing  race,    [arm 

Lord  !   let  not  thou  the  weakness  of  my 

Make  vain  the  enterprize  1 ' 


The  Sun  was  rising  all  magnificent, 

Oceanand Heaven  rejoicing  in  his  beams. 

And  now  had  Thalaba      [stood 

Performed    his   last    ablutions,    and    he 

And  gazed  upon  the  little  boat 

Riding  the  billows  near,  20 

Where,    like    a    sea-bird    breasting    the 

broad  waves. 

It  rose  and  fell  ujjon  the  surge. 

Till  from  the  glitterance  of  the  sunny 

main 

He  turn'd  his  aching  eyes  ; 

And  then  upon  the  beach  he  laid  him 

down, 

And  watch' d  the  rising  tide. 

He  did  not  pray,  he  was  not  calm  for 

1  prayer ;  [hope» 

'    His  spirit,  troubled  with  tumultuous 


THE   TWELFTH    BOOK 


lOU 


i 


Toil'd  with  futurity  ;  29 

His  brain,  with  busier  workings,  felt 

The  roar  and  raving  of  the  restless  sea. 

The    boundless    waves    that    rose    and 

roU'd  and  rock'd  : 

The  everlasting  sound 

Opprest  him,  and  the  heaving  infinite: 

He  closed  his  lids  for  rest. 


Meantime  with  fuller  reach  and  stronger 

swell, 

Wave  after  wave  advanced  ; 

Each  following  billow  lifted  the  last 

foam  [hues ; 

That  trembled  on  the  sand  with  rainbow 

The  living  flower  that,  rooted  to  the 

rock,  40 

Late  from  the  thinner  element 

Shrunk  down  within  its  purple  stem  to 

sleep, 

Now  feels  the  water,  and  again 

Awakening,  blossoms  out 

All  its  green  anther-necks. 

4 

Was  there  a  Spirit  in  the  gale 

That  fluttered  o'er  his  cheek  ? 

For  it  came  on  him  like  the  new-risen 

sun        [closed  flower, 

\ATiich  plays  and  dallies  o'er  the  night- 

And  woos  it  to  unfold  anew  to  joy  ;  50 

For  it  came  on  him  as  the  dews  of  eve 

Descend  with  liealing  and  with  life 

Upon  the  summer  mead  ; 

Or  liker  the  first  sound  of  seraph  song 

And  Angel  greeting,  to  the  soul 
Whose  latest  sense  had  shudder'd  at  the 

groan 
Of  anguish, kneeling  by  a  death-bed  side. 

o 

He  starts,  and  gazes  round  to  seek 
The   certain    presence,     '  Thalaba  ! ' 
exclaim'd 
The  Voice  of  the  Unseen  ;  .  .       60 


*  Father  of  my  Oneiza  ! '    he  replied, 

'  And  have  thy  years  been  number'd  ? 

art  thou  too 

Among  the  Angels  ? '  .  .  '  Thalaba  ! ' 

A  second  and  a  dearer  voice  repeats, 

'  Oo  in  the  favour  of  the  Lord, 

i\ry  Thalaba,  go  on  !        [bliss. 

My  husband,  I  have  drest  our  bower  of 

Oo,  and  perform  the  work  ; 

Let  me  not  longer  suffer  hope  in 

Heaven  ! ' 

6 

He  turn'd  an  eager  glance  toward  the 

sea.  70 

'  Come  ! '    quoth  the  Damsel,  and  she 

drove 

Her  little  boat  to  land. 

Impatient  through  the  rising  wave,      . 

He  rush'd  to  meet  its  way. 
His  eye  was  bright,  his  cheek  was 

flush'd  with  joy.   [she  ask'd. 
'Hast  thou  had  comfort  in  thy  prayers?' 
'  Yea,'  Thalaba  replied, 
'  A  heavenly  visitation.'  '  God  be 

praised  ! '  [vain  ! ' 

She  answer'd,  '  then  I  do  not  hope  in 
And  her  voice  trembled,  and  her  lip 
Quiver'd,  and  tears  ran  down.      81 

7 

'  Stranger,'  said  she,  '  in  years  long  past 

Was  one  who  vow'd  himself 

The  Champion  of  the  Lord,  like  thee. 

Against  the  race  of  Hell, 

Young  was  he,  as  thyself, 

Oentle,  and  yet  so  brave  ! 

A  lion-hearted  man.  [love 

Shame  on  me.  Stranger  !    in  the  arras  of 
I  liold  him  from  his  calling,  till  the  hour 
Was  past  ;    and  then  the  Angel  who 
should  else  91 

Have  cro\m'd  him  with  his  glory- wreath, 
Smote  him  in  anger  ,  .   Years  and  years 

are  gone  .  .  '^ 

And  in  his  place  of  penance  he  awaita 


no 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


Thee,  the  Deliverer,  .  .  surely  thou  art 

he! 

It  was  mj'  righteous  punishment. 

In  the  same  youth  unchanged. 

And  love  unchangeable, 

Sorrow  for  ever  fresh, 

And  bitter  penitence,  loo 

That  gives  no  respite  night  nor  day 

from  grief. 
To  abide  the  written  hour,  when  I 

should  waft  [here. 

The  doom'd  Destroyer  and  Deliverer 
Remember  thou,  that  thy  success  affects 
No  single  fate,  no  ordinary  woes.' 

8 
As  thus  she  spake,  the  entrance  of  the 
cave 
Darken' d  the  boat  below. 
Around  them  from  their  nests, 
The  screaming  sea-birds  fled, 
Wondering  at  that  strange  shape,  no 
Yet  unalarm'd  at  sight  of  living  man, 
Unknowing  of  his  sway  and  power  mis- 
used : 
The  clamours  of  their  young 
Echoed  in  shriller  cries. 
Which  rung  in  wild  discordance  round 
the  rock. 
And  farther  as  they  now  advanced. 
The  dim  reflection  of  the  darken' d  day 
Grew  faintei',  and  the  dash    [j^et, 
Of  the  out -breakers  deaden' d  ;    farther 
And  yet  more  faint  the  gleam,     120 
And  there  the  waters,  at  their  utmost 
bound. 
Silently  rippled  on  the  rising  rock. 
They  landed  and  advanced,  and  deeper 
in, 
Two  adamantine  doors 
Closed  up  the  cavern  pass. 

9 

Reclining  on  the  rock  beside, 

Sate  a  grej'-headed  man, 
Watching  an  hour-glass  by. 


To  him  the  Damsel  spake, 

'  Is  it  the  hour  appointed  ? '    The  Old 

Man  130 

Nor  answer'd  her  awhile, 

Nor  lifted  he  his  downward  eye. 

For  now  the  glass  ran  low. 

And,  like  the  days  of  age. 

With  speed  perceivable, 

The  latter  sands  descend  ; 

And  now  the  last  are  gone. 

Then  he  look'd  up,  and  raised  his  hand, 

and  smote 

The  adamantine  gates. 

10 

The  gates  of  adamant  140 

Unfolding  at  the  stroke, 

Open'd  and  gave  the  entrance.  Then  she 

turn'd 

To  Thalaba  and  said, 

'  Go,  in  the  name  of  God  ! 

I  cannot  enter,  .  .  I  must  wait  the  end 

In  hope  and  agony. 

God  and  ]\Iahommcd  prosper  thee. 

For  thy  sake  and  for  ours  ! ' 

11 

He  tarried  not,  .  .  he  pass'd       149 

The  threshold,  over  which  was  no  return. 

All  earthly  thoughts,  all  human  hopes 

And  passions  now  put  off. 

He  cast  no  backward  glance 

Toward  the  gleam  of  day. 

There  was  a  light  within,     [Sun, 

A  yellow  light,  as  when  the  autumnal 

Through  travelling  rain  and  mist 

Shines  on  the  evening  hills  : 

Whether,  from  central  fires  effused. 

Or  that  the  sun-beams,  day  by  day, 

From  earliest  generations,  there 

absorb' d,  161 

Were  gathering  for  the  wrath-flame.   Shade 

was  none 

In  tliose  portentous  vaults  ; 

Crag  overhanging,  nor  columnal  rock 

Cast  its  dark  outline  there  ; 


THE   TWELFTH   BOOK 


HI 


For  with  the  hot  and  hea\\y  atmosphere 

.The  liglit  incorporate,  permeating  all, 

Spread  over  all  its  equal  yellowness. 

Tliere  was  no  motion  in  the  lifeless  uir ; 

He  felt  no  stirring  as  ho  pass'd    170 

Adown  the  long  descent ; 

He  heard  not  his  own  footsteps  on  the 

rock  [no  sound. 

That  through  the  thick  stagnation  .sent 

How  sweet  it  were,  he  thought, 

To  feel  the  flowing  wind  ! 

^^'ith  what  a  thirst  of  joy 

He  should  breathe  in  the  open  gales  of 

heaven  ! 


12 


and 


Downward,    and    downward    st 
still  the  way, 
•    The  lengthening  way  is  safe. 

Is  there  no  secret  wile,  180 

No  lurking  enemy  ? 

His  watchful  eye  is  on  the  wall  of  rock, .  . 

And  waril}^  he  marks  the  roof, 

And  waril}'  surveys 

The  path  that  lies  before. 

Downward,    and    downward    still,    and 

still  the  way, 

The  long,  long  way  is  safe  ; 

Rock  only,  the  same  light, 

The  .same  dead  atmosphere, 

And  solitude,  and  silence  like  the  grave. 

13 
At  length  the  long  descent        191 
Ends  on  a  precipice  ; 
No  feeble  raj'  enter'd  its  dreadful  gulph  ; 
For  in  the  pit  profound, 
Black  Darkness,  utter  Night, 
Repeird  the  hostile  gleam. 
And  o'er  the  surface  the  light  atmosphere 
Floated,  and  mingled  not.    [wings. 
Above    the    deptli,    four    over-awning 
Unplumed  and  huge  and  strong,  200 
Bore  up  a  little  car  ; 
Four  living  pinions,  headless,  bodiless. 


Sprung  from  one  stem   that  branch' d 

below 

In  four  down-arching  limbs, 

And  clcncii'd  the  car-rings  endlong  and 

athwart 

With  claws  of  griffin  grasp. 

14 

But  not  on  these,  the  depth  so  terrible 

The  wondrous  wings,  fix'd  Thalaba  his 

eye; 

For  there,  upon  the  brink,        209 

With  fiery  fetters  fasten' d  to  the  rock, 

A  man.  a  living  man,  tormented  lay, 

The  young  Othatha  ;  in  the  arms  of  love 

He  who  had  linger'd  out  the  auspicious 

hour. 

Forgetful  of  his  call. 

In  .shuddering  pity,  Thalaba  exclaim'd, 

'Servant  of  God,  can  I  not  succour  thee?' 

He  groan'd,  and  answer'd,  '  Son  of  Man, 

I  sinn'd,  and  am  tormented  ;    I  endure 

In  patience  and  in  hope.     [Hell, 

The  hour  that  shall  destroy  the  Race  of 

That  hour  .shall  set  me  free.'      221 

15 

'  Is  it  not  come  ? '  quoth  Thalaba, 
*  Yea  !    by  this  omen!'   .   .and   with 
fearless  hand  [name 

He  grasp'd  the  burning  fetters,  '  in  the 

Of  Cod  ! '  .  .  and  from  the  rock 

Rooted  the  rivets,  and  adown  the  gulph 

Dropt  them.    The  rush  of  flames  roar'd 

up. 

For  they  had  kindled  in  their  fall 

The  deadly  vapours  of  the  pit  profound. 

And  Thalaba  bent  on  and  look'd  below. 

But  vainly  he  explored  231 

The  deep  abj-ss  of  flame,      [eye, 

That  sunk  beyond  the  plunge  of  mortal 

Now  all  ablaze,  as  if  infernal  fires 

Illumed  the  world  beneath. 

Soon  was  the  poison-fuel  .spent. 

The  flame  grew  pale  and  dim 


112 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


And  dimmer  now  it  fades,  and  now  is 

quench' d, 

And  all  again  is  dark, 

Save  where  the  yellow  air        240 

Enters  a  little  in,  and  mingles  slow. 

10 

Meantime,  the  freed  Othatha  claspt 

his  knees, 

And  cried,  '  Deliverer  ! '  struggling  then 

With  joyful  hope,  '  and  where  is  she,' 

he  cried, 

'  Whose  promised  coming  for  so  many 

a  year  .  .  .' 

'  Go  ! '  answered  Thalaba, 

*  She  waits  thee  at  the  gates.' 

'  And  in  thy  triumph,'  he  replied, 

*  There   thou   wilt   join   us  ?  *    .    .    The 

Deliverer's  eye 

Glanced  on  the  abyss,  way  else  was 

none  .  .  250 

The  depth  was  unascendable. 

*  Await  not  me,'  he  cried, 

'  My  path  hath  been  appointed  !    go  .  . 

embark  ! 

Return  to  life,  .  .  live  happy  !  ' 

OTHATHA 

But  thy  name  ?  .  .         [it,  .  . 
That  through  the  nations  we  may  blazon 
That  we  may  bless  thee  ! 

THALABA 

Bless  the  Merciful  ! 

17 

Then  Thalaba  pronounced  the  name  of 

God, 

And  leapt  into  the  car.  260 

Down,  down,  it  sunk,  .  .  down,  down,  .  .  ' 

He  neither  breathes  nor  sees  ; 

His  eyes  are  closed  for  giddiness, 

His  breath  is  sinking  with  the  fall. 

The  air  that  yields  beneath  the  car. 

Inflates  the  wings  above. 

Down  .  .  down  .  .  a  measureless  depth  ! . . 

down  .  .  down, 


Was  then  the  Simorg  with  the  Powers 
of  ill 
Associate  to  destroy  ? 
And  was  that  lovely  Mariner      270 

A  fiend  as  false  as  fair  ? 
For  still  the  car  sinks  down  ; 
But  ever  the  uprushing  wind 

Inflates  the  wings  above, 

And  still  the  struggling  wings 

Repel  the  rushing  wind. 

Down  .  .  down  .  .  and  now  it  strikes. 

18 

He  stands  and  totters  giddily, 

All  objects  round  awhile 

Float  dizzy  on  his  sight ;         280 

Collected  soon,  he  gazes  for  the  way. 

There  was  a  distant  light  that  led  his 

search  ; 

The  torch  a  broader  blaze. 

The  unpruned  taper  flares  a  longer  flame, 

But  this  was  strong  as  is  the  noontide  sun. 

So,  in  the  glory  of  its  rays  intense. 

It  quiver' d  with  green  glow. 

Beyond  was  all  unseen. 

No  eye  could  penetrate 

That  unendurable  excess  of  light.    290 

19 

It  veil'd  no  friendly  form,  thought 

Thalaba  : 

And  wisely  did  he  deem, 

For  at  the  threshold  of  tlie  rock}'  door, 

Hugest  and  fiercest  of  his  kind  accurst. 

Fit  warden  of  the  sorcery-gate, 

A  rebel  Afreet  lay  ; 

He  scented  the  approach  of  human  food. 

And  hungry  hope  kindled  his  ej-e  of 

fire.  [sense, 

Raising  his  hand  to  screen  the  dazzled 

Onward  held  Thalaba,  300 

And  lifted  still  at  times  a  rapid  glance ; 

Till  the  due  distance  gain'd. 

With  head  abased,  he  laid 

An  arrow  in  its  rest. 


THE   TWELFTH   BOOK 


113 


With  steady  effort  and  knit  forehead 

ihoii. 

Full  on  the  })ainful  light 

He  fix'd  his  aching  eye,  and  loosed 

the  bow. 

20 

A  hideous  yell  ensued  ; 

And  sure  no  luunan  voice  had  scope  or 

j)0\ver 

For  that  prodigious  shriek         310 

Wliose  pealing  echoes  thundered  up  the 

rock. 

Dim  grew  the  dying  light ; 

But  Thalaba  leapt  onward  to  the  doors 

Now  visible  beyond. 

And  while  the  Afreet  warden  of  the  way 

Was  writhing  with  his  death-pangs, 

over  him 

Sprung  and  smote  the  stony  doors, 

And  bade  them,  in  the  name  of  God. 

give  way  ! 

21 

The  dying  Fiend  beneath  him,  at  that 

name 

Tost  in  worse  agony,  320 

And  the  rocks  shudder' d,  and  the  rocky 

doors 

Rent  at  the  voice  asunder.  Lo!  within  . . 

The  Teraph  and  the  Fire, 

And  Khawla,  and  in  mail  complete 

Mohareb  for  the  strife. 

But  Thalaba,  with  numbing  force, 

Smites  his  raised  arm,  and  rushes  by  ; 

For  now  he  sees  the  fire,  amid  whose 

flames. 

On  the  white  ashes  of  Hodcirah,  lies 

Hodeirah's  holy  sword.  330 

22 

He  rushes  to  the  Fire  : 

Tlien  Khawla  met  the  youth, 

And  leapt  upon  him,  and  with  clinging 

arms  [aim 

Clasps  him,  and  calls  Mohareb  now  to 


Tlio  effectual  vengeance.    0  fool !   fool  ! 

he  sees 
His  Father's  Sword,  and  who  shall  bar 

his  way  ? 

Who  stand  against  the  fury  of  that  arm 

That  spurns  her  to  the  ground  ?  .  . 

She  rises  half,  she  twists  around  his 

knees, .  . 

A  moment  .  .  and  he  vainly  si  lives 

To  shake  her  from  her  hold  ;      341 

Impatient  then  he  seized  her  leathery 

neck 

With  throttling  grasp,  and  as  she  loosed 

her  hold, 
Thrust  her  aside,  and  unimpeded  now 
Springs  forward  to  the  Sword. 

The  co-existent  Flame 
Knew  the  Destroyer ;    it  encircled  him, 
Roird  up  his  robe,  andgather'd  round 

his  head  : 
Condensing  to  intenser  splendour  there. 
His  Crown  of  Glory  and  his  Light  of  Life, 
Hover'd  the  irradiate  wreath.     351 

24 

The  instant  Thalaba  had  laid  his  hand 

Upon  his  Father's  Sword, 

The  Living  Image  in  the  inner  cave 

Smote  the  Round  Altar.  The  Domdaniel 

rock'd 

Through  all  its  thundering  vaults  ; 

Over  the  Surface  of  the  reeling  Earth, 

The  alarum  shock  was  fell  ; 

The  Sorcerer  brood,  all,  all,  where'er 

dispersed. 

Perforce  obey'd  the  summons  ;    all,  .  . 

they  came  360 

Compell'd  by  Hell  and  Heaven  ; 

By  Hell  compt^Il'd  to  keep 

Their  ba])t  ism-covenant. 

And  with  the  union  of  their  strength 

Oppose  the  common  danger  ;   forced  by 

Heaven 

To  share  the  common  doom. 


114 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


Vain  are  all  spells  !   the  Destroyer 

Treads  the  Domdaniel  floor. 

They  crowd  with  human  arms  and 

human  force 

To  crush  the  single  foe.  370 

Vain  is  all  human  force  ! 

He  wields  his  Father's  Sword, 

The  vengeance  of  awaken' d  Deity. 

But  chief  on  Thalaba  Mohareb  prest ; 

Tiie  Witch  in  her  oracular  speech 

Announced  one  fatal  blow  for  both, 

And,  desperate  of  self -safety,  yet  he  hoped 

To  serve  the  cause  of  Eblis,  and  uphold 

His  empire,  true  in  death. 

26 
Who  shall  withstand  the  Destroyer  ?  380 
Scatter'd  before  the  sword  of  Thalaba 

The  Sorcerer  throng  recede. 
And  leave  him  space  for  combat.  Wretch- 
ed man,  .  .  [avail 
What  shall  the  helmet  or  the  shield 
Against  Almighty  anger  ?  .  .  Wretched 
man,                  [chosen 
Too  late  ^lohareb  finds  that  he  hath 
The  evil  part !  .  .  He  rears  his  shield 

To  meet  the  Arabian's  sword,  .  . 
Under  the  edge  of  that  fire-hardened 

steel. 

The  .shield  falls  sever' d  ;   his  cold  arm 

Rings  with  the  jarring  blow  :  .  .     391 

He  lifts  his  scymetar  ; 

A  second  stroke,  and  lo !  the  broken  hilt 

Hangs  from  his  palsied  hand  : 

And  now  he  bleeds,  and  now  he  flies, 

And  fain  would  hide  himself  amid  the 

troop ; 

But  they  feel  the  sword  of  Hodeirah, 

But  they  also  fly  from  the  ruin. 

And  hasten  to  the  inner  cave, 

And  fall  all  fearfully  400 

Around  the  Giant  Idol's  feet. 
Seeking  protection  from  the  Power  they 
served. 


It  was  a  Living  Image,  by  the  art 
Of  magic  hands,  of  flesh  and  bones  com- 
posed. 
And  human  blood,  through  veins  and 

arteries 
That  flow'd  with  vital  action.    In  the 
shape 
Of  Eblis  it  was  made  ; 
Its  stature  such,  and  such  its  strength. 
As  when  among  the  sons  of  God  409 
Pre-eminent  he  raised  his  radiant  head, 
Prince  of  the  Morning.     On  his  brow 
A  coronet  of  meteor  flames. 
Flowing  in  points  of  light. 
Self-poised  in  air  before  him 
Hung  the  Round  Altar,  rolling  like  the 
World 
On  its  diurnal  axis,  like  the  World 
Chequer' d  with  sea  and  shore, 
The  work  of  Demon  art. 
For  where  the  sceptre  in  the  Idol's 
hand 
Touch' d  the  Round  Altar,  in  its  answer- 
ing realm,  420 
Earth  felt  the  stroke,  and  Ocean  rose 
in  storms. 
And  shatter'd  Cities,  shaken  from  their 
seat, 
Crush'd  all  their  habitants. 
His  other  arm  was  raised,  and  its  spread 
palm 
Sustain'd  the  ocean-weight, 
Whose  naked  waters  arch'd  the  sanc- 
tuary ; 
Sole  prop  and  pillar  he. 

28 

Fallen  on  the  ground,  around  his  feet. 

The  Sorcerers  lay.    Mohareb' s  quivering 

arms 

Clung  to  the  Idol's  knees  ;        430 

The  Idol's  face  was  pale. 

And  calm  in  terror  he  beheld 

The  approach  of  the  Destroyer. 


THE    TWELFTH    BOOK 


115 


29 
j    Sure  of  his  stroke,  and  tliercforc  in  pnr- 
j  suit  [foe, 

I      Followincr.  nor  blind,  nor  liasly,  on  hia 
Moved  the  Destroyer.  Okba  met  his  way. 
Of  all  that  brotherhood 
He  only  fearless,  miserable  man, 
"^        The  one  that  had  no  hope. 

*  On  me,  on  me.'  the  childless  Sorcerer 

cried,  440 

*  Tiet  fall  the  weapon  !   I  am  he  who  stole 

Ipon  the  midnight  of  thy  Father's 

tent ; 

This  is  the  hand  that  pierced  Hodcirah's 

lieart,  [blood 

That  felt  th}'  brethren's  and  thy  sisters' 

Gush  round  the  dagger-hilt.    Let  fall 

on  me 

The  fated  sword  !    the  vengeance-hour 

is  come  ! 

Destroyer,  do  thy  work  ! ' 

30 

Nor  wile,  nor  weapon,  had  the  desperate 

wretch  ; 

He  spread  his  bosom  to  the  stroke. 

r   *  Old  ilan,  I  strike  thee  not ! '   said 

I  Thalaba ;  450 

'  Tlie  evil  thou  hast  done  to  me  and 

mine 

Brought  its  own  bitter  punishment. 

For  th}'  dear  Daughter's  sake  I  pardon 

thee. 
As  I  do  hope  Heaven's  pardon  .  .  For 

her  sake 

Repent  while  time  is  yet  !  .  .  thou  hast 

my  praj'ers 

To  aid  thee  ;    thou  poor  sinner,  cast 

thyself 

Upon  the  goodness  of  ofTended  God  ! 

I  speak  in  Laila's  name ;    and  what  if 

now 
Thou  canst  not  think  to  join  in  Paradise 
Her  spotless  Spirit,  .  .  hath  not  Allah 
made  460 


AI-Araf,  in  his  wisdom  ?  where  the  siglit 

Of  Heaven  may  kindh^  in  the  penitent 

The  strong  and  purifying  fire  of  hope, 

Till,  at  the  Day  of  Judgement,  liP  shall 

see 

The  ^[ercy-(!ates  unfolil.' 

31 

The  astonish'd  man  stood  gazing  as  he 

spake,  [tears 

At  length  his  heart  was  soften' d,  and  the 

Gush'd,  and  he  sobb'd  aloud. 

Then  suddenly  was  heard 

The  all-beholding  Prophet's  voice  divine, 

'  Thou  hast  done  well,  my  Servant  !   471 

Ask  and  receive  thy  reward  ! 

32 

A  deep  and  aw^eful  joj' 

Seem'd  to  dilate  the  heart  of  Thalaba  ; 

With  arms  in  reverence  cross'd  upon  his 

breast, 

Upseeking  eyes  suffused  with  tears 

devout, 

He  answered  to  the  Voice,  '  Prophet  of 

God, 

Holy,  and  good,  and  bountiful  ! 

One  only  earthly  wish  have  I,  to  work 

Thy  will ;  and  thy  protection  grants  me 

that.  480 

Look  on  this  Sorcerer  !    heavy  are  his 

crimes. 

But  infinite  is  mercy  !    if  thy  servant 

Have  now  found  favour  in  the  sight  of 

God,  [save 

Let  him  be  touch'd  with  penitence,  and 

His  soul  from  utter  death.' 

33 

'  The  groans  of  penitence,'  replied  the 

Voice, 

'  Never  ari.se  unheard  ! 

But,  for  thyself,  prefer  the  prayer  ; 

The  Treasure-house  of  Heaven 

Is  open  to  thy  will.'  490 


116 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


34 

'  Prophet  of  God  ! '  then  answered 

Thalaba, 

'  I  am  alone  on  earth  ; 

Thou  knowest  the  secret  wishes  of  my 

heart ! 

Do  with  me  as  thou  wilt !    thy  will  is 

best.' 

35 

There  issued  forth  no  Voice  to  answer 

him ;  [see 

But,  lo  !   Hodeirah's  Spirit  comes  to 

His  vengeance,  and  beside  him,  a 

pure  form 

Of  roseate  light,  his  Angel  mother  hung. 


'  My  Cliild,  my  dear,  m\'  glorious  .   . 
blessed  .  .  Child, 

My  promise  is  perform"  d  .   .  fulfil  thy 

work  ! '  500 

3G 

Thalaba  knew  that  his  death-hour  was 

come  ; 

And  on  he  leapt,  and  springing  up, 

Into  the  IdoVs  heart  I 

Hilt  deep  he  plunged  the  Sword. 

The  Ocean-vault  fell  in,  and  all  were 

crush'd. 

In  the  same  moment,  at  the  gate 

Of  Paradise,  Oneiza's  Houri  form 

Welcomed  her  Husband  to  eternal  bliss. 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 

KATAPAI.   n2  KAI  TA   AAEKTPTONONEOTTA,  OIKON   AEI  O^K   KEN 
EDANHHAN   EEKAel^OMIONAI 

'A7rd</)0.  'A^'€«■,  tov  TvKiiK.  tuv  IMr/r. 

CURSES    ARE    LIKE    YOUNG    CHICKENS,    THEV    ALWAYS    COME    HOME   TO    KOOST. 


THE  AUTHOR  OF  GEBIR, 

WALTER  SAVAGE   LANDOR, 

THIS   rOEM   IS    INSCRIBED, 
BY 

ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 


2TH2ATE  MOI  IimTlIA  IIOAYTFOIION  0*PA  *ANEIH 
nOlKIAON  ElAO:i  EXnN,  OTI  IIOIKIAON  YMNON  APASSO. 


Vov,  Aioc. 


FOB  I  WILL  FOR  NO  MAN'S  PLEASURE 
CHANGE  A  SYLLABLE  OR  MEASURE ; 
PEDANTS  SHALL  NOT  TIE  MY  STRAINS 


to  our  antique  poets'  veins  ; 
being  born  as  free  as  these, 
i  will  sing  as  i  shall  please, 

George  Wither. 


ORIGINAL  PREFACE 


In  the  religion  of  the  Hindoos,  which  of 
all  false  religions  is  the  most  monstrous 
in  its  fables,  and  the  most  fatal  in  its 
effects,  there  is  one  remarkable  pecu- 
liarity. Prayers,  penances,  and  sacri- 
fices are  supposed  to  possess  an  inherent 
and  actual  value,  in  no  degree  depending 
upon  the  disposition  or  motive  of  the 
person  who  jierforms  them.  They  are 
drafts  upon  Heaven,  for  which  the  Gods 
cannot  refuse  payment.  The  worst  men, 
bent  upon  the  worst  designs,  have  in  this 
manner  obtained  power  which  has  made 
them  formidable  to  the  Supreme  Deities 
themselves,  and  rendered  an  Avatar,  or 
Incarnation  of  Vecshnoo  the  Preserver, 
necessary.  This  belief  is  the  foundation 
of  the  following  Poem.  The  story  is 
original  ;  but,  in  all  its  parts,  consistent 
with  the  superstition  upon  which  it 
is  built:  and  however  .'jtartling  the  lic- 
tions  may  appear,  the}'  might  almost  be 
called  credible  when  compared  with  the 
genuine  tales  of  Hindoo  mythology/) 


I  No  figures  can  be  imagined  more  anti- 
I  picturesque,  and  less  poetical,  than  the 
j  mythological  personages  of  the  Bramins. 

This  deformity  was  easily  kept  out  of 
'  sight : — their  hundred  hands  are  but 
j  a  clumsy  personification  of  power  ;  their 

numerous  heads  only  a  gross  image  of 
!  divinity,  '  whose  countenance,'  as  the 
i  Bhagvat-Occta  cx])resses  it.  '  is  turned 
I  on  every  side.'  To  the  other  obvious 
I  objection,  that  the  religion  of  Hindostan 
1  is  not  generally  known  enough  to  supply 
'  fit  machinery  for  an  English  poem,  I  can 
!  only  answer,  that,  if  every  allusion  to 
I  it  throughout  the  work  is  not  suthciently 

self -explained  to  render  the  passage 
'  intelligible,  there  is  a  want  of  skill  in 
:  the  poet.  Even  those  readers  who 
!  should  be  wholly  unac(juaintcd  with  the 

writings  of  our  Icnrncd  Orientalists,  will 
\  find  all  the  ])reliminary  knowledge  that 

can  be  needful,  in  the  brief  exj)lanation 

of  mythological  names  ijrelixed  to  the 
:  Poem. 


118 


THE   CURSE    OF   KEHAMA 


Brama, the  Creator. 

Veeshxoo,  .  .  the  Preserver. 

Seeva, the  De.stroyer. 

These  form  the  Triinourtee,  or  Trinity, 
as  it  ha,s  been  called,  of  the  Bramins. 
The  allegory  is  obvious,  but  has  been 
made  for  the  Trimourtee,  not  the 
Triinourtee  for  the  allegory  ;  and  these 
Deities  are  regarded  by  the  people  as 
three  distinct  and  personal  Gods.  The 
two  latter  have  at  this  day  their  hostile 
sects  of  worshippers  ;  that  of  Seeva  is 
the  most  numerous  ;  and  in  this  Poem, 
Seeva  is  represented  as  Supreme  among 
the  Gods.  This  is  the  same  God  whose 
name  is  varioiiisly  written  Seeb,  Sieven, 
and  Siva,  Chiven  by  the  French,  Xiven 
by  the  Portuguese,  and  whom  European 
writers  sometimes  denominate  Eswara, 
Iswaren,  Mahadeo,  Mahadeva,  Rutren, 
—according  to  which  of  his  thousand  and 
eight  names  prevailed  in  the  country 
where  they  obtained  their  information. 


IxDRA, God  of  the  Elements. 

The  SwEBGA,.  .his  Paradise, — one  of  the 
Hindoo  heavens. 

Yamen", Lord  of  Hell,  and  Judge  of 

the  Dead. 

Padalon, Hell,  —  under     the    Earth, 

and,  like  the  Earth,  of  an  octagon  shapej 
its  eight  gates  are  guarded  by  as  many 
Gods.  - 

Marriataly, .  .the  Goddess  who  is  chiefly 
worshipped  by  the  lower  casts. 

PoLLEAR, or    Ganesa, — the   Protector 

of  Travellers.  His  statues  are  placed 
in  the  highways,  and  sometimes  in  a 
small  lonely  sanctuary,  in  the  streets 
and  in  the  fields. 

Casyapa, the  Father  of  the  Lnmortals. 

Devetas, the  Inferior  Deities. 

Suras, Good  Spirits. 

AsuRAS, Evil  Spirits,  or  Devils. 

Glexdoveers,  .the  most  beautiful  of  the 
!  Good  Spirits,  the  Grindouvers  of  Son- 

l  nerat. 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHA]\1A 


I.   THE  FUNERAL 

1 

Midnight,  and  yet  no  eye 

Through  all  the  Imperial  City  closed  in 

sleep  ! 

Behold  her  streets  a- blaze 

With  light  that  seems  to  kindle  the  red 

sky, 

Her  myriads  swarming  through  the 

crowded  ways ! 

Master  and  slave,  old  age  and  infancy, 

All,  all  abroad  to  gaze  ; 

House-top  and  balcony 

Clustered  with  women,  who  throw  back 

their  veils 

With  unimpeded  and  insatiate  sight 

To  view  the  funeral  pomp  which  passes 

by,  " 

As  if  the  mournful  rite 

Were  but  to  them  a  scene  of  joyance  and 

deliijht. 


Vainly,  ye  blessed  twinklers  of  the  night, 

Your  feeble  beams  ye  shed, 

Quench'd  in  the  unnatural  light  which 

might  out -stare 

Even  the  broad  eye  of  day  ; 

And  thou  from  thy  celestial  way 

Pourest,  0  Moon,  an  ineffectual  ray  ! 

For  lo !    ten  thousand  torches  flame  and 

flare  20 

Upon  the  midnight  air, 

Blotting  the  lights  of  heaven 

With  one  portentous  glare. 

Behold  the  fragrant  smoke  in  many  a  fold 

Ascending,  floats  along  the  fiery  sky. 

And  hangeth  visible  on  high, 

A  dark  and  waving  canopy. 

3 
Hark !  'tis  the  funeral  trumpet's  breath! 
'Tis  the  dirge  of  death  ! 
At  once  ten  thousand  drums  begin,  30 


I.    THE   FUNERAL 


119 


With    ono    long    thunder-peal    the   ear 

assailing  ; 

Ten  thousand  voices  then  join  in, 

And  with  one  deep  and  general  din 

Pour  their  wild  wailing. 

The  song  of  praise  is  drown'd 

Amid  the  deafening  sound  ; 

You  hear  no  more  the  trumpet's  tone, 

You  hear  no  more  the  mourner's  moan. 

Though  the  trumi>et's  breath,  and  the 

dirge  of  death, 

■^uell  with  commingled  force  the  funeral 

yell.  40 

But  rising  over  all  iu  one  acclaim 

Is  heard  the  echoed  and  re-echoed  name, 

From  all  that  countless  rout ; 

Arvalan  !   Arvalan  ! 

Arvalan  lArvalan  ! 

Ten  timcti  ten  thousand^  voities  in  one 

shout 

Call  Arvalan  I  The  overpowering  sound, 

From  house  to  house  repeated  rings 

about, 

From  tower  to  tower  rolls  round. 


The  death-procession  moves  along  ; 

Their  bald  heads  shining  to  the  torches' 

ray,  51 

The  Bramins  lead  the  way, 

Chaunting  the  funeral  song. 

And  now  at  once  they  shout, 

Arvalan  !   Arvalan  ! 

With  quick  rebound  of  sound, 

All  in  accordance  cry, 

Arvalan  !  Arvalan  ! 

The  universal  multitude  reply. 

In  vain  ye  thunder  on  his  ear  the  name  ; 

Would  ye  awake  the  dead  '!        61 

Borne  upright  in  his  palankeen, 

There  Arvalan  is  seen  ! 

A  glow  is  on  his  face,  .  .  a  lively  red  ; 

It  is  the  crimson  canopy 

Which  oer  his  cheek  a  reddening  shade 

hath  shed  ; 


He  moves,  .  .  he  nods  his  head,  .  . 

But  the  motion  comes  from  the  bearers' 

tread, 

As  the  body,  borne  aloft  in  state, 

Sways  with  the  impulse  of  its  own  dead 

weight.  70 

5  r       '        . 

Close  following  his  dead  son,  Kchama 

came. 

Nor  joining  in  the  ritual  song, 

Nor  calling  the  dear  name  ; 

With  head  deprest  and  funeral  vest, 

And  arms  enfolded  on  his  breast, 

.Silent  and  lost  in  thought  he  moves  along. 

King  of  the  World,  his  slaves,  uncnvying 

now,  [they  see 

Behold  their  wretched  Lord  ;   rejoiced 

The  mighty  Rajah's  misery  ; 
That  Nature  in  his  pride  hath  dealt  the 
blow,  80 

And  taught  the  Master  of  Mankind  to 

know 

Even  he  himself  is  man,  and  not  exempt 

from  woe. 

G 

0  sight  of  grief  !    the  wives  of  Arvalan, 

Y'oung  Azla,  young  Nealliny,  are  seen  ! 

Their  widow- robes"of  white, 

With  gold  and  jewels  bright. 

Each  like  an  Eastern  queen. 

Woe  !   woe  !  around  their  palankeen, 

As  on  a  bridal  day,  89 

With  symphony,  and  dance,  and  song. 

Their  kindred  and  their  friends  come  on. 

The  dance  of  sacrilice!  the  funeral  song ! 

And  next  the  victim  slaves  in  long  array, 

Richly  bcdight  to  grace  the  fatal  day, 

Move  onward  to  their  death  ; 

The  clarions'  stirring  breath 

Lifts  their  thin  rol)es  in  every  flowing 

fold. 

And  swells  the  woven  gold, 

That  on  the  agitated  air  99 

Flutters  and  glitters  to  the  torch's  glare. 


120 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


A  man  and  maid  of  aspect  wan  and  wild, 
Then,  side  by  side,  by  bowmen  guarded, 

came ; 

0  wretched  father  !   0  unhappy  child ! 

Them  were  all  eyes  of  all  the  throng 

exploring  .  . 

Is  this  the  daring  man 

Who  raised  his  fatal  hand  at  Arvalan  ? 

Is  this  the  wretch  condemn' d  to  feel 

Kehama's  dreadful  wrath  ? 

Then  were  all  hearts  of  all  the  throng 

deploring  ; 

For  not  in  that  innumerable  throng 

Was  one  who  loved  the  dead ;   for  who 

could  know  iii 

What  aggravated  wrong 

Provoked  the  desperate  blow  ! 

8 

Far,  far  behind,  beyond  all  reach  of 

sight, 

In  order  d  files  the  torches  flow  along. 

One  ever-lengthening  line  of  gliding 

light : 

Far  .  .  far  beliind, 

Rolls  on  the  undistinguishable  clamour. 

Of  horn,  and  trump,  and  tambour ; 

Incessant  as  the  roar  120 

Of  streams  which  down  the  wintry 

mountain  pour. 

And  louder  than  the  dread  commotion 

Of  breakers  on  a  rocky  shore. 

When  the  winds  rage  over  the  waves. 

And  Ocean  to  the  Tempest  raves. 

9 

And  now  toward  the  Tjank  they  go. 

Where  winding  on  their  way  below. 

Deep  and  strong  the  waters  flow. 

Here  doth  the  funeral  pile  appear 

\\  ith  myrrh  and  ambergrisbestrew'd. 

And  built  of  precious  sandal  wood. 
They  cease  their  music  and  their  outcry 
here,  132 

Gently  they  rest  the  bier  ; 


I  They  wet  the  face  of  Arvalan, 

;  Xo  sign  of  life  the  sprinkled  drops  excite ; 
They  feel  his  breast, .  .  no  motion  there  ; 
j        They  feel  his  lips,  .  .  no  breath ; 
For  not  with  feeble,  nor  with  erring  hand. 
The  brave  avenger  dealt  the  blow  of  ^ 
death.  "*" 

Then  with  a  doubling  peal  and  deeper 
blast,  140 

The  tambours  and  the  trumpets  sound 
on  high. 
And  with  a  last  and  loudest  cry, 
They  call  on  Arvalan. 

10 
Woe  !   woe  !  for  Azla  takes  her  seat 

Upon  the  funeral  pile  !  __ 

Calmly  she  took  her  seat, 

Calmly  the  whole  terrific  pomp  surveyed; 

As  on  her  lap  the  while 

The  lifeless  head  of  Arvalan  was  laid. 


11 


150 


Woe  !   woe  !  XealHny, 

The  young  Nealliny  ! 

They  strip  her  ornaments  a-way, 

Bracelet  and  anklet,  ring,  and  chain,  and 

zone ; 

Around  her  neck  they  leave 

The  marriage  knot  alone,  .  . 

That  marriage  band,  which  when 

Yon  waning  moon  was  young,  j 

Around  her  virgin  neck 

With  bridal  joy  was  hung. 

Then  with  white  flowers,  the  coronal  of 

death,  i6d 

Her  jetty  locks  they  croMH. 

12 

0  sight  of  misery  ! 

You  cannot  hear  her  cries, .  .  their  sound 

In  that  wild  dissonance  is  drown'd ;  .  . 

But  in  her  face  you  see  \- 

The  supplication  and  the  agony,  .  . 

See  in  her  swelling  throat  the  desperate 

strencrth 


1.   THE   FUNERAL 


That  with  vain  effort  struggles  yet  for 
life ;      '  [strife, 

Her  arms  contracted  now  in  fruitless 

Now  wildly  at  full  length         170 

Towards  the  crowd  in  vain  for  pity 

spread,  .  . 

They  force  her  on,  they  bind  her  to  the 

dead. 

13 

Then  all  around  retire  ; 

Circling  the  pile,  the  ministering 

Bramins  stand, 

Each  lifting  in  his  hand  a  torch  on  fire. 

.  Alone  tile  Father  of  the  dead  advanced 

1  And  lit  the  funeral  pyre. 

14 

At  once  on  every  side 

»The  circling  torches  drop. 
At  once  on  every  side  180 

The  fragrant  oil  is  pour'd, 

At  once  on  every  side 

The  raj^id  flames  rush  up. 

Then  hand  in  hand  the  victim  band 

Roll  in  the  dance  around  the  funeral 

pyre; 

Their  garments'  flying  folds 

Float  inward  to  the  fire  ; 

In  drunken  whirl  they  wheel  around  ; 

I      One  drops,  .  .  another  plunges  in  ; 

'        And  still  with  overwhelming  din  190 

The  tambours  and  the  trumpets  sound  ; 

And  clap  of  hand,  and  shouts,  and  cries, 

From  all  the  multitude  arise  ; 

While  round  and  round,  in  giddy  wheel, 

Intoxicate  they  roll  and  reel, 

Till  one  by  one  whirl'd  in  they  fall, 

.And  the  devouring  flames  have  swal- 

"  I  low'd  all. 

15 

Then  all  was  still ;   the  drums  and 

clarions  ceased  ;  [awe  ; 

The  multitude  were  hush'd  in  silent 
Only  the  roaring  of  the  flames  was 

heard.  200 


IT.   THE  CURSE 
I 

Alone  towards  the  Table  of  the  Dead 
Kehama  moved  ;   there  on  the  altar- 
stone 
Honey  and  rice  he  spread. 
There  with  collected  voice  and  painful 
tone 
He  call'd  upon  his  son. 
Lo  !   Arvalan  appears  ; 
Only  Kehama' s  powerful  eye  beheld 
The  thin  ethereal  spirit  hovering  nigh  i 
Only  the  Rajah's  ear 
Received  his  feeble  breath.         10 
And  is  this  all  ?  thejnournful  Spirit  said, 
This  all  that  thou  canst  give  me  after 
death  ? 
This  unavailing  pomp, 
These  empty  pageantries  that  mock  the 
dead  ! 
2 
In  bitterness  the  Rajah  heard, 
And  groan'd,  and  smote  his  breast,  and 
o'er  his  face 
Cowl'd  the  white  mourning  vest. 
3 

ARVALAN 

Art  thou  not  powerful,  .  .  even  like 

a  God  '! 

And  must  I,  through  my  years  of 

wandering, 

iShivering  and  naked  to  the  elements,  20 

In  wretchedness  await 

The  hour  of  Yamen's  wrath  ?  \%«\'^ 

I  thought  thou  wouldst  embody  me  anew, 

Undying  as  I  am,  .  . 

Yea,  re-create  me  ! .  .  Father,  is  this  all  ? 

This  all  ?  and  thou  Almighty  ! 

4 

But  in  that  wrongful  and  upbraiding 

tone, 

Kehama  found  relief, 

For  rising  anger  half  supprest  his  grief. 


122 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


V 


Reproach  not  me  !  he  cried,       30 
Had  I  not  spell-secured  thee  from  disease, 
Fire,  sword,  .  .  all  common  accidents 
of  man,  .  . 
And  thou  !  .  .  fool,  fool^^  to  perish  by 
"a  stake  I 
And  by  a  peasant's  arm  !  .  . 
Even  now,  when  from  reluctant  Heaven, 
Forcing  new  gifts  and  mightier  attri- 
butes, 
So  soon  I  should  have  quell' d  the  Death- 
God's  power, 

5 

Waste  not  thy  wrath  on  me,  quoth 
Arvalan, 
It  was  my  hour  of  folly  !   Fate  prevail' d, 
Nor  boots  it  to  reproach  me  that  I  fell. 
I  am  in  misery,  Father!     Other  souls 
Predoom'd  to  Indra's  Heaven,  enjoy 
the  dawn  42 

Of  bliss,  .  .  to  them  the  temper  d  ele- 
ments 
Minister  joy  :   genial  delight  the  sun 
Sheds  on  their  happy  being,  and  the 

stars 

Effuse  on  them  benignant  influences ; 

And  thus  o'er  earth  and  air  they  roam 

at  will, 
And  when  the  number  of  their  days  is 

full, 

Go  fearlessly  before  the  aweful  throne. 

But  I, .  ,  all  naked  feeling  and  raw  life, . . 

What  worse  than  this  hath  Yamen's  hell 

in  store  ?  51 

Jf  ever  thou  didst  love  me,  mercy, 

Father ! 
Save  me,  for  thou  canst  save  .  .  the 
Elements 
Know  and  obey  thy  voice. 

G 

KEHAMA 

The  Elements 

Shall  sin  no  more  against  thee ;    whilst 

I  speak 


Already  dost  thou  feel  their  power  is. 

gone. 

Fear  not  !     I  cannot  call  again  the 

past. 

Fate  hath  made  that  its  own  ;   but  Fate 

shall  yield 

To  me  the  future ;   and  thy  doom  be 

fix'd  60 

By  mine,  not  Yamen's  will.     Meantime 

all  power 

Whereof  thy  feeble  spirit  can  be  made 

Participant,  I  give.    Is  there  aught  else 

To  mitigate  thy  lot  ? 

ARVALAN 

Only  the  sight  of  vengeance.    Give  me 

that ! 

Vengeance,  full,  worthy,  vengeance  ! . 

not  the  stroke 

Of  sudden  punishment,  .  .  no  agony 

That  spends  itself  and  leaves  the  wretch 

at  rest. 

But  lasting  long  revenge. 

KEHAMA 

\Miat,  boy  ?   is  that  cup  sweet  ?  then 
take  thy  fill!  70 


So  as  he  spake,  a  glow  of  dreadful  pride- 
Inflamed  his  cheek,  with  quick  and 
angry  stride 
He  moved  toward  the  pile. 
And  raised  his  hand  to  hush  the  crowd, 
and  cried, 
Bring  forth  the  murderer  !    At  the 
Rajah's  voice. 
Calmly,  and  like  a  man  whom  fear  had 

stunn'd, 

^Ladurkid  came,  obedient  to  the  call 

But  Kailyal  started  at  the  sound, 

And  gave  a  womanly  shriek,  and  back 

she  drew,  79 

And  eagerly  she  roll'd  her  e3'es  around. 

As  if  to  seek  for  aid,  albeit  she  knew 

No  aid  could  there  be  found. 


II.    THE   CURSE 


123 


8 
It  chauced  that  near  her  oa  the  river 

brink,  .,. .^ 

The  sculptured  form  of^^arriataJy/ 

stood ;  --"^ 

It  was  an  Idol  roughly  hewn  of  wood, 

Artless,  and  mean,  and  rude; 

The  (loddess  of  the  poor  was  slic ; 

None  else  regarded  her  with  jiiety. 

But    when   that   holy  Image   Kailyal 

view'd,  89 

To  that  she  sprung,  to  that  she  clung, 

On  her  own  Goddess,  with  close-clasping 

arms. 

For  life  the  maiden  hung. 

9 

They  seized  the  maid  ;   with  unrelenting 

grasp 

They  bruised  her  tender  limbs  ; 

She,  nothing  yielding,  to  this  only  hope 

Clings  with  the  strength  of  frenzy  and 

despair. 

iShe  screams  not  now,  she  breathes  not 

now. 

She  sends  not  up  one  vow, 

She  forms  not  in  her  soul  one  secret 

praj'cr, 

All  thought,  all  feeling,  and  all  powers 

of  life  100 

In  the  one  effort  centering.     Wratliful 

they 

With  tug  and  strain  would  force  the 

maid  away  ; .  . 

Didst  thou,  O  Marriataly,  see  their  strife. 

In  pity  didst  thou  see  the  suffering  maid  ? 

Or  was  thine  anger  kindled,  that  rude 

hands 

Assail' d  thy  holy  Image  ?  .  .  for  behold 

The  holy  image  shakes  ! 

10 
Irreverently  bold,  they  deem  the  maid 

Relax'd  her  stubborn  hold. 
And  now  with  force  redoubled  chag  their 
prey ;  no 


And  now  the  rooted  Idol  to  their  sway 

Bends,  .  .  yields,  .  .  and  now  it  falls. 

But  then  they  scream. 

For  lo  I    they  feel  the  crumbling  bank 

give  way. 

And  all  arc  plunged  into  the  stream. 

11 

She  hath  escaped  my  will,  Kehama  cried, 

She  hath  escaped,  .  .  but  thou  art  here, 

I  have  thee  still. 

The  worser  criminal  ! 

And  on  Ladurlad,  while  he  spake,  severe 

He  fix'd  his  dreadful  frown.       120 

The  strong  reflection  of  the  pile 

Lit  his  dark  lineaments. 

Lit  the  protruded  brow,  the  gathered, 

front, 

The  steady  eye  of  WTath. 

12 

But  while  the  fearful  silence  yet  endured, 

Ladurlad  roused  himself ; 

Ere  yet  the  voice  of  destiny 

Which  trembled  on  the  Rajah's  lips  was 

loosed, 

Eager  he  interposed,  1^9 

As  if  despair  had  waken'd  him  to  hope  ; 

Mercy  !  oh  mercy  !  only  in  defence  .  . 
^^  tJnly  instinctively,  .  . 

Only  to  savcln^'' child,  I  smote  the 

'        Prince ; 

King  of  the~  world,  be  merciful ! 
Crush  me,  .  .  but  torture  not ! 

13 

The  Man- Almighty  deign'd  him  no  reply. 
Still  he  stood  silent ;  in  no  human  muotl 

Of  mercy,  in  no  hesitating  thought 

Of  right  and  justice.    At  the  length  he 

raised 

His  brow  yet  unrelax'd,  .  .  liis  lips 

unclosed,  140 

And  uttered  from  the  heart. 
With  the  whole  feeling  of  his  khiI  en- 
forced, 
The  gathered  vengeance  came. 


124                     THE  CURSE 

OF  KEHAMA 

u 

Z'             I  charm  thy  life 

III.    THE  RECOVERY 

From  the  weapons  of  strife, 

'         From  stone  and  from  wood, 

1 

From  lire  and  from  flood. 

The  Rajah  turn'd  toward  the  pile  again, 

From  the  serpent's  tooth. 

Loud  rose  the  song  of  death  from  all  the 

And  the  beasts  of  blood  : 

crowd ; 

From  Sickness  I  charm  thee,      150 

Their  din  the  instruments  begin, 

And  Time  shall  not  harm  thee  ; 

And  once  again  join  in 

But  Earth  which  is  mine. 

With  overwhelming  sound. 

Its  fruits  shall  deny  thee  ; 

Ladurlad  starts,  .  .  he  looks  around  ; 

And  Water  shall  hear  me, 

What  hast  thou  here  in  view. 

And  know  thee  and  fly  thee  ; 

0  wretched  man  !   in  this  disastrous 

And  the  Winds  shall  not  touch  thee 

scene ; 

When  they  pass  by  thee. 

The  soldier  train,  the  Bramins  who 

And  the  Dews  shall  not  wet  thee. 

renew 

When  they  fall  nigh  thee  : 

Their  ministry  around  the  funeral  pyre, 

And  thou  shalt  seek  Death        160 

The  empty  palankeens,             n 

To  release  thee,  in  vain  ; 

The  dimly-fading  fire. 

Thou  shalt  live  in  thy  pain 

While  Kehama  shall  reign. 

2 

\            With  a  fire  in  thy  heart. 

'^,          And  a  fire  in  thy  brain  ; 

Where  too  is  she  whom  most  his  heart 

"  And  Sleep  shall  obey  me, 

held  dear, 

And  visit  thee  never, 

His  best-beloved  Kailyal,  where  is  she. 

'  And  the  Curse  shall  be  on  thee 

The  solace  and  the  joy  of  many  a  year 

For  ever  and  ever. 

Of  widowhood  ?  is  she  then  gone. 

And  is  he  left  ail-utterly  alone, 

15 

To  bear  his  blasting  curse,  and  none 

There  where  the  Curse  had  stricken  him, 

To  succour  or  deplore  him  ? 

There  stood  the  miserable  man,    171 

He  staggers  from  the  dreadful  spot ;  the 

There  stood  Ladurlad,  with  loose-hang- 

throng                          20 

ing  arms, 

Give  way  in  fear  before  him  ; 

And  eyes  of  idiot  wandering. 

Like  one  who  carries  pestilence  about. 

Was  it  a  dream  ?  alas, 

Shuddering  they   shun   him,    where   he 

He  heard  the  river  flow, 

moves  along. 

He  heard  the  crumbling  of  the  pile, 

And  now  he  wanders  on 

He  heard  the  wind  which  showcr'd 

Beyond  the  noisy  rout ; 

The  thin  white  ashes  round. 

He  cannot  fly  and  leave  his  Curse  behind. 

There  motionless  he  stood. 

Yet  doth  he  seem  to  find 

As  if  he  hoped  it  were  a  dream,    180 

A  comfort  in  the  change  of  circumstance. 

And  feared  to  move,  lest  he  should  prove 

Adown  the  shore  he  strays, 

The  actual  misery  ; 

Unknowing  where  his  wretched  feet 

And  still  at  times  he  met  Kehama's  eye. 

shall  rest,                        30 

Kehama' s  eye  that  fastened  on  him  still. 

But  farthest  from  the  fatal  place  is  best. 

111.    THE   RECOVERY 


125 


By  this  in  the  oriont   sky  appears  the 

uleain 

Of  day.     I^  !    what  is  yonder  in  the 

stream, 

Down  the  slow  river  floating  slow, 

In  distance  indistinct  and  dimly  seen  ? 

The  childless  one  wirh  idle  eye 

Followed  its  motion  thoughtlessly; 

Idly  he  gazed  unknowing  why, 

And  half  unconscious  that  he  watcliM 

its  way. 

Belike  it  is  a  tree  40 

Which  some  rude  temix^st,  in  its  sudden 

sway, 
Tore  from  the  rock,  or  from  the  hollow 

shore 

The  undermining  stream  bath  swept 

away. 


But  when  anon  outswelling  by  its  side, 

A  woman's  robe  he  spied, 

-  Oh  tben  Ladurlad  started, 

As  one,  who  in  his  grave 

Had  heard  an  Angel's  call. 

Yea,  Marriataly,  thou  hast  deign'd_to 

save  ! 

^ ¥€^  Goddess  !  it  i^she,  50 

\ KailyaTV  stTircImging  sensejessly 

To  thy  dear  Image,  and  in  happy  Lout 
Ui^borne  amiil  the  wave 
By  that  picker \iu>:  power.,    ._^ 


Headlong  in  hope  and  in  joy 

Ladurlad  plunged  in  the  water  ; 

The  Water  knew  Kehama's  spell, 

"~        The  Water  shrunk  before  him. 

Blind  to  the  miracle. 

He  rushes  to  his  daughter,         60 

And  treads  the  river-depths  in  transport 

wild, 

And  clasps  and  saves  his  child. 


G 


Upon  the  farther  side  a  level  shore 
Of  sand  was  spread  :    thither  Lailurlad 

^ — ^'  '-^v        bore 
H^  daughter,  iiolding  still  with  senseless 

^^1^     hand 
The  saving  Goddess ;  there  upon  t  he  .sand 

Ho  laid  the  livid  maid. 
Raised  up  again.st  his  knees  her  drooping 

head ; 
Bent  to  her  lips,  .  .  her  lips  as  pale  as 
death,  .  . 
If  he  might  feel  her  breath,         70 
His  own  the  while  in  hope  and  dread 
suspended  ; 
Chafed  her  cold  breast,  and  ever  and 
anon 
Let  his  hand  rest,  upon  her  heart  ex- 
tended. 


Soon  did  his  touch  perceive,  or  fancy 

there, 

The  first  faint  motion  of  returning  Ufe. 

He  chafes  her  feet  and  lays  them  bare 

In  the  sun  ;  and  now  again  upon  her 

breast 

Lays  his  hot  hand ;  and  now  her  lips  he 

prest. 

For  now  the  stronger  throb  of  life  he 

knew  ; 

And  her  lips  tremble  too  !  80 

The  breath  comes  palpably  : 

Her  quivering  lids  unclose. 

Feebly  and  feebly  fall, 

Relapsing  as  it  seem'd  to  dead  repose. 

8 

So  in  her  father's  arms  thus  languidly, 

While  over  her  with  earnest    gaze  he 

hung. 

Silent  and  motionless  she  lay. 

And  painfully  and  slowly  writhed  at  fits, 

At  fits  to  short  convulsive  starts  was 

stunt^r.  89 


126 


THE   CURSE   OF  KEHAMA 


Till  when  the  struggle  and  strong  agony 
Had  left  her,  quietly  she  lay  reposed  : 

Her  eyes  now  resting  on  Ladurlad's  face, 

Relapsing  now,  and  now  again  unclosed. 

The  look  she  fix'd  upon  his  face,  implies 
Nor  thought  nor  feeling  ;    senselessly 
she  lies,  [eyes. 

Composed  like  one  who  sleeps  with  open 

9 

Long  he  leant  over  her. 

In  silence  and  in  fear. 

Kailyal !  .  .  at  length  he  cried  in  such 

a  tone 

As  a  poor  mother  ventures  who  draws 

near,  loo 

With  silent  footstep,  to  her  child's  sick 

bed.  [her  head, 

My  Father !  cried  the  maid,  and  raised 

Awakening  then  to  life  and  thought,  .  . 

thou  here  ? 

For  when  his  voice  she  heard, 

The  dreadful  past  recurr'd, 

Which  dimly,  like  a  dream  of  pain, 

Till  now  with  troubled  sense  confused 

her  brain. 

10 
And  hath  he  spared  us  then  ?  she  cried, 

Half  rising  as  she  spake, 

For  hope  and  joy  the  sudden  strength 

supplied;  no 

In  mercy  hath  he  curb'd  his  cruel  will, 

That  still  thou  livest  ?   But  as  thus  she 

said, 
Impatient  of  that  look  of  hope,  her  sire 

Shook  hastily  his  head  ; 
Oh  !   he  hath  laid  a  Curse  upon  my  life, 

A  clinging  curse,  quoth  he  ; 

Hath  sent  a  fire  into  my  heart  and  brain, 

A  burning  fire,  for  ever  there  to  be  ! 

The  Winds  of  Heaven  must  never 

breathe  on  me ; 

The  Rains  and  Dews  must  never  fall  on 


Water  must  mock  my  thirst  and  shrink. 

from  me ; 
The  common  Earth  must  yield  no  fruit 

to  me  ; 
Sleep,  blessed  Sleep  !  must  never  light 

on  me  ; 

And  Death,  who  comes  to  all,  must  flyi 

from  me. 

And  never,  never  set  Ladurlad  free. 

11 
This  is  a  dream  !   exclaim' d  the  in- 
credulous maid. 
Yet  in  her  voice  the  while  a  fear  exprest. 
Which  in  her  larger  eye  was  manifest. 
This  is  a  dream  !    she  rose  and  laid  her 
hand 
Upon  her  father's  brow,  to  try  the 

charm ;  130 

He  could  not  bear  the  pressure  there  ; . 

he  shrunk,  .  . 

He  warded  off  her  arm. 

As  though  it  were  an  enemy's  blow,  he 

smote 

His  daughter's  arm  aside. 

Her  eye  glanced  down,  his  mantle  she 

espied 

And  caught  it  up ;  .  .  Oh  misery  ! 

Kailyal  cried,  [yet 

He  bore  me  from  the  river- depths,  and 
His  garment  is  not  wet ! 


IV.    THE   DEPARTURE 

1 

Reclined  beneath  a  Cocoa's  feathery 

shade 

Ladurlad  lies. 

And  Kailyal  on  his  lap  her  head  hath 

laid. 

To  hide  her  streaming  eyes. 

The  boatman,  sailing  on  his  easy  way. 

With  envious  eye  beheld  them  wliCre 

they  lay  ; 


IV.    THE   DEPARTURE 


127 


For  every  lierb  and  flower 

Was  fresh  and  fragrant  witli  the  earlj' 

dew,  [hour, 

Sweet  sung  tlie  birds  in  that  dehcious 

And  the  cool  gale  of  morning  as  it  blew, 

Not   yet  subdued   by   day's  increasing 

power,  II 

Ruffling  the  surface  of  the  silvery  stream, 

Swept    o'er    the    moisten' d    sand,    and 

rais'd  no  shower. 

Telling  their  tale  of  love, 

Tlie  boatman  thought  they  lay 

At  that  lone  hour,  and  who  so  blest  as 

they! 


But  now  the  Sun  in  heaven  is  high, 

The  li-ttle  songsters  of  the  sky 

Sit  silent  in  the  sultry  hour. 

They  pant  and  palpitate  with  heat ; 

Their  bills  are  open  languidly       21 

To  catch  the  passing  air  ; 

Tliey  hear  it  not,  the}'  feel  it  not, 

It  murmurs  not,  it  moves  not. 

The  boatman,  as  he  looks  to  land, 

Admires   what   men  so   mad  to  linger 

there, 
For  yonder  Cocoa's  shade  behind  them 

falls, 
A  single  spot  upon  the  burning  sand. 


Tliere  all  the  morning  was  Ladurlad  laid, 

Silent  and  motionless  like  one  at  ease  ; 

Tliere  motionless  upon  her  father's  knees 

Reclined  the  silent  maid.  32 

The  man  was  still,  pondering  with  steady 

mind, 

As  if  it  were  another's  Curse, 

His  own  portentous  lot ; 

Scanning  it  o'er  and  o'er  in  busy  thought. 

As  though  it  were  a  last  night's  tale  of 

woe, 

Before  the  cottage  door 

By  some  old  beldam  sung. 


While  young  and  old,  assembled  round, 
Listened,  as  if  by  witchery  bound,  41 
In  fearful  ploasure   to   her  wondrous 
tongue. 

4 

Musing  so  long  he  lay,  that  all  things 


Unreal  to  his  sense,  even  like  a  dream, 

A  monstrous  dream  of  things  which 

could  not  be. 

That  beating,  burning  brow,  .  .   why  it 

was  now  [there 

The  height  of  noon,  and  he  was  lying 

In  the  broad  sun,  all  bare  ! 

What  if  he  felt  no  wind  ?    the  air  was 

still. 

That  was  the  general  will  50 

Of  Nature,  not  his  own  peculiar  doom ; 

Yon  rows  of  rice  erect  and  silent  stand. 

The  shadow  of  the  Cocoa's  lightest 

plume 

Is  steady  on  the  sand. 


Is  it  indeed  a  dream  ?    he  rase  to  try, 
Impatient  to  the  water  side  he  went. 

And  down  he  bent. 

And  in  the  stream  he  plunged  his  hasty 

arm 

To  break  the  visionary  charm. 

With  fearful  eye  and  fearful  heart,  60      y' 

His  daughter  watch' d  the  event ; 

She  saw  the  start  and  shudder. 

She  heard  the  in-drawn  groan, 

For  the  Water  knew  Kehama's  charm. 

The  Water  shrunk  before  his  arm. 

His  dry  hand  moved  about  unmoisten'd 

there ; 

As  easily  might  that  dry  hand  avail 

To  stop  the  passing  gale. 

Or  grasp  the  impassive  air. 

He  is  Almighty  then  !  70 

Exclaim'd  the  wretched  man  in  his 
de8i>air : 


128 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


Air  knows  him,  Water  knows  him  ;  Sleep 

His  dreadful  word  will  keep  ; 

Even  in  the  grave  there  is  no  rest  for  me, 

Cut  off  from  that  last  hope,  .  .  the 

wretch's  joy  j 

And  Veeshnoo  hath  no  power  to  save. 

Nor  Seeva  to  destroy. 

'~'      6 
I     Oh  !   wrong  not  them  !   quoth  Kailyal, 
I        AVrong  not  the  Heavenly  Powers  ! 

Our  hope  is  all  in  them :    They  are  not 
.;  blind !  80 

And  lighter  wrongs  than  ours, 
i  And  lighter  crimes  than  his, 

Have  drawn  the  Incarnate  down  among 

mankind. 
Already  have  the  Immortals  heard  our 

cries, 

And  in  the  mercy  of  their  righteousness 

Beheld  us  in  the  hour  of  our  distress  ! 

She  spake  with  streaming  eyes. 

Where  pious  love  and  ardent  feeling 

beam. 

And  turning  to  the  Image,  threw 

Her  grateful  arms  around  it,  .  .  It  was 

thou  90 

Who  savedst  me  from  the  stream  ! 

]\Iy  Marriataly,  it  was  thou  ! 

I  had  not  else  been  here 

To  share  my  Father's  Curse, 

To  suffer  now, .  .  and  yet  to  thank  thee 

thus! 

7 
Here  then,  the  maiden  cried,  dear 

Father,  here 

Raise  our  own  Goddess,  our  divine 

Preserver  ! 

The  mighty  of  the  earth  despise  her  rites, 

She  loves  the  poor  who  serve  her. 

Set  up  her  Image  here,  100 

With  heart  and  voice  the  guardian 
Goddess  bless. 
For  jealously  would  she  resent 
Neglect  and  thanklessness  ;  .  . 


Set  up  her  Image  here, 

And  bless  her  for  her  aid  with  tongue 

and  soul  sincere. 

8 

>so  saying  on  her  knees  the  maid 

Began  the  pious  toil. 

Soon  their  joint  labour  scoops  the  easy 

soil ;  [hand, 

They  raise  the  Image  up  with  reverent 

And  round  its  rooted  base  they  heap  the 

sand.  no 

0  Thou  whom  we  adore, 

0  Marriataly,  thee  do  I  implore, 

The  virgin  cried ;    my  Goddess,  pardon 

thou 
The  unwilling  wrong,  that  I  no  more, 

With  dance  and  song. 
Can  do  thy  daily  service,  as  of  yore  ! 
The  flowers  which  last  I  wreathed  around 
thy  brow, 
Are  withering  there  ;  and  never  now 
Shall  I  at  eve  adore  thee. 
And  swimming  round  with  arms  out- 
spread, 120 
Poise  the  full  pitcher  on  my  head, 
In  dexterous  dance  before  thee, 
While  underneath  the  reedy  shed,  at  rest 
My  father  sat  the  evening  rites  to  view. 
And  blest  thy  name,  and  blest 
His  daughter  too. 

9 

Then  heavingf  rom  her  heart  a  heavy  sigh, 

0  Goddess  !  from  that  happy  home, 

cried  she. 
The  Almighty  Man  hath  forced  us  ! 
And  homeward  with  the  thought  un- 
consciously 130 
She  turn'd  her  dizzy  eye.  .  .  But  there 

on  high. 

With  many  a  dome,  and  pinnacle,  and 

spire. 

The  summits  of  the  Golden  Palaces 

Blazed  in  the  dark  blue  sky,  aloft,  like 

tire. 


IV.    THE   DEPARTURE 


129 


Father,  away  !  sho  cried,  away  ! 

Yet  sure  where'er  they  stop  to  lind  no 

Why  linger  we  so  nigh  ? 

rest. 

For  not  to  him  hath  Nature  given 

The  evening  gale  is  blowing, 

The  tliousand  eyes  of  Deity, 

It  plays  among  the  trees  ; 

Always  and  every  where  with  open 

Like  plumes  upon  a  warrior's  crest. 

sight, 

They    see    yon    cocoas    tossing    to    the 

To  persecute  our  Hight !           140 

breeze.                             21 

Away  .  .  away  !   she  said, 

Liidurlad  views  them  with  impatient 

And  took  her  father's  haml,  and  like  a 

mind. 

child 

Impatiently  he  hears 

He  followed  where  she  led. 

The  gale  of  evening  blowing. 

The  sound  of  waters  flowing, 

As  if  all  sights  and  sounds  combined 

To  mock  his  iiTcmediable  woe  ; 

V.    THE   SEPARATION 

For  not  for  him  the  blessed  waters  flow, 

1 

For  not  for  him  the  gales  of  evening  blow. 

Evening  comes  on  :    arising  from  the 

A  fire  is  in  his  heart  and  brain,      30 

stream, 

And  Nature  hath  no  heaUng  for  his  pain. 

Homeward  the  tall  flamingo  wings 

3 

his  flight ; 

The  Moon  is  up,  still  pale 

And  where  he  sails  athwart  the  setting 

Amid  the  lingering  light. 

beam, 

A  cloud  ascending  in  the  eastern  sky. 

His  scarlet  plumage  glows  with  deeper 

Sails  slowly  o'er  the  vale, 

light. 

And  darkens  round  and  closes  in  the 

The  watchman,  at  the  wish'd  approach 

night. 

of  night. 

No  hospitable  house  is  nigh. 

Gladly  forsakes  the  field,  where  he  all 

No  traveller's  home  the  wanderers  to 

day, 

^                              invite ; 

To  scare    the  winged  plunderers  from'; 

ijIV   Forlorn,  and  with  long  watching 
overworn, 

their  prey. 

With  shout  and  sling,  on  yonder 

The  wretched  father  and  the  wretched 

clay-built  height,^ 

child                           40 

Hath  borne  the  sultry  ray. 

Lie  down  amid  the  wild. 

Hark  !   at  the  Golden  Palaces      10 

The  Bramin  strikes  the  hour. 

4 

For  leagues  and  leagues  around,  the 

Before  them  full  in  sight, 

brazen  sound 

Awhiteflagflapping  to  the  winds  of  night 

Rolls  through  the  stillness  of  departing 

Marks  where  the  tiger  seized  a  human 

day, 

prey. 

Like  thunder  far  away. 

Far,  far  away  with  natural  dread. 

Shunning  the  perilous  spot. 

2 

At  other  times  abhorrent  had  they  fled  ; 

Behold  them  wandering  on  their  hope- 

But now  they  heed  it  not. 

less  way. 

Nothing  they  care  ;    the  boding  death- 

Unknowing  where  they  stray, 

flag  now 

130 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


In  vain  for  them  may  gleam  and  flutter 

there.  5° 

Despair  and  agony  in  him, 

Prevent  all  other  thought ; 

And  Kailyal  hath  no  heart  or  sense  for 

aught, 

Save  her  dear  father's  strange  and 

miserable  lot. 


There  in  the  woodland  shade, 

Upon  the  lap  of  that  unhappy  maid, 

His  head  Ladurlad  laid. 

And  never  word  he  spake  ; 

Nor  heaved  he  one  complaining  sigh, 

Nor  groaned  he  with  his  misery,    60 

But  silently  for  her  dear  sake 

Endured  the  raging  pain. 

And  now  the  moon  was  hid  on  high. 

No  stars  were  glimmering  in  the  sky ; 

She  could  not  see  her  father's  eye. 

How  red  with  burning  agony  ; 

Perhaps  he  may  be  cooler  now, 

She  hoped,  and  long'd  to  touch  his 

brow 

With  gentle  hand,  yet  did  not  dare 

To  lay  the  painful  pressure  there.  70 

Now  forward  from  the  tree  she  bent. 

And  anxiously  her  head  she  leant, 

And  listen'd  to  his  breath. 

Ladurlad's  breath  was  short  and  quick. 

Yet  regular  it  came. 

And  like  the  slumber  of  the  sick, 

In  pantings  still  the  same. 

Oh  if  he  sleeps  !  .  .  her  lips  unclose. 

Intently  listening  to  the  sound, 

That  equal  sound  so  like  repose.    80 

Still  quietly  the  sufferer  lies. 

Bearing  his  torment  now  mth  resolute 

wiU; 

He  neither  moves,  nor  groans,  nor  sighs. 

Doth  satiate  cruelty  bestow 

This  little  respite  to  his  woe. 

She  thought,  or  are  there  Gods  who  look 

below  ? 


6 
Perchance,   thought   Kailyal,    willingly 

deceived, 

Our  Marriataly  hath  his  pain  relieved, 

And  she  hath  bade  the  blessed  sleep 

assuage  89* 

His  agony,  despite  the  Rajah's  rage. 

That  was  a  hope  which  fill'd  her  gushing 

eyes. 
And  made  her  heart  in  silent  yearnings 

rise. 
To  bless  the  power  divine  in  thankful- 
ness. 
And  yielding  to  that  joyful  thought 
her  mind. 
Backward  the   maid   her  aching  head 
reclined 
Against  the  tree,  and  to  her  father's 
breath  [ear. 

In  fear  she  hearken' d  still  with  earnest 
But  soon  forgetful  fits  the  effort  broke ; 
In  starts  of  recollection  then  she  woke, 
Till  now  benignant  Nature  over- 
came 

The  Virgin's  weary  and  exhausted  frame. 

Nor  able  more  her  painful  watch  to  keep, 

8he  closed  her  heavy  lids,  and  sunk  to 

sleep. 


Vain  was  her  hope  !  he  did  not  rest  from 

pain, 

Tlie  CursC  was  burning  in  his  brain ; 

Alas  !    the  innocent  maiden  thought  he 

slept. 

But  Sleep  the  Rajah's  dread  command- 
ment kept. 
Sleep  knew  Kehama's  Curse. 
The  dews  of  night  fell  round  them  now, 
Tliey  never  bathed  Ladurlad's  brow, 
They  knew  Kehama's  Curse.      xix 
The  night- wind  is  abroad, 
Aloft  it  moves  among  the  stirring  trees ; 
He  only  heard  the  breeze,  .  . 
No  healing  aid  to  him  it  brought. 


V.    THE   SEPARATION 


131 


It  play'd  around  his  head  and  touch' d 

liim  not. 

It  knew  Kehama'a  Curse. 

8 
Listening,  Ladurlad  lay  in  hia  despair, 
If  Kailyal  slept,   for   wherefore  should 

she  siiare 

Her  father's  wretchedness,  wliich  none 

could  cure  ?  120 

Better  alone  to  suffer  ;  he  must  bear 

Tlie  burden  of  his  Curse,  but  why  endure 

The  unavailing  presence  of  her  grief  ? 
.  She  too,  apart  from  him,  might  find 
/  relief ; 

For  dead  the  Rajah  deem'd  her,  and 
as  thus 
Already  she  his  dread  revenge  had  fled, 
So  might  she  still  escape  and  live  secure. 


Gently  he  lifts  his  head, 

And  Kailyal  does  not  feel ;        129 

Gently  he  rises  up, .  .  she  slumbers  still ; 

Gently  he  steals  away  with  silent 

tread. 

Anon  she  started,  for  she  felt  him  gone  ; 

She  caJl'd,  and  through  the  stillness  of 

the  night, 

His  step  was  heard  in  flight. 

Mistrustful  for  a  moment  of  the  sound, 

She  hstens  ;    till  the  step  is  heard  no 

more  ; 
But  then  she  knows  that  he  indeed  is 

gone. 

And  with  a  thrilling  shriek  she  rushes  on. 

The  darkness  and  the  wood  impede  her 

speed  ; 

She  lifts  her  voice  again,  140 

Ladurlad  !  .  .  and  again,  alike  in  vain, 

And  with  a  louder  cry     [away, 

Straining  its  tone  to  hoarseness  ;  .  .  far 

Selfish  in  misery. 
He  heard  the  call  and  faster  did  he  fly. 


10 


She  leans  against  that  tree  whose  jutting 

bough 

Smote  her  so  rudely.    Her  poor  heart 

How  audibly  it  panted. 

With  sudden  stop  and  start ; 

Her  breath  how  short  and  painfully  it 

came  !  150 

Hark  !  all  is  still  around  her,  .  . 

And  the  night  so  utterly  dark. 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  she  closed 

them, 

And  the  blackness  and  blank  were  the 

same. 

11 

'Twas  like  a  dream  of  horror,  and  she 

stood 

Half  doubting  whether  all  indeed 

were  true. 

A  tiger's  howl  loud  echoing  through  the 

wood. 

Roused  her  ;   the  dreadful  sound  she 

knew, 

And  turn'd  instinctively  to  what  she 

fear'd. 

Far  off  the  tiger's  hungry  howl  was 

heard ;  160 

A  nearer  horror  met  the  maiden's  view. 

For  right  before  her  a  dim  form  appear' d, 

AJiuman  form  iu  that  black  night. 

Distinctly  shaped  by  its  own  lurid  light. 

Such  light  as  the  sickly  moon  is  seen 

to  shed. 

Through    spell-raised    fogs,    a    bloody 

baleful  red. 

-^-i^^-    12 

That  Spectre^x'd  his  eyes  upon  her  full ; 

Tlie  light  wfiich  shone  in  their  accursed 

orbs 

Was  like  a  light  from  Hell, 

And  it  grew  deeper,  kindling  with  the 

view.  170 

She  could  not  turn  her  sight 


132                    THE   CURSE 

OF  KEHAMA 

From  that  infernal  gaze,  which  like 

Away  she  broke  all  franticly,  and  fled. 

a  spell 

There  stood  a  temple  near  beside  thei 

Bound  her,  and  held  her  rooted  to 

way, 

the  ground. 

An  open  fane  of  Pollear,  gentle  God, 

It  palsied  every  power, 

To  whom  the  travellers  for  protection 

Her  limbs  avail' d  her  not  in  that  dread 

pray. 

hour, 

With  elephantine  head  and  eye  severe. 

There  was  no  moving  thence. 

Here  stood  his  image,  such  as  when  he^ 

Tliought,  memory,  sense  were  gone : 

seiz'd 

She  heard  not  now  the  tiger's  nearer  cry. 

And  tore  the  rebel  Giant  from  the 

She  thought  not  on  her  father  now. 

ground,                        209. 

Her  cold  heart's  blood  ran  back,  i8o 

With  mighty  trunk  wreathed  round 

Her  hand  lay  senseless  on  the  bough  it 

His  impotent  bulk,  and  on  his  tusks,  on 

clasp' d. 

high 

Her  feet  were  motionless  ; 

Impaled  upheld  him  between  earth  and 

Her  fascinated  eyes 

sky. 

Like  the  stone  eye-balls  of  a  statue  fix'd, 

Yet  conscious  of  the  sight  that  blasted 

15 

them. 

Tliither  the  affrighted  Maiden  sped  her 

flight, 

13 

And  she  hath  reach' d  the  place  of 

The  wind  is  abroad, 

sanctuary ; 

It  opens  the  clouds  ; 

And  now  within  the  temple  in  despite. 

Scatter' d  before  the  gale. 

Yea,  even  before  the  altar,  in  his 

They  skurry  through  the  sky. 

sight. 

And  the  darkness  retiring  rolls  over  the 

Hath  Arvalan  with  fleshly  arm  of  might 

vale.                          190 

Seized  her.     Tliat  instant  the  insulted 

The  Stars  in  their  beauty  come  forth  on 

God 

high. 

Caught  him  aloft,  and  from  his  sinuous 

And  through  the  dark  blue  night 

grasp,                          2ig 

The  Moon  rides  on  triumphant,  broad 

As  if  from  some  tort  catapult  let  loose^ 

and  bright. 

Over  the  forest  hurl'd  him  all  abroad. 

Distinct  and  darkening  in  her  light. 

16 

Appears  that  Spectre  foul. 

The  moon-beam  gives  his  face  and  form 

O'ercome  with  dread. 

to  sight. 

She  tarried  not  to  see  what  heavenly 

The  shape  of  many— "~^-- 

Power 

The  living  form  and  face  of  Arvalan  ! . . 

Had  saved  her  in  that  hour  ; 

His  hands  are  spread  to  clasp  her. 

Breathless  and  faint  she  fled. 

And  now  her  foot  struck  on  the  knotted 

14 

root 

But  at  that  sight  of  dread  the  Maid 

Of  a  broad  manchineil,  and  there  theS 

awoke ;                        200 

Maid 

As  if  a  lightning-stroke 

Fell  senselessly  beneath  the  deadly 

Had  burst  the  spell  of  fear. 

shade. 

I 


VI.    CASYAPA 


133 


VI.    CASYAPA 


SuALL  this  then  be  thy  fate,  0  lovely 

Maid, 

Thus,  Kailyal,  must  thy  sorrows  then 

be  ended  ? 

Her  face  upon  the  ground, 

Her  arms  at  length  extended. 

There  like  a  corpse  behold  her  laid 

'f  Beneath  the  deadly  shade. 

What  if  the  hungry  tiger,  prowling  by. 

Should  snuff  his  banquet  nigh  ? 
Alas,  Death  needs  not  now  his  ministry  ; 
The  baleful  boughs  hang  o'er  her,  lo 

The  poison-dews  descend. 

What  Power  will  now  restore  her  ? 

W' hat  God  will  be  her  friend  V 


Bright  and  so  beautiful  was  that  fair 

night. 

It  might  have  calm'd  the  gay  amid 

their  mirth. 

And  given  the  wretched  a  delight  in 

tears. 

f  One  of  the  Glendoveers,  ^ 

The  loveliest  race  of  all  of  heavculy 

birth. 

Hovering  with  gentle  motion  o'er  the 

earth, 

Amid  the  moonlight  air,  20 

In  sportive  flight  was  floating  round  and 

round. 
Unknowing  where  his  joyous  way  was 

tending. 
He  saw  the  Maid  where  motionless  she 

4ndstooi>t  his  flij^lit  dcaceudin',s 

And  raised  licr  from  tlu;  ground.. 

Her  heavy  cyc-lidy  are  half  closed, 

Her  cheeks  are  pale  and  livid  like  the 

dead, 

Down  hang  her  loose  arms  lifelessly, 

Down  hangs  her  languid  head. 


With  timely  pity  touch' d  for  one  so  fair, 

The  gentle  Gleudoveer  31 

Press'd  her  thus  pale  and  senseless  to 

his  breast. 
And  springs  aloft  in  air  with  sine  wy  wings. 

And  bears  the  Maiden  there. 

Where  Himakoot,  the  holy  Mount,  on  hich 

Fronimffe^th  rising  in  mid-Heaven, 

Shines  in  its  glory  like  the  throne  of 

Even. 

Soaring  with  strenuous  flight  above, 

He  bears  her  to  the  blessed  Grove, 

W^here  in  his  ancient  and  august  abodes, 

There  dwells  old  Casyapa,  the  Sire 

of  Gods.  41 

4 

The  Father  of  the  Immortals  sate. 

Where  underneath  the  Tree  of  Life, 

The    Fountains    of    the    Sacred    River 

sprung  ; 

The  Father  of  the  Immortals  smiled 

Benignant  on  his  son. 

Knowest  thou,  he  said,  my  child, 

Ereenia,    knowest    thou    whom    thou 

bringest  here, 

A  mortal  to  the  holy  atmosphere  t 

EREEMA 

I  found  her  in  the  Groves  of  E-arth, 

Beneath  a  poison-tree,  51 

Thus  lifeless  as  thou  seest  her. 

In  pity  have  I   brought  her  to  these 

bowers, 

Not  erring.  Father  !  by  that  smile  .  . 

By  that  benignant  eye  ! 

CASYAPA 

What  if  the  Maid  be  sinful  ?   if  her  ways 
Were  ways  of  darkness,  and  her  death 

j)i(xlooni'il 

To  that  black  hour  of  midnight,  when 

the  Moon 

Hath  turn'd  her  face  away, 

L'nwiiling  to  behold  60 

The  unhappy  end  of  guilt  ? 


134 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


EREENIA 

Then  what  a  lie,  my  Sire,  were  written 

here,  [died, 

In  these  fair  characters  !    and  she  had 

Sure  proof  of  purer  life  and  happier 

doom,  [Heaven, 

Now  in  the  moonlight,  in  the  eye  of 

If  I  had  left  so  fair  a  flower  to  fade. 

But  thou,  .  .  all  knowing  as  thou  art, 

Why  askest  thou  of  me  ? 
O  Father,  oldest,  holiest,  wisest,  best. 
To  whom  all  things  are  plain,       70 
Why  askest  thou  of  me  ? 

CASYAPA 

Knowest  thou  Kehama  ? 

EREENIA 

The  Almighty  Man  ! 

\Vho  knows  not  him  and  his  tremendous 

power  ? 

The  Tyrant  of  the  Earth, 

The  Enemy  of  Heaven  ! 

CASYAPA 

Fearest  thou  the  Rajah  ? 

EREENIA 

He  is  terrible  ! 

CASYAPA 

Yea,  he  is  terrible  !   such  power  h§th  he 

^  That  hope  hat's* enfer^d  Hell.       80 

The  Asuras  and  the  spirits  of  the  damn'd 

Acclaim  their  Hero ;    Yamen,  with  the 

might 

Of  Godhead,  scarce  can  quell 

The  rebel  race  accurst :       [rise. 

Half  from  their  beds  of  torture  they  up- 

And  half  uproot  their  chains. 

Is  there  not  fear  in  Heaven  ? 

The  Souls  that  are  in  bliss  suspend  theii 

joy; 

The  danger  hath  disturb' d 

The  calm  of  Deity,  90 

And  Brama  fears,  and  Veeshnoo  turns 
his  face 
In  doubt  toward  Seeva's  throne. 


EREEiSIA 

I  have  seen  Indra  tremble  at  his  prayers, 
And  at  his  dreadful  penances  turn  jsale. 
They  claim  and  wrest  from  Seeva  power 
so  vast. 
That  even  Seeva's  self, 
The  Highest,  cannot  grant  and  be  secure. 

CASYAPA 

And  darest  thou,  Ereenia,  brave 
The  Almighty  Tyrant's  power  V 

EREEXIA 

I  brave  him.  Father  !  I  ?         100 

CASYAPA 

Darest  thou  brave  his  vengeance  ? . .  For, 

if  not. 

Take  her  again  to  earth, 

Cast  her  before  the  tiger  in  his  path, 

Or  where  the  death- dew- dropping  tree 

May  work  Kehama' s  mil. 

EREENIA 

Never ! 

CASYAPA 

Then  meet  his  vvi-ath  !  for  He,  even  He, 

Hath  set  upon  this  worm  his  wanton 

foot. 

EREENIA 

I  knew  her  not,  how  wretched  and  how 

fair. 

When  here  I  wafted  her.  .  .  Poor  Child 

of  Earth,  no 

Shall  I  forsake  thee,  seeing  thee  so  fair, 

So  wretched  ?     0  my  Father,  let  the 

IVIaid 

Dwell  in  the  Sacred  Grove  ! 

CASYAPA 

That  must  not  be. 

For  Force  and  Evil  then  would  enter 

here ;  [sin, 

Ganges,  the  holy  stream  which  cleanseth 

W^ould  flow  from  hence  polluted  in 

its  springs,  [death. 

And  they  who  gasp  upon  its  banks  in 


VI.    CASYAPA 


135 


Feel  no  salvation.     Piety,  and  Peaee, 
And  Wisdom,  these  are  mine;    but  not 
jnic_po\viir  120 

7      Which  could  protect  her  from  tho 
'  Almighty  Man  ; 

Nor  when  the  spirit  of  drad  Arvalan 
Should  }>ersecuto   her  here   to  glut  his 
rage, 
To  heap  upon  her  yet  more  agony, 
And  ripeu  more  damnation  for  himself. 

EREENIA 

Dead  Arvalan  '/ 

CASYAPA 

All  power  to  him,  whereof 

The  disembodied  spirit  in  its  state 

Of  weakness  could  be  made  participant, 

Kehama  hath  assign'd,  until  his  days 

Of  wandering  shall  be  number' d.    131 

EREENIA 

Look  !  she  drinks 

Tlie  gale  of  healing  from  the  blessed 

Groves. 

She  stirs,  and  lo  !  her  hand 

Hath   touch'd   the   Holy   River  in   its 

source. 

Who  would  have  shrunk  if  aught  impure 

were  nigh. 

CASYAPA 

The  Maiden,  of  a  truth,  is  pure  from  sin. 

5 

Tlie  waters  of  the  Holy  Spring 

About  the  hand  of  Kailyal  play  ; 

They  rise,  they  sparkle,  and  they  sing, 

Leaping  where  languidly  she  lay,  141 

As  if  with  tliat  rejoicing  stir 

The  Holy  Spring  would  welcome  her. 

The  Tree  of  life  which  o'er  her  spread, 

Benignant  bow'd  its  sacred  head, 

And  dropt  its  dews  of  healing  ; 

And  her  heart- blood  at  every  breath, 

Recovering  from  the  strife  of  death. 

Drew  in  new  strength  and  feeling. 

Behold  her  beautiful  in  her  repose,  150 


A  life- bloom  reddening  now  her  dark* 

brown  cheek  ; 

And  lo  !   her  eyes  unclose. 

Dark  as   the  depth   of   Ganges'   spring 

profound 

When  night  hangs  over  it. 

Bright  as  tho  moon's  refulgent  beam. 

That  quivers  on  its  clear  up-sparkling 

stream. 

6 

Soon  she  let  fall  her  lids. 

As  one  who,  from  a  blissful  dream 

Waking  to  thoughts  of  pain, 

Fain  would  return  to  sleep,  and  dream 

again.  160 

Distrustful  of  the  sight, 

She  moves  not,  fearing  to  disturb 

The  deep  and  full  deliglit. 

In  wonder  fix'd,  opening  again  her  eyo 

She  gazes  silently. 

Thinking  her  mortal  pilgrimage  was  past, 

That  she  had  reach' d  her  heavenly  homo 

of  rest, 

And  these  were  Gods  before  her, 

Or  spirits  of  the  blest. 

7 
Lo  !  at  Ereenia's  voice.  170 

A  Ship  of  Heaven  comes  sailing  down 

the  skies. 
Where  would' st  thou  bear  her  ?   cries 

The  ancient  Sire  of  Gods. 

Straight  to  the  Swerga,  to  my  Bower  of 

Bliss, 

The  Glcndovecr  replies. 

To  Indra's  o\ni  abodes. 

-Fqo  of  her  foe,  were  it  alone  for  this 

Indra  ^hould  guard  her  from  his  ven- 

^^..^ ^/  geance  there  ; 

But  if  the  Gotl  forbear. 

Unwilling  yet  the  perilous  strife  to  try, 

Or  shrinking  from  the  dreadful  Rajah's 

might,  .  .  181 

Weak  as  I  am,  O  Father,  even  I 

Stand  forth  in  Seeva's  sight. 


136 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


Trust  thou  in  him  whatever  betide, 

And  stand  forth  fearlessly  ! 

The  Sire  of  Gods  replied  : 

All  that  He  wills  is  right,  and  doubt  not 

thou, 

Howe'er  our  feeble  scope  of  sight 

May  fail  us  now. 

His  righteous  will  in  all  things  must  be 

done.  190 

My  blessing  be  upon  thee,  0  my  sou  ! 


VII.    THE  SWERGA 

1 

Then  in  the  Ship  of  Heaven,  Ereenia 

laid 

The  waking,  wondering  Maid  ; 

The  vShip  of  Heaven,  instinct  with 

thought,  display'd 

Its  living  sail,  and  glides  along  the  sky. 

On  either  side  in  wavy  tide, 
Theclouds  of  morn  along  its  path  divide; 
The  Winds  who  swept  in  wild  career  on 
high,  [force ; 

Before  its  presence  check  their  charmed 
The  Winds  that  loitering  lagg'd  along 

their  course. 

Around  the  living  Bark  enamour' d  play, 

Swell  underneath  the  sail,  and  sing 

before  its  way.  11 


That  Bark,  in  shape,  was  like  the 
furrow' d  shell 
Wherein  the  Sea-Nymphs  to  their  parent- 
King,  [bring. 
On  festal  day,  their^  duteous  offerings 
Its  hue  ?  .  .  Go  watch  the  last  green 
light                   [Night ; 
Ere  Evening  yields  the  western  sky  to 
Or  fix  upon  the  Sun  thy  strenuous  sight 
Till  tliou  hast  reach'd  its  orb  of 
chrysolite. 


The  sail  from  end  to  end  display'd      3 

Bent,  like  a  rainbow,  o'er  the  Maid. 

An  Angel's  head,  with  visual  eye,   21 

Through    trackless    space,    directs    iU 

chosen  way  ; 

Nor  aid  of  wing,  nor  foot,  nor  fin. 

Requires  to  voyage  o'er  the  obedient 

sky. 
Smooth  as  the  swan  when  not  a  breeze 

at  even 

Disturbs  the  surface  of  the  silver  stream, 

Through  air  and  sunshine  sails  the  Ship 

of  Heaven. 


Recumbent  there  the  i\Iaiden  glides 

along 

On  her  aerial  way, 

How  swift  she  feels  not,   though  the 

swiftest  wind  30 

Had  flagg'd  in  flight  behind. 

Motionless  as  a  sleeping  babe  she  lay. 

And  all  serene  in  mind. 

Feeling  no  fear  ;   for  that  etherial  air 

With  such  new  life  and  joyance  fill'd  her 

heart, 

Fear  could  not  enter  there  ; 

For  sure  she  deem'd  her  mortal  part 

was  o'er, 

And  she  was  sailing  to  the  heavenly 

shore ;  [beside. 

And  that  angelic  form,  who  moved 
Was  some  good  Spirit  sent  to  be  her 
guide.  40 


Daughter  of  Earth !  therein  thou  deem'  st 

aright ; 

And  never  yet  did  form  more  beautiful, 

In  dreams  of  night  descending  from 

on  high. 

Bless  the  religious  Virgin's  gifted  sight. 

Nor  like  a  vision  of  delight. 
Rise  on  the  raptured  Poet's  inward  eye. 
Of  human  form  divine  was  he,    ] 


VII.    THE   SWERGA 


137 


The  immortal  Youth  of  Heaveu  who 

floated  by. 

Even  such  as  that  diviiicst  form  shall  be 

In  those  blest  stages  of  our  onward  race. 

When  no  infirmity,  51 

Low  thought,  nor  base  desire,  nor 

Wiisting  care. 

Deface  the  somblance  of  our  heavenly 

sire. 


The  ^ving8  of  Eagle  or  of  Cherubim 

Had  seem'd  unworthy  him  ; 

Angelic  power  and  dignity  and  grace 

Were  in  his  glorious  pennons  ;  from  the 

neck 
Down  to  the  ankle  reach'd  their  swelling 

web 

Richer  than  robes  of  Tyrian  dye,  that 

deck 

Imperial  Majesty  :  60 

Their  colour  like  the  winter's  moonless 

sky, 
When  all  the  stars  of  midnight's  canopy 
Shine  forth  ;   or  like  the  azure  deep  at 

noon. 

Reflecting  back  to  heaven  a  brighter 

blue. 

Such  was  their  tint  when  closed,  but 

when  outspread. 

The  permeating  light 

Shed   through   their   substance   thin   a 

varying  hue  ; 

Now  bright  as  when  the  rose, 

Beauteous  as  fragrant,  gives  to  scent 

and  sight 

A  like  delight ;   now  like  the  juice  that 

flows  70 

From  Douro's  generous  vine  ; 

Or  ruby  when  with  deepest  red  it  glows  ; 

Or  as  the  morning  clouds  refulgent 

shine, 

When,  at  forthcoming  of  the  Lord  of 

Day, 

The  Orient,  like  a  sluinc, 

F 


Kindles  as  it  receives  the  rising  ray, 

And  heralding  his  way. 

Proclaims  the  i)resenco  of  the  Power 

divine. 

G 
Thus  glorious  were  the  wings      79 
Of  that  celestial  Spirit,  as  he  went 
Disporting  through  his  native  clement. 

Nor  these  alone 
The  gorgeous  beauties  that  they  gave 

to  view  ; 

Through  the  broad  membrane  branched 

a  pliant  bone,  [stem, 

Spreading  like  fibres  from  their  parent 

Its  veins  like  interwoven  silver  shone. 

Or  as  the  chaster  hue 

Of  pearls  that  grace  some  Sultan's 

diadem. 

Now  with  slow  stroke  and  strong  behold 

him  smite 

The  buoyant  air,  and  now  m  gentler 

flight,  90 

On   motionless   wing  expanded,   shoot 

along. 


Through  air  and  sunshine  sails  the  Ship 

of  Heaven  ; 

Far,  far  beneath  them  lies 

The  gross  and  heavy  atmosphere  of 

earth  ; 

And  with  the  Swerga  gales, 

The  Maid  of  mortal  birth 

At  every  breath  a  new  delight  inhales. 

And  now  toward  its  port  the  Ship  of 

Heaven,  [flight, 

Swift  as  a  falling  meteor,  shapes  its 

Yet  gently  as  the  dews  of  night  that 

gem,  100 

And  do  not  bend  the  hare- bell's 

slenderest  stem. 

Daughter  of  Earth,  Ereenia  cried,  alight; 

This  is  thy  place  of  rest,  the  Swerga  this, 

Lo,  hero  my  Bower  of  Bliss  ! 


138 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


He  furl'd  his  azure  wings,  which  round 

him  fold 

Graceful  as  robes  of  Grecian  chief  of  old. 

The  happy  Kailyal  knew  not  where 

to  gaze  ; 

Her  eyes  around  in  joyful  wonder  roam, 

Now  turn'd  upon  the  lovely  Glendoveer, 

Now  on  his  heavenly  home.       no 

EREENIA 

Here,  Maiden,  rest  in  peace, 

And  I  will  guard  thee,  feeble  as  I  am. 

The   Almighty   Rajah   shall  not   harm 

thee  here, 

While  Indra  keeps  his  throne. 

KAILYAL 

Alas,  thou  f  earest  him  ! 

Immortal  as  thou  art,  thou  fearest  him  ! 

I  thought  that  death  had  saved  me  from 

his  power ; 

Not  even  the  dead  are  safe. 

EREENIA 

Long  years  of  life  and  happiness, 

0  Child  of  Earth  be  thine  !        120 

From  death  I  sav'd  thee,  and  from  all 

thy  foes 

Will  save  thee,  while  the  Swerga  is 

secure. 

KAILYAL 

Not  me  alone,  O  gentle  Deveta  ! 

I  have  a  Father  suffering  upon  earth, 

A  persecuted,  wretched,  poor,  good  man. 

For  whose  strange  misery 

There  is  no  human  help, 

And  none  but  I  dare  comfort  him 

Beneath  Kehama's  Curse  ;        129 
O  gentle  Deveta,  protect  him  too  ! 

EREENIA 

Come,  plead  thyself  to  Indra !    Words 

like  thine 
May  win  their  purpose,  rouse  his  slum- 
bering heart. 


And  make  him  yet  put  forth  his  arm  to , 

wield 

The  thunder,  while  the  thunder  is  his 


9 

Then  to  the  Garden  of  the  Deity 

Ereenia  led  the  Maid. 

In  the  mjd  garden  tower' d  a  giant  Tree  ;  | 

Rock- rooted  on  a  mountain- top,  it  grew,  ' 

Rear'd  its  unrivall'd  head  on  high, 
And  stretch' d  a  thousand  branches  o'er  1 

the  sky,  140 

Drinking  with  all  its  leaves  celestial  dew. 

Lo  !   where  from  thence  as  from  a  living 

well 

A  thousand  torrents  flow  ! 

For  still  in  one  perpetual  shower, 

Like  diamond  drops,  etlierial  waters  fell 

From  every  leaf  of  all  its  ample  bower. 

Rolling  adown  the  steep 

From  that  aerial  height. 

Through  the  deep  shade  of  aromatic 

trees. 

Half-seen,  the  cataracts  shoot  their 

gleams  of  light,  150 

And  pour  upon  the  breeze 

Their  thousand  voices ;    far  away  the 

roar, 

In  modulations  of  delightful  sound, 

Half- heard   and    ever   varying,   floats 

around. 
Below,  an  ample  Lake  expanded  lies. 

Blue  as  the  o'er-arching  skies  : 

Forth  issuing  from  that  lovely  Lake 

A  thousand  rivers  water  Paradise. 

Full  to  the  brink,  yet  never  overflowing, 

They  cool  the  amorous  gales,  which, 

ever  blowing,  160 

O'er   their   melodious   surface   love   to 

stray  ; 

Then  winging  back  their  way, 

Their  vapours  to  the  parent  Tree  repay;  j 

And  ending  thus  where  they  began, 


Vll.    THE  iSVVERGA 


139 


And  feeding  thus  the  source  from  whence 

they  came, 

The  eternal  rivers  of  tlie  Swerga  ran, 

For  ever  renovate,  yet  still  the  same. 

10 

On  that  ethereal  lake,  whose  waters  lie 

Blue  and  transpicuous,  like  another  sky, 

The  £lemcnti5  had  reard  their  King's 

abode.  170 

A  strong  controuling  power  their  strife 

suspended, 

And  there  their  hostile  essences  they 

blended. 

To  form  a  Palace  worthy  of  the  (jlod. 

Built  on  the  I^ke,  the  waters  were  its 

floor  ; 

And  here  its  walls  were  water  arch'd 

with  fire, 

And  here  were  fire  with  water  vaulted 

o'er  ; 

And  spires  and  pinnacles  of  fire 

Round  watery  cupolas  aspire. 

And  domes  of  rainbow  rest  on  fiery 

towers  ; 

And  roofs  of  flame  are  turreted  around 

With  cloud,  and  shafts  of  cloud  with 

flame  are  bound.  181 

Here  too  the  Elements  for  ever  veer, 
Ranging  around  with  endless  inter- 
changing ; 
Pursued  in  love,  and  so  in  love  pursuing. 
In  endless  revolutions  here  they  roll ; 
For  ever  their  mysterious  work 
renewing ; 
The  parts  all  shifting,  still  unchanged 
the  whole. 
Even  we  on  earth  at  intervals  descry 
Gleams  of  the  glory,  streaks  of  flowing 
light. 
Openings  of  heaven,  and  streams  that 
flash  at  night  190 

In  fitful  splendour,  through  the  northern 
sky. 


11 

Impatient  of  delay,  Erecnia  taught 
The  Maid  aloft,  and  spread  his   wings 

abroad. 

And  bore  her  to  the  presence  of  the  (JckI. 

There  Indra  sate  upon  his  throne 

reclined, 

Where  Devetas  adore  him  ; 

The  lute  of  Nared,  warbling  on  the  wind, 

All  tones  of  magic  harmony  combined 

To  sooth  his  troubled  mind. 

While  the  dark-eyed  Apsaras  danced 

before  him.  200 

In  vain  the  Ood-musician  play'd. 

In  vain  the  dark-eyed  Nymphs  of 

Heaven  essay' d 

To  charm  him  with  their  beauties  in  the 

dance ;  [appear. 

And  when  he  saw  the  mortal  Maid 

Led  by  the  heroic  Glendoveer, 

A  deeper  trouble  fill'd  his  countenance. 

What  hast  thou  done,  Ereenia,  said  the 

God, 

Bringing  a  mortal  here  ? 

And  while  he  spake  his  eye  was  on  the 

Maid ; 

The  look  he  gave  was  solemn,  not 

severe :  210 

No  hope  to  Kailyal  it  convey' d. 

And  yet  it  struck  no  fear  ; 

There  was  a  sad  displeasure  in  his  air, 

But  pity  too  was  there. 

EREENIA 

Hear  me,  0  Indra  !    On  the  lower  earth 
I  found  this  child  of  man,  by  what 
mishap 
I  know  not,  lying  in  the  lap  of  death. 
Aloft  I  bore  her  to  our  Father's  grove. 
Not  having  other  thought,  than  when 

the  gales 

Of  bliss  had  hcal'd  her,  upon  earth  again 

To  leave  its  lo\ely  daughter.     Other 

thoughts  221 

Arose,  when  Casyapa  declared  her  fate  ; 


140 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


For  she  is  one  who  groans  beneath  the 

power 

Of  the  dread  Rajah,  terrible  alike 

To    men    and    Gods.      His    son,    dead 

Arvalan,  [power, 

Arm'd  with  a  portion,  Indra,  of  thy 

Already  wrested  from  thee,  persecutes 

The  Maid,  the  helpless  one,  the  innocent. 

What  then  behoved  me  but  to  waft 

her  here 

To  my  own  Bower  of  Bliss  ?  what  other 

choice  ?  230 

The  Spirit  of  foul  Arvalan  not  yet 

Hath  power  to  enter  here  ;    here  thou 

art  yet  [own. 

Supreme,  and  yet  the  Swerga  is  thine 

INDRA 

No  child  of  man,  Ereenia,  in  the  Bowers 
Of  Bliss  may  sojourn,  till  he  hath  put  off 

His  mortal  part ;   for  on  mortality 
Time  and  Infirmity  and  Death  attend, 
Close  followers  they,  and  in  their  mourn- 
ful train 
Sorrow  and  Pain  and  Mutability. 
Did  these  find  entrance  here,  we  should 
behold  240 

Our  joys,   like  earthly  summers,  pass 
away. 
Those  joys  perchance  may  pass ;    a 
stronger  hand 
May  wrest  my  sceptre,  and  unparadise 
The  Swerga ;  .  .  but,  Ereenia,  if  we  fall, 
Let  it  be  Fate's  own  arm  that  casts 
us  down : 
We  will  not  rashly  hasten  and  provoke 
The  blow,  nor  bring  ourselves  the 
ruin  on. 

EREENIA 

Fear  courts  the  blow,  Fear  brings  the 

ruin  on.  [Destiny 

Needs  must  the  cliariot- wheels  of 

Crush  him  who  throws  himself  before 

their  track,  250 

Patient  and  prostrate. 


INDRA 

All  may  yet  be  well. 

Who  knows  but  Veeshnoo  will  descend 

and  save, 

Once  more  incarnate  ? 

EREENIA 

Look  not  there  for  help, 
Nor  build  on  unsubstantial  hope  thy 

trust. 

Our  Father  Casyapa  hath  said  he  turns 

His  doubtful  eye  to  Seeva,  even  as  thou 

Dost  look  to  him  for  aid.    But  thine 

own  strength 

Should  for  thine  own  salvation  be  put 

forth ;  260 

Then  might  the  higher  Powers 

approving  see 

And  bless  the  brave  resolve.  .  .  Oh,  that 

my  arm 
Could  wield  yon  lightnings  which  play 

idly  there. 

In  inoffensive  radiance  round  thy  head  ! 

The  Swerga  should  not  need  a  champion 

now,  [vaui ! 

Nor  Earth  implore  deliverance  still  in 

INDRA 

Thinkest  thou  I  want  the  will  ?    Rash 

V       Son  of  Heaven, 

What  if  my  arm  be  feeble  as  thine  own 

Against  the  dread  Kehama  ?     He  went 

on 

Conquering  in  UTesistible  career,  270 

Till  his  triumphant  car  had  measured 

o'er 
The  insufficient  eai'th,  and  all  the  Kings 
Of  men  received  his  yoke  ;   then  had  he 

won 

His  will,  to  ride  upon  then-  necks  elate, 

And  crown  his  conquests  with  the 

sacrifice 

That  should,  to  men  and  gods,  proclaim 

him  Lord  [World, 

And   Sovereign   Master   of   the   vassal 

Sole  Rajah,  the  Omnipotent  below. 


VII.    THE  SWERGA 


141 


Tho  steam  of  tliat  portentous  sacrifice 
Arose  to  Hoaven.   TIumi  was  the  hour  to 
strike;  280 

J  Then  in  the  oonsuniination  of  hiM  pride, 
~^    His  height  of  glory,  then  lli(«  thmuhr- 
bolt 
ShouUl  have  gone  forth,  and  luuTd  him 
from  liis  throne 
Down  to  tlie  fiery  floor  of  Padalon, 
To  everlasting  burnings,  agony 
Eternal,  and  remorse  which  knows  no 
end. 
;  Tliat  hour  went  by  :    grown  impious  in 
success, 
By  prayer  and  penances  he  wrested  now 
Such  power  from  Fate,  that  soon,  if 
Seeva  turn  not  289 

His  eyes  on  earth,  and  no  Avatar  save, 
j   Soon  will  he  seize  the  Swerga  for  his  own, 
Roll  on  through  Padalon  his  chariot 
wheels, 
Tear  up  the  adamantine  bolts  which  lock 
The  accurst  Asuras  to  its  burning  floor, 

And  force  the  drink  of  Immortality 

From  Yamen's  charge.  .  .  Vain  were  it 

now  to  strive  ; 

My  thunder  cannot  pierce  the  sphere 

.  j  of  power 

'  Wherewith,  as  with  a  girdle,  he  is  bound. 

KAILYAL 

Take  me  to  earth,  0  gentle  Deveta  ! 

Take  me  again   to  earth  !     This  is  no 

place  300 

Of  rest  for  me  !  .  .  my  Father  still 

must  bear 

His  curse .  .  he  shall  not  bear  it  all  alone ; 

Take  me  to  earth,  that  I  may  follow 

him  !  .  . 

I  do  not  fear  the  Almighty  Man  !    the 

Oods  [Powers 

Are  feeble  here  ;  but  there  are  higher 

Who  will  not  turn  their  ej'es  from  wrongs 

like  ours  ; 
Take  me  to  earth,  0  gentle  Deveta  1  .  . 


12 

Raying  thus  she  knelt,  and  to  his  knees 

she  clung 

And  bow\l  her  head,  in  tears  and 

.silence  i)raying. 

Rising  anon,  around  his  neck  .she  flung 

Her  arms,  and  there  with  folded 

hands  she  hung,  311 

And  fixing  on  the  guardian  niendoveer 

Her  eyes,  more  elocjuent  than  Angel's 

tongue,  [here ! 

Again  she  cried.  There  is  no  comfort 

I  must  be  with  my  Father  in  his  pain  .  . 

Take  me  to  earth,  O  Deveta,  again  ! 

13 
Indra  with  admiration  heard  the  Maid, 

0  Child  of  Earth,  he  cried,  . 

Already  in  thy  spirit  thus  divine,  ' 

Whatever  weal  or  woe  betide,  320 
Be  that  high  sense  of  duty  still  thy  guide. 
And  all  good  Powers  will  aid  a  soul  like 

thine. 

Then  turning  to  Ereenia,  thus  he  said. 

Take  her  where  Ganges  hath  its  second 

birth. 

Below  our  sphere,  and  yet  above  the 

earth ;  [power       y 

There  may  Ladurlad  rest  beyond  the 
Of  the  dread  Rajah,  till  the  fated  hour. 


VIII.    THE  SACRIFICE 

1 
Dost  thou  tremble,  0  Indra,  0  Cod  of 

the  Sky, 
Why  slumber  those  thunders  of  thine  ": 

Dost  thou  tremble  on  high.  .  . 

Wilt  thou  tamely  the  Swerga  resign,  .  . 

Art  thou  smitten,  O  Indra,  with  dread  ? 

Orseest  thou  not,  seest  thou  not.  Monarch 

divine. 

How  many  a  day  to  Seeva's  shrine 

Kehama  his  victim  hath  led  '! 

Nino  and  ninety  days  arc  fled. 


142 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


Nine  and  ninety'  steeds  have  bled ;  lo 

One  more,  the  rite  will  be  complete. 

One  victim  more,  and  this  the  dreadful 

day.  [seat. 

Then  will  the  impious  Rajah  seize  th}- 

And  wrest  the  thunder-sceptre  from  thy 

sway. 

Along  the  mead  the  hallow' d  Steed 

Yet  bends  at  liberty  his  way  ; 

At  noon  his  consummating  blood  will 

flow. 

0  day  of  woe  !  above,  below, 

That  blood  confirms  the  Almighty 

Tyrant's  reign  ! 

Tliou  tremblest,  0  Indra,  0  God  of  the 

Sky,  20 

Tliy  thunder  is  vain, 

Thou  tremblest  on  high  for  thy  power  ! 

But  where  is  Veeshnoo  at  this  hour. 

But  where  is  Seeva's  eye  ? 

Is  the  Destroyer  blind  ? 

Is  the  Preserver  careless  for  mankind  ? 

2 

Along  the  mead  the  hallow'd  Steed 

Still  wanders  wheresoe'er  he  will, 

O'er  hill,  or  dale,  or  plain  ;         29 

No  human  hand  hath  trick' d  that  mane 

From  which  he  shakes  the  morning  dew ; 

His  mouth  has  never  felt  the  rein. 

His  lips  have  never  froth' d  the  chain  ; 

For  pure  of  blemish  and  of  stain, 

His  neck  unbroke  to  mortal  3'oke, 

Like  Nature  free  the  Steed  must  be, 

Fit  offering  for  the  Immortals  he. 
A  year  and  day  the  Steed  must  stray 
Wherever  chance  may  guide  his  way. 

Before  he  fall  at  Seeva's  shrine ;    40 
The  year  and  day  have  pass'd  away, 
Nor  touch  of  man  hath  marr'd  the  rite 

divine. 

And  now  at  noon  the  Steed  must  bleed, 

The  perfect  rite  to-day  must  force  the 

meed  [bestow ; 

Which  Fate  reluctant  shudders  to 


Then  must  the  Swerga-God 
Yield  to  the  Tyrant  of  the  world  below ; 

Then  must  the  Devetas  obey 

The  Rajah's  rod,  and  groan  beneath  hia 

hateful  sway. 


Tlie  Sun  rides  high  ;    the  hour  is  nigh  ; 
The  multitude  who  long,  51 

Lest  aught  should  mar  the  rite. 
In  circle  wide  on  every  side. 
Have  kept  the  Steed  in  sight, 
Contract  their  circle  now,  and  drive  him 
on.  [court. 

Drawn  in  long  files  before  the  Temple- 
Tlie  Rajah's  archers  flank  an  ample 
space ; 
Here,  moving  onward  still,  they  drive 
him  near,  [here. 

Tlien,  opening,  give  him  way  to  enter 


Behold  him,  how  he  starts  and  flings 

his  head  !  60 

On  either  side  in  glittering  order  spread, 

Tlie  archers  ranged  in  narrowing  lines 

appear ; 

The  multitude  behind  close  up  the  rear 

With  moon-like  bend,  and  silentlj^  await 

'  The  aweful  end, 

Tlie  rite  that  shall  from  Indra  wrest  his 

power. 
In  front,  with  far-stretched  walls,  and 

many  a  tower, 

Turret  and  dome  and  pinnacle  elate, 

Tlie  huge  Pagoda  seems  to  load  the  land : 

And  there  before  the  gate  70 

The  Bramin  band  expectant  stand, 

Tlie  axe  is  readv  for  Kehama's  hand. 


Hark  !  at  the  Golden  Palaces 

The  Bramin  strikes  the  time  ! 

One,  two,  three,  four,  a  thrice-told 

chime, 


VIII.    THE    SACRIFICE 


143 


And  tlien  ap;ain,  one,  two. 

The  bowl  that  in  its  vcsmI  lloats,  anew 

Must  fill  and  sink  again, 

Then  will  the  final  stroke  be  due. 

The  Sun  rides  high,  tlio  noon  is  nigh. 

And  silently,  as  if  spell  bound,     8i 

Tlie  multitude  expect  the  sound. 

(> 

Lo  !    how  the  Steed,  with  sudden  start. 

Turns  his  quick  head  to  every  part ; 

.1    Long  files  of  men  on  every  side  appear. 

Tlie  sight  might  well  his  heart  affright. 

And  yet  the  silence  that  is  here 

Inspires  a  stranger  fear  ; 

For  not  a  murmur,  not  a  sound 

Of  breath  or  motion  rises  round,    90 

No  stir  is  heard  in  all  that  mighty  crowd ; 

He  neighs,  and  from  the  temple- wall 

The  voice  re-echoes  loud, 

Loud  and  distinct,  as  from  a  hill 

Across  a  lonely  vale,  when  all  is  still. 

7 

Within  the  temple,  on  his  golden  throne 

Reclined,  Kehama  lies, 

/  Watching  with  steady  eyes 

The  perfumed  light  that,  burning  bright. 

Metes  out  the  passing  hours.      100 

On  either  hand  his  eunuchs  stand, 

Freshening  with  fans  of  peacock-plumes 

the  air. 

Which,  redolent  of  all  rich  gums  and 

flowers. 

Seems,  overcharged  with  sweets,  to 

stagnate  there.  [slow 

Lo  !    the  time-taper's  flame  ascending 

Creeps  up  its  coil  toward  the  fated  line  ; 

Kehama  rises  and  goes  forth. 

And  from  the  altar,  ready  where  it  lies. 

He  takes  the  axe  of  sacrifice. 

8 
That  instant  from  the  crowd,  with 

sudden  shout,  no 

4  A  Man  sprang  out 


To  lay  upon  the  Steed  his  hand  profane. 
A  thousand  archcr.s,  with  unerring  eye, 

At  once  let  fly. 
And  with  tluur  hurtling  arrows  fill  the 

sky. 

In  vain  they  fall  upon  him  fast  as  rain  ; 

He  bears  a  charmed  life,  which  may 

defy 

All  weapons,  .  .  and  the  darts  that  whizz 

around. 

As  from  an  adamantine  panoply 

RepcU'd,  fall  idly  to  the  ground.  120 

Kehama  clasp' d  his  hands  in  agony 

And  saw  him  grasp  the  hallow'd 

courser's  mane. 

Spring  up  with  sudden  bound,  /- 

And  with  a  frantic  cry. 

And  madman's  gesture,  gallop  round 

and  round. 

9 

They  seize,  they  drag  him  to  the  Rajah's 

feet. 

What  doom  will  now  be  his,  .  .   what 

vengeance  meet 

Will  he,  who  knows  no  mercy,  now 

require  ? 

Tlie  obsequious  guards  around,  with 

blood-hound  eye. 

Look  for  the  word,  in  slow-consuming 

fire,  130 

By  piece-meal  death,  to  make  the 

wretch  expire,  [high. 

Or  hoist  his  living  carcass,  hook'd  on 

To  feed  the  fowls  and  insects  of  the  sky  ; 

Or  if  aught  worse  inventive  cruelty 

To  that  remorseless  heart  of  royalty 

Might    prompt,    accursed    instruments 

they  stand 

To  work  the  wicked  will  with  wicked 

hand. 

Far  other  thoughts  were  in  the 

multitude  ; 

Pity,  and  human  feeling.'?,  held  them 

still: 


144 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


And  stifled  sighs  and  groans  supprest 

were  there,  140 

And  many  a  secret  curse  and  inward 

prayer 

Call'd  on  the  insulted  Gods  to  save 

mankind. 

Expecting  some  new  crime,  in  fear  they 

stood, 

Some  horror  which  would  make  the 

natural  blood 

Start,  with  cold  shudderings  thrill  the 

sinking  heart, 
Whiten  the  lip,  and  make  the  abhorrent 

eye 
Roll  back  and  close,  prest  in  for  agony. 

10 

How  then  fared  he  for  whom  the  mighty 

crowd 
Suffer' d  in  spirit  thus,  .  .  how  then 

fared  he  ? 

A  ghastly  smile  was  on  his  lip,  his  eye 

Glared  with  a  ghastly  hope,  as  he  drew 

nigh,  151 

And  cried  aloud,  Yes,  Rajah  !   it  is  I  ! 

And  wilt  thou  kill  me  now  ? 
The  countenance  of  the  Almighty  Man 
Fell  when  he  knew  Ladurlad,  'and  his 
brow 
Was  clouded  with  despite,  as  one 
ashamed. 
That  wretch  again  !    indignant  he  ex- 
claim'd. 
And  smote  his  forehead,  and  stood 
silently 
Awhile  in  wrath :    then,  with  ferocious 
smile. 
And  eyes  which  seem'd  to  darken 

his  dark  cheek,  160 

Let  him  go  free  !    he  cried  ;    he  hath 

his  Curse, 
And  vengeance  upon  him  can  wreak 

no  worse  .  . 

But  ye  who  did  not  stop  him  .  .  tremble 

ye! 


11 

He  bade  the  archers  pile  their  weapons 

there  : 
No  manly  courage  fill'd  the  slavish  band. 
No  sweetening  vengeance  roused  a  brave 

despair. 
He  call'd  his  horsemen  then,  and  gave 

command 
To  hem  the  offenders  hi,  and  hew  them 
down.  [rear'd, 

Ten  thousand  scymitars  at  once  up- 
Flash  up,  like  waters  sparkling  to  the 
sun ;  170 

A  second  time  the  fatal  brands  appear' d 
Lifted  aloft,  .  .  they  glitter' d  then  no 

more, 

Their  light  was  gone,  their  splendour 

quench' d  in  gore. 

At  noon  the  massacre  begun, 

And  night  closed  in  before  the  work  of 

death  was  done. 


IX.    THE   HOME-SCENE 

1 

The  steam  of  slaughter  from  that  place 

of  blood 

Spread  o'er  the  tainted  sky. 

Vultures,  for  whom  the  Rajah's  tyranny 

So  oft  had  furnish' d  food,  from  far  and 

nigh 

Sped  to  the  lure  :   aloft  with  joyful  cry, 

Wheeling  around,  they  hover' d  over 

head ; 

Or,  on  the  temple  perch' d,  with  greedy 

eye, 

Impatient  watch' d  the  dead. 

Far  off  the  tigers,  in  the  inmost  wood, 

Heard  the  death  shriek,  and  snuff'd  the 

scent  of  blood  ;  10 

Tliey  rose,  and  through  the  covert  went 

their  way, 

Couch'd  at  the  forest  edge,  and  waited 

for  their  prey. 


IX.    THE   HOME-SCENE 


146 


He  wlio  liad  soufjht  for  death  went 

wandering  on. 

The  hope  which  liad  inspired  his  heart 

was  gone. 
Vet  a  wild  joj'anco  still  inflamed  his  face, 
A  smile  of  vengeance,  a  triumphant  glow. 
Wlune  goes  he  ?  .  .  Whither  should 
-/  Ladurlad  go  ! 

Unwittingly  the  wretch's  footsteps  trace 
Tlieir  wonted  path  toward  liis  dwelling- 
place  ; 
And  wandering  on.  unknowing  where,  20 
He  starts  like  one  surprised  at  finding 
he  is  there. 


Behold  his  lowly  home, 
By  yonder  broad-bough'd  plane  o'er- 

shadcd  : 

n     Tliere  Marriataly's  Image  stands, 

And  there  the  garland  twined  bj' 

Kailyal's  hands 

Around  its  brow  hath  faded. 

The  peacocks,  at  their  master's  sight, 

Quick  from  the  leafy  thatch  alight. 

And  hurry  round, and  search  the  ground, 

And  veer  their  glancing  necks  from  side 

to  side,  30 

Expecting  from  his  hand 

Tlieir  daily  dole  which  erst  the  Maid 

supplied, 

Now  all  too  long  denied. 


But  as  he  gazed  around. 
How  strange  did  all  accustom'd  sights 

appear ! 

How  differently  did  each  familiar  sound 

Assail  his  alter'd  ear  ! 

Here  stood  the  marriage  bower, 

Rear'd  in  that  happy  hour 

When  he,  with  festal  joy  and  youthful 

pride,  40 

Had  brought  Yedillian  home,  his 

beauteons  bride. 


,y  '.^ ' 


leaves  not  its  own,  and  many  a 

borrow 'd  llower. 

Had  then  bedeck'd  it,  withering  ere  the 

night ; 

But  he  who  look'd  from  that  auspicious 

day 

For  j'cars  of  long  delight. 

And  would  not  see  the  marriage  bower 

decay,  [care, 

Tliere  planted  and  nurst  up,  with  daily 

The  sweetest  herbs  that  scent  the 

ambient  air, 

And   train'd    them   round   to   live   and 

flourish  there. 

Nor  when  dread  Yamen's  will      50 

Had  call'd  Yedillian  from  his  arms  away 

Ceased  he  to  tend  the  marriage  bower, 

but  still. 
Sorrowing,  had  drest  it  like  a  pious  rite 
Due  to  the  monument  of  past  delight. 

5 
He  took  his  wonted  seat  before  the 
door,  .  . 
Even  as  of  yore. 
When  he  was  wont  to  view  with  placid 
eyes. 
His  daughter  at  her  evening  sacrifice. 
Here  were  the  flowers  which  she  so 
carefully 
Did  love  to  rear  for  ^farriataly's  brow ; 
Neglected  now,  61 

Their  heavy  heads  were  drooping,  over- 
blown : 
All  else  appear'd  the  same  as  heretofore, 

All  .  .  save  himself  alone ; 

How  happy  then,  .  .  and  now  a  wTetch 

for  evermore  ! 


The  market-flag  which  hoisted  high, 
j  From  far  and  nigh. 

Above  yon  cocoa  grove  is  seen, 

Hangs  motionless  amid  the  sultrj-  sky. 

;  Loud  sounds  the  village  drum  ;   a  happy 

'  crowd  70 


146 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


Is  there ;    Ladurlad  hears  their  distant 

voices, 

But  with  their  joy  no  more  his  heart 

rejoices ;  [fare, 

And  how  their  old  companion  now  may 

Little  they  know,  and  less  they  care ; 

The  torment  he  is  doom'd  to  bear 

Was  but  to  them  the  wonder  of  a  day, 

A  burthen  of  sad  thoughts  soon  put 

away. 

7 
They  knew  not  that  the  wretched  man 
was  near,  [ear, 

And  yet  it  seem'd,  to  his  distemper' d 
As  if  they  wrong' d  him  with  their  merri- 
ment. 80 
Resentfully  he  turn'd  away  his  eyes. 
Yet  turn'd  them  but  to  find 
Sights  that  enraged  his  mind 
With  envious  grief  more  wild  and  over- 
powering. 
The  tank  which  fed  his  fields  was  there, 
and  there 
The  large-leaved  lotus  on  the  waters 
flowering. 
There,  from  the  intolerable  heat 
The  buffaloes  retreat ; 
Only  their  nostrils  raised  to  meet  the  air, 
Amid  the  sheltering  element  they  rest. 
Impatient  of  the  sight,  he  closed  his 
eyes,  91 
And   bow'd  his  burninor  head,   and  in 


Calling  on  Indra, .  .  Thunder- God !  he 

said, 

Thou  owest  to  me  alone  this  day  thy 

throne. 

Be  grateful,  and  in  mercy  strike  me 

dead. 

8 

Despair  had  roused  him  to  that  hopeless 

prayer. 

Yet  thinking  on  the  heavenly  Powers, 

his  mind 


Drew  comfort ;  and  he  rose  and  gather'd 

flowers, 

And  twined  a  crown  for  Marriataly's 

brow ; 

And  taking  then  her  wither' d  garland 

down,  100 

Replaced  it  with  the  blooming  coronal. 

Not  for  myself,  the  unhappy  Father 

cried, 

Not  for  myself,  0  iMighty  One  !   I  pray, 

Accursed  as  I  am  beyond  thy  aid  ! 
But,  oh  !   be  gracious  still  to  that  dear 

Maid 
Who  crown' d  thee  with  these  garlands 

day  by  day. 

And  danced  before  thee  aye  at  even-tide 

In  beauty  and  in  pride. 

0  Marriataly,  wheresoe'er  she  stray 

Forlorn  and  wretched,  still  be  thou  her 

guide !  110 

9 

A  loud  and  fiendish  laugh  replied. 

Scoffing  his  prayer.    Aloft,  as  from  t,he 

air. 
The  sound  of  insult  came  :    he  look'd, 

and  there 

The  visage  of  dead  Arvalan  came  forth. 

Only  his  face  amid  the  clear  blue  sky. 

With  long-drawn  lips  of  insolent  mockery, 

And  eyes  whose  lurid  glare 

Was  like  a  sulphur  fire. 

Mingling  with  darkness  ere  its  flames 

expire. 

10 

Ladurlad  knew  him  well :    enraged  to 

see  120 

The  cause  of  all  his  misery. 

He  stoop' d  and  lifted  from  the  ground 

A  stake,  whose  fatal  point  was  black 

with  blood  ; 

The  same  wherewith  his  hand  had  dealt 

the  wound, 
When  Arvalan,  in  hour  with  evil  fraught, 
For  violation  seized  the  shrieking  Maid. 


IX.    THE   HOME-SCENE 


u: 


Thus  arm'd,  in  act  again  to  strike  he 

stood, 
Aiul  twice  with  iiiclhcient  wrath  essay'd 

To  smite  the  impassive  shade. 
The  hps  of  scorn  their  mockery-laugh 
renew' d,  130 

And  Arvalan  put  forth  a  hand  and 

caught  [hght, 

Tlie  sunbeam,  and  condensing  there  its 

Upon  Ladurlad  turn'd  the  burninc,' 

stream. 

4^  Vain  cruelty  !  the  stake 

Fell  in  white  ashes  from  his  hold,  but  he 

Endured  no  added  pain  ;    his  agony 

Was  full,  and  at  the  height ; 

The  burning  stream  of  radiance  nothing 

harm'd  him  ; 

A  fire  was  in  his  heart  and  brain, 

And  from  all  other  flame         140 
Kehama's  Curse  had  charm' d  him. 

11 

Anon  the  Spirit  waved  a  second  hand ; 

Down  rush'd  the  obedient  whirlwind 

from  the  sky, 

Scoop'd  up  the  sand  like  smoke,  and 

from  on  high, 

!     Shed  the  hot  shower  upon  Ladurlad's 

head.  there ; 

Where'er  he  turns,  the  accursed  Hand  is 

East,  West,  and  North,  and  South,  on 

every  side 

Tlie  Hand  accursed  waves  in  air  to 

guide 

The  dizzying  storm  ;  ears,  nostrils,  eyes, 

and  mouth 

It  fdls  and  choaks,  and  clogging  every 

pore,  150 

Taught  him  new  torments  might  be 

yet  in  store. 

Where  shall  he  turn  to  fly  ?  behold  his 

house  [bower, 

In  flames  !    uprooted  lies  the  marriage- 

Tlie  Goddess  buried  by  the  sandy 

shower. 


Blindly,  with  staggering  step,  ho  reels 

about. 
And  still  the  accursed  Hand  j)\irsuo<l. 
And  still  the  lips  of  scorn  their  mockery- 
laugh  renew'd. 

12 
What,  Arvalan  !   hast  thou  so  soon 

forgot  [defy 

The  grasp  of  Pollear  ?    Wilt  thou  still 

The  righteous  Powers  of  heaven  ?  or 

know'st  thou  not  160 

That  there  are  yet  superior  Powers  on 

high,  [flight, 

Son  of  the  Wicked  ?  .  .  Lo,  in  rapid 

Ereenia  hastens  from  the  etherial  height. 

Bright  is  the  sword  celestial  in  his  hand ; 

Like  lightning  in  its  path  athwart 

the  sky. 

He  comes  and  drives,  with  angel-arm, 

the  blow. 

Oft  have  the  Asuras,  in  the  wars  of 

Heaven, 

Felt  that  keen  sword  by  arm  angelic 

driven. 

And  fled  before  it  from  the  fields  of  light. 

Thrice  through  the  vulnerable  shade 

Tlie  Glendoveer  impels  the  griding 

blade,  171 

The  wicked  Shade  flies  howling  from  his 
foe. 
So  let  that  Spirit  foul 
Fly,  and  for  impotence  of  anger,  howl. 
Writhing  with  anguish,  and  his  wounds 
deplore ;  [served, 

W^orse  punishment  hath  Arvalan  de- 
And  righteous  Fate  hath  heavier  doom 
in  store. 

13 

Not   now   the   Glendoveer  pursues   liia 

flight ; 

He  bade  the  Ship  of  Heaven  alight. 

And  gently  there  he  laid         180 
The   astonish'd    Father   by   the   happy      1 
Maid. 


148 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


The  Maid  now  shedding  tears  of  deep 

delight.  [eyes, 

Beholding  all  things  with  incredulous 

Still  dizzy  with  the  sand-storm,  there 

he  lay,  [Bark 

While  sailing  up  the  skies,  the  living 

Through  air  and  sunshine  held  its 

heavenly  way. 


X.    MOUNT  MERU 

1 
Swift  through  the  sky  the  vessel  of  the 

Suras 

Sails  up  the  fields  of  ether  like  an  Angel. 

Rich  is  the  freight,  0  Vessel,  that  thou 

bearest ! 

Beauty  and  Virtue, 

Fatherly  cares  and  filial  veneration. 

Hearts  which  are  proved  and  strength- 

en'd  by  affliction, 
Manly  resentment,  fortitude  and  action, 

Womanly  goodness  ; 

All   with   which  Nature  halloweth  her 

daughters. 

Tenderness,  truth,  and  purity  and 

meekness,  lo 

Piety,  patience,  faith  and  resignation. 

Love  and  devotement. 

Ship  of  the  Gods,  how  richly  art  thou 

laden  ! 

Proud  of  the  charge,  thou  voyagest 

rejoicing. 

Clouds  float  around  to  honour  thee,  and 

Evening 

Lingers  in  heaven. 

2 

A  Stream  descends  on  Meru  mountain ; 

None  hath  seen  its  secret  fountain  ; 

It  had  its  birth,  so  Sages  say, 

Upon  the  memorable  day  20 

When  Parvati  presumed  to  lay, 
la  wanton  play, 


Her  hands,  too  venturous  Goddess,  in 

her  mirth, 

On  Seeva's  eyes,  the  light  and  life  of 

Earth. 
Tliereat  the  heart  of  the  Universe  stood 

still : 

The  Elements  ceased  their  influences ; 

the  Hours 

Stopt  on  the  eternal  round  ;   Motion 

and  Breath, 

Time,  Change,  and  Life  and  Death, 

In  sudden  trance  opprest,  forgot  their 

powers. 

A  moment,  and  the  dread  eclipse  was 

ended ;  30 

But  at  the  thought  of  Nature  thus 

suspended, 

Tlie  sweat  on  Seeva's  forehead  stood, 

And  Ganges  thence  upon  the  world 

descended. 

The  Holy  River,  the  Redeeming  Flood. 

3 

None  hath  seen  its  secret  fountain  ; 

But  on  the  top  of  Meru  Mountain 

Which  rises  o'er  the  hills  of  earth. 

In  light  and  clouds,  it  hath  its  mortal 

birth. 

Earth  seems  that  pinnacle  to  rear 

Sublime  above  this  worldly  sphere,  40 

Its  cradle,  and  its  altar,  and  its  throne  ; 

And  there  the  new-born  River  lies 

Outspread  beneath  its  native  skies, 

As  if  it  there  would  love  to  dwell 

Alone  and  unapproachable. 

Soon  flowing  forward,  and  resign'd 

To  the  will  of  the  Creating  Mind, 

It  springs  at  once,  with  sudden  leap, 

Down  from  the  immeasurable  steep. 

Fi-om  rock  to  rock,  with  shivering  force 

rebounding,  50 

Tlie  mighty  cataract  rushes  ;  Heaven 

around. 

Like  thunder,   with  the  incessant  roar 

resounding, 


X.    MOUNT  MEKU 


149 


And  Meru's  summit  Bhaking  with  the 

sound. 

Wide  spreads  the  snowy  fonm,  tlie 

sparkling  spray 

Dances  aloft ;  and  ever  there  at 

morning 

The  earliest  sunbeams  haste  to  wing 

their  way,        [adorning  ; 

\\'ith  rainbow  wreaths  the  holy  stream 

And  duly  the  adoring  Moon  at  night 

iShcds  her  white  glory  there, 

And  in  the  watery  air  60 

Suspends  her  halo-crowns  of  silver  light. 

4 

A  mountain-valley  in  its  blessed  breast 

Receives  the  stream,  which  there 

delights  to  he, 

Untroubled  and  at  rest 

Beneath  the  untainted  skj'. 

There  in  a  lovely  lake  it  seems  to  sleep, 

And  thence  through   many  a  channel 

dark  and  deep, 
Their  secret  way  the  holy  Waters  wind, 
Till,  rising  underneath  the  root 
Of  the  Tree  of  Life  on  Hemakoot,  70 
/  Majestic  forth  they  How  to  purify  man- 
kind. 
5 
Towards  this  Lake,   above  the  nether 
sphere. 
The  living  Bark  with  angel  eye 
•  Directs  its  course  along  the  obedient  sky. 
Kehama  hath  not  yet  dominion  here ; 

And  till  the  dreaded  hour, 

When  Indra  by  the  Rajah  shall  be  driven 

Dethroned  from  Heaven, 

Here  may  Ladurlad  rest  beyond  his 

power. 

G 
The  living  Bark  alights  ;  the  Glen- 

doveer  80 

Then  lays  Ladurlad  by  tiie  blessed 

Lake  ;  .  .        [Daughter  ! 
0  happy  Sire,  and  yet  more  happy 


The  etheriaJ  gales  his  agony  aslake, 
His  daughter's  tears  are  on  his  cheek, 

His  hand  is  in  the  water  ; 
The  innocent  man,  the  man  opinest. 
Oh  joy  !  .  .  hath  found  a  place  of  rcbt 

Beyond  Kehama' s  sway  ; 

The  Curse  extends  not  here  ;    his  pains 

have  2)ass'd  away. 

7 

0  happy  Sire,  and  happy  Daughter !  90 

Ye  on  the  banks  of  that  celestial  water 

Your  resting  place  and  sanctuary  have 

fomid. 

What !  hath  not  then  their  mortal  taint 

defiled 

The  sacred  solitary  ground  ? 

Vain  thought !    the  Holy  Valley  smiled 

Receiving  such  a  Sire  and  Child  ; 

Ganges,  who  seem'd  asleep  to  lie, 

Beheld  them  with  benignant  eye, 

And  rippled  round  melodiously, 

And  roll'd  her  little  waves,  to  meet 

And  welcome  their  beloved  feet.    loi 

The  gales  of  Swerga  thither  fled. 

And  heavenly  odours  there  were  shed 

About,  below,  and  overhead  ; 

And  Earth  rejoicing  in  their  tread. 

Hath  built  them  up  a  blooming  Bower, 

Where  every  amaranthine  flower 

Its  deathless  blossom  interweaves 

With  bright  and  undecaying  leaves. 

8 
Tiiree  happy  beings  are  there  here,  no 
The  Sire,  the  Maid,  the  Glendovecr. 
A  fourth  approaches,  .  .  who  is  this 
That  enters  in  the  Bower  of  Bliss  ? 
No  form  so  fair  might  painter  find 
Among  the  daughters  of  mankind  ; 
For  death  her  beauties  hath  refined, 

And  unto  her  a  form  hath  given 

Framed  of  the  elements  of  Heaven  ; 

Pure  dwelling  ])lace  for  ])erfect  mind. 

She  stood  and  gazed  on  Sire  and  Child  ; 

Her  tongue  not  yet  had  power  to  si>eak, 


150 


THE   CURSE   OF  KEHAMA 


The  tears  were  streaming  down  her 
cheek ;  122 

And  when  those  tears  her  sight  beguiled, 
And  still  her  faltering  accents  fail'd, 

The  Spirit,  mute  and  motionless. 

Spread  out  her  arms  for  the  caress, 

Made  still  and  silent  with  excess 

Of  love  and  painful  happmess. 

9 

The  Maid  that  lovely  form  survey' d  ; 

Wistful  she  gazed,  and  knew  her  not, 

But  Nature  to  her  heart  convey' d  131 

A  sudden  thrill,  a  startling  thought, 

A  feeling  many  a  year  forgot, 

Now  like  a  dream  anew  recurring, 

As  if  again  in  every  vein 

Her  mother's  milk  was  stirring. 

With  straining  neck  and  earnest  eye 

She  stretch' d  her  hands  imploringly. 

As  if  she  fain  would  have  her  nigh. 

Yet  fear'd  to  meet  the  wish'd  embrace, 

At  once  with  love  and  awe  opprest.  141  ' 

Not  so  Ladurlad  ;  he  could  trace. 
Though  brighten' d  with  angelic  grace. 
His  own  Yedillian's  earthly  face  ; 
He  ran  and  held  her  to  his  breast ! 
Oh  joy  above  all  joys  of  Heaven, 
By  Death  alone  to  others  given. 
This  moment  hath  to  him  restored 
The  early-lost,  the  long- deplored. 

10 

They  sin  who  tell  us  Love  can  die.  150 

With  life  all  other  passions  fly. 

All  others  are  but  vanity. 

In  Heaven  Ambition  cannot  dwell, 

Nor  Avarice  in  the  vaults  of  Hell ; 

Earthly  these  passions  of  the  Earth, 

They  perish  where  they  have  their  birth; 

But  Love  is  indestructible. 

Its  holy  flame  for  ever  burneth, 

From  Heaven  it  came,  to  Heaven  re- 

turneth  ; 

Too  oft  on  Earth  a  troubled  guest,  160 

At  times  deceived,  at  times  opprest. 


It  here  is  tried  and  purified, 
Then  hath  in  Heaven  its  perfect  rest : 

It  soweth  here  with  toil  and  care. 
But  the  harvest  time  of  Love  is  there. 

11 

Oh  !   when  a  ]\Iother  meets  on  high 

The  Babe  she  lost  in  infancy. 

Hath  she  not  then,  for  pains  and  fears» 

The  day  of  woe,  the  watchful  night. 

For  all  her  sorrow,  all  her  tears,   170 

An  over-payment  of  delight  / 

12 

A  blessed  family  is  this 

Assembled  in  the  Bower  of  Bliss  ! 

Strange  woe,  Ladurlad,  hath  been  thine. 

And  pangs  bej^ond  all  human  measure, 

And  thy  reward  is  now  divine, 

A  foretaste  of  eternal  pleasure. 

He  knew  indeed  there  was  a  day 

When  all  these  joys  would  pass  away, 

And  he  must  quit  this  blest  abode ;  180 

And,  taking  up  again  the  spell, 

Groan  underneath  the  baleful  load. 

And  wander  o'er  the  world  again 

Most  wretched  of  the  sons  of  men : 

Yet  was  this  brief  repose,  as  when 

A  traveller  in  the  Arabian  sands. 

Half-fainting  on  his  sultry  road. 

Hath  reach' d  the  water- place  at  last ; 

And  resting  there  beside  the  well. 

Thinks  of  the  perils  he  has  past,  190 

And  gazes  o'er  the  unbounded  plain, 

The  plain  which  must  be  traversed  still, 

And  drinks, .  .  yet  cannot  drink  his  fill ; 

Then  girds  his  patient  loins  again. 

So  to  Ladurlad  now  was  given 

New  strength,  and  confidence  in  heaven, 

And  hope,  and  faith  invincible. 

13 

For  often  would  Ereenia  tell 

Of  what  in  elder  days  befell,       199 

When  other  Tyrants  in  their  might, 
Usurp'd  dominion  o'er  the  earth  ; 

And  Veeshnoo  took  a  human  birth. 


X.    MOUNT  ]\1EKU 


151 


] 


Deliverer  of  the  Sons  of  men. 

And  slew  the  huge  Ermaccason, 

And  piece- meal  rent,  with  lion  force, 

Erronen'8  accursed  corse. 

And  humbletl  Baly  in  his  pride ; 

And  when  the  (liant  Kavanen 

Had  borne  triumphant  from  his  side 

Sita,  the  earth-born  CJod's  beloved  bride, 

Then  from  his  island-kingdom,  laugh'd 

to  scorn  211 

The  insulted  husband,  and  his  power 

defied ;  [hied, 

How  to  revenge  the  wrong  in  wrath  he 

Bridging  the  sea  before  his  dreadful  way, 

And  met  the  hundred-headed  foe. 

And  dealt  him  the  unerring  blow  ; 

By  Brama's  hand  the  righteous  lance 

was  given, 

And  by  that  arm  immortal  driven. 

It  laid  the  mighty  Tyrant  low  ; 

And  Earth  and  Ocean,  and  high  Heaven, 

Rejoiced  to  see  his  overthrow.     221 

Oh  !    doubt  not  thou,  Ycdillian  cried, 

Such  fate  Kehama  will  betide  ; 

For  there  are  Gods  who  look  below,  .  . 

Seeva,  the  Avenger,  is  not  blind, 

Nor  Veeshnoo  careless  for  mankind. 

14 

Thus  was  Ladurlad's  soul  imbued 

With  hope  and  holy  fortitude  ; 

And  Child  and  Sire,  with  pious  mind, 

Alike  resolved,  alike  resigned,     230 

Look'd  onward  to  the  evil  day  : 

Faith  was  their  comfort.  Faith  their 

stay; 

They  trusted  woe  would  pass  away, 

And  Tyranny  would  sink  subdued. 

And  Evil  yield  to  Good. 

15 

Lovely  wert  thou,  0  Flower  of  Earth  ! 

Above  all  flowers  of  mortal  birth  ; 

But  foster' d  in  this  blissful  bower. 

From  day  to  day,  and  hour  to  hour, 

Lovelier  grew  the  lovely  flower.   240 


O  blessed,  blessed  company  ! 

When  men  and  heavenly  spirits  greet, 

And  they  whom  Death  had  sever'd  meet, 

And  hold  again  communion  sweet ;  .  . 

O  blessed,  blessed  company  ! 

10 

The  Sun,  careering  round  the  sky, 

Beheld  them  with  rejoicing  eye. 

And  bade  his  willing  Charioteer 

Relax  his  speed  as  they  drew  near ; 

Arounin  check'd  the  rainbow  reins. 

The  seven  green  coursers  shook   their 

manes,  251 

Ai\d  brighter  rays  around  them  threw  ; 

The  Car  of  Glory  in  their  view 
More  radiant,  more  resplendent  grew  ; 
And  Surya',  through  his  veil  of  light, 
Beheld  the  Bower,  and  blest  the  sight. 

17 
The  Lord  of  Night,  as  he  sail'd  by, 

Stay'd  his  pearly  boat  on  high  ; 
And  while  around  the  blissful  Bower 
He  bade  the  softest  moonlight  flow. 
Linger' d  to  sec  that  earthly  flower, 

Forgetful  of  his  Dragon  foe,      262 
Who,  mindful  of  their  ancient  feud, 
With  open  jaws  of  rage  pursued. 

18 
There  all  good  Spirits  of  the  air. 

Suras  and  Devetas  repair  ; 

Aloft  they  love  to  hover  there. 

And  view  the  flower  of  mortal  birth 

Here  for  her  innocence  and  worth. 

Transplanted  from  the  fields  of  earth  ; . . 

And  him,  who  on  the  dreadful  day 
When  Heaven  was  fiU'd  with  consterna- 
tion, 272 
And  Indra  trembled  with  dismay, 
And  for  the  sounds  of  joy  and  mirth, 
Woe  was  heard  and  lamentation, 
Detied  the  Rajah  in  his  pride, 

*  Surya,  the  6un. 


152 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


Though  all  in  Heaven  and  Earth  beside 

Stood  mute  in  dolorous  expectation  ; 

And,  rushing  forward  in  that  hour, 

Saved  the  Swerga  from  his  power.  280 

Grateful  for  this  they  hover  nigh, 

And  bless  that  blessed  Company. 

19 

One  God  alone,  with  wanton  eye, 

Beheld  them  in  then  Bower  ; 

0  ye,  he  cried,  who  have  defied 

The  Rajah,  will  ye  mock  my  power  ': 

'Twas  Camdeo  riding  on  his  lory, 

'Twas  the  immortal  Youth  of  Love  ; 

If  men  below,  and  Gods  above, 

Subject  alike,  quoth  he,  have  felt  these 

darts,  290 

Shall  ye  alone,  of  all  in  story. 

Boast  impenetrable  hearts  ? 

Hover  here,  my  gentle  lory, 

Gently  hover,  while  I  see 

To  whom  hath  Fate  decreed  the  glory. 

To  the  Glendoveer  or  me. 

20 

Then  in  the  dewy  evening  sky, 

The  bird  of  gorgeous  plumery 

Poised  his  wings  and  hover' d  nigh. 

It  chanced  at  that  delightful  hour 

Kailyal  sate  before  the  Bower,    301 

On  the  green  bank  with  amaranth  sweet, 

Where  Ganges  warbled  at  her  feet. 

Ereenia  there,  before  the  Maid, 

His  sails  of  ocean  blue  display' d ; 

And  sportive  in  her  sight. 

Moved  slowly  o'er  the  lake  with  gliding 

flight ; 

Anon  with  sudden  stroke  and  strong, 

In  rapid  course  careering,  swept  along ; 

Now  shooting  dowTiward  from  his 

heavenly  height,  310 

Plunged  in  the  deep  below. 

Then  rising,  soar'd  again. 

Aid  shook  the  sparkling  waters  off  like 

rain, 


And  hovering  o'er  the  silver  surface  hung. 
At  him  young  Camdeo  bent  the  bow ; 
With  living  bees  the  bow  was  strung, 

The  fatal  bow  of  sugar-cane, 

And  flowers  which  would  inflame  the 

heart 

With  their  petals  barb'd  the  dart. 

21 

The  shaft,  unerringly  addrest,     320 

!      Unerring  flew,  and  smote  Ereenia' s 

breast. 

Ah,  Wanton  !  cried  the  Glendoveer, 

Go  aim  at  idler  hearts. 

Thy  skill  is  baffled  here  ! 

A  deeper  love  I  bear  that  Maid  divine, 

A  love  that  springeth  from  a  higher  will, 

A  holier  power  than  thine  ! 

22 

A  second  shaft,  while  thus  Ereenia  cried. 

Had  Camdeo  aim'd  at  Kailyal' s  side ; 

But  lo  !   the  Bees  which  strung  his  bow 

Broke  off,  and  took  their  flight.   31^ 

To  that  sweet  Flower  of  earth  they  wing 

their  way. 

Around  her  raven  tresses  play, 

And  buzz  about  her  with  delight, 

As  if  with  that  melodious  sound, 

They  strove  to  pay  their  %villing  duty 

To  mortal  purity  and  beauty. 

23 

Ah  !   Wanton  !    cried  the  Glendoveer, 
No  power  hast  thou  for  mischief  here  ! 
Choose  thou  some  idler  breast,    340 
For  these  are  proof,  by  nobler  thoughts 


Go,  to  thy  plains  of  Matra  go. 
And  string  again  thy  broken  bow  ! 

24 

Rightly  Ereenia  spake  ;   and  ill  had 

thoughts 

Of  earthly  love  bcscem'd  the  sanctuary 

Where  Kailyal  had  been  wafted,  that 

the  Soul 


X.    MOUNT  IViERU 


153 


Of  her  dead  Mother  there  might 

strengthen  her,  [lore, 

Feeding  her  with  the  milk  of  heavenly 
And  influxes  of  Heaven  imbue  her  he^rt 
With  hope  and  faith,  and  holy 

f  ortit  udc,  350 

Against  the  evil  day.    Here  rest  a  while 
In  peace,  0  father  !    mark'd  for  misery 
Above  all  sons  of  men  ;   O  daughter  ! 

doom'd 

For  suiTcrings  and  for  trials  above  all 

Of  women  ;  .  .  yet  both  favoured, 

both  beloved  [peace. 

Bv  all  good  Powers,  rest  here  a  while  in 


XI.    THE   ENCHANTRESS 

1 

When  from  the  sword  by  arm  angelic 

driven, 

'  Foul  Arvalan  fled  howling,  wild  in  pain, 

His  thin  essential  spirit,  rent  and  riven 

With  wounds,  united  soon  and  heal'd 

again  ; 

Backward  the  accursed  turn'd  his  eye 

in  flight,  [then, 

Remindful  of  revengeful  thoughts  even 

And  saw  where,  gliding  through  the 

evening  light. 
The  Ship  of  Heaven  sail'd  upward 

through  the  sky,  [sight. 

Then,  like  a  meteor,  vanished  from  his 

Where  should  he  follow  ?    vainly  might 

he  try  10 

To  trace  through  trackless  air  its  rapid 

course. 

Nor  dared  he  that  angelic  arm  defy. 

Still  sore  and  writhing  from  its  dreaded 

force. 

2 

Should  he  the  lust  of  vengeance  lay 

aside  ? 

Too  long  had  Arvalan  in  ill  been  Irain'd  ; 

.   Xurst  up  in  ])ower  and  tyranny  and  pride. 


His  soul  the  ignominious  thought 
disdained. 
Or  to  his  mighty  Father  should  he  go, 
Complaining  of  defeature  twice 
sustain'd. 
And  ask  new  powers  to  meet  the  im- 
mortal foe  ?  .  .  20 
Repulse  he  fear'd  not,  but  he  fear'd 
rebuke. 
And  shamed  to  tell  him  of  his  overthrow. 
There  dwelt  a  dread  Enchantress  in 
a  nook                    [been, 
Obscure  ;    old  helpmate  she  to  him  had 
Lending  her  aid  in  many  a  secret  sin  ; 
And  there  for  counsel  now  his  way 
he  took. 


She  was  a  woman,  whose  unlovely  youth. 
Even  like  a  canker' d  rose  which  none 

will  cull. 

Had  withcrd  on  the  stalk  ;  her  heart 

was  full 

Of  passions  which  had  found  no  natural 

scope,  30 

Feelings  which  there  had  grown  but 

ripen' d  not. 

Desires  unsatisfied,  abortive  liope, 

Repinings    which    provoked    vindictive 

thought : 
These  restless  elements  for  ever  wrought 
Fermenting  in  her  with  perpetual  stir, 
And  thus  her  spirit  to  all  evil  moved ; 
She  hated  men  because  they  loved  not 
her, 
And  hated  women  because  they  were 

loved. 

And  thus,  in  wrath  and  hatred  and 

desjmir. 

She  (cmi)ted  Hell   to  temi)(    her;     and 

resign'd  40 

Her  body  to  the  Demons  of  the  Air, 

Wicked  and  wanton  fiends,  who  where 

they  will 
Wander  abroad,  still  seeking  to  do  ill. 


154 


THE   CURSE   OF  KEHAMA 


And  take  whatever  vacant  form  they 

find,  [left, 

Carcase  of  man  or  beast  that  hfe  hath 

Foul  instrument  for  them  of  fouler  mind. 

To  these  the  Witch  her  wretched  body 

gave, 

So  they  would  wreak  her  vengeance  on 

mankind ; 

She  thus  at  once  their  mistress  and 

their  slave ; 

And  they  to  do  such  service  nothing 

loth,  50 

Obey'd  her  bidding,  slaves  and  masters 

both. 

4 

So  from  this  cursed  intercourse  she 

caught 

Contagious  power  of  mischief,  and  was 

taught 

Such  secrets  as  are  damnable  to  guess. 

Is  there  a  child  whose  little  lovely  ways 

Might  win  all  hearts,  .  .  on  whom  his 

parents  gaze  [ness  ? 

Till  they  shed  tears  of  joy  and  tender- 

Oh  !   hide  him  from  that  Witch's 

withering  sight ! '  ~~     _ 

Oh  !  hide  him  from  the  eye  of  Lorrinite  ! 

Her  look  hath  crippling  in  it,  and  her 

curse  60 

All  plagues  which  on  mortality  can  light; 

Death  is  his  doom  if  she  behold,  .  .  or 

worse,  .  . 

Diseases  loathsome  and  incurable, 

And  inward  sufferings  that  no  tongue 

can  tell. 


Woe  was  to  him,  on  whom  that  eye  of 

hate  [Fate, 

Was  bent ;   for,  certain  as  the  stroke  of 

It  did  its  mortal  work,  nor  human  arts 

Could  save  the  unhappy  wretch,  her 

chosen  prey  ; 

For  gazing,  she  consumed  his  vital  parts. 

Eating  his  very  core  of  life  away.   70 


The  wine  which  from  yon  wounded  palm 

on  high 

Fills  yonder  gourd,  as  slowly  it  distils. 

Grows  sour  at  once  if  Lorrinite  pass  by. 

The  deadliest  worm  from  which  all 

creatures  fly 

Fled  from  the  deadlier  venom  of  her  eye; 

The  babe  unborn,  within  its  mother's 

womb. 
Started  and  trembled  when  the  Witch 

came  nigh  ; 

And  in  the  silent  chambers  of  the  tomb, 

Death  shudder' d  her  unholy  tread  to 

hear, 

And  from  the  dry  and  mouldering  bones 

did  fear  80 

Force  a  cold  sweat,  when  Lorrinite 

was  neai-. 

6 

Power  made  her  haughty  :   by  ambition 

fired. 

Ere  long  to  mightier  mischiefs  she 

aspired. 

The  Calis,  who  o'er  Cities  rule  unseen, 

Each  in  her  own  domain  a  Demon  Queen, 

And  there  adored  with  blood  and 

human  life. 

They  knew  her,  and  in  their  accurst 

employ 

She  stirr'd  up  neighbouring  states  to 

mortal  strife, 

Sani,  the  dreadful  God,  who  rides  abroad 

Upon  the  King  of  the  Ravens,  to 

destroy  90 

The  offending  sons  of  men,   when  his 
four  hands 
Were  weary  with  their  toil,  would  let 

her  do 

His  work  of  vengeance  upon  guilty  lands ; 

And  Lorrinite,  at  his  commandment, 

knew 

When   the  ripe   earthquake  should   be 

loosed,  and  where  [air 

To  point  its  course.    And  in  the  baneful 


Xi.    THE  ENCHANTRESS 


155 


The  pregnant  seeds  of  death  ho  bade  her 

strew. 

All  deadly  plagues  and  pestilence  to 

brew. 

The  Locusts  were  her  army,  and  their 

bands, 
Where'er  she  turn'd  her  skinny  linger, 
llew.  100 

The  Hoods  in  ruin  roll'd  at  her 

commands ; 

And  when,  in  time  of  drought,  the 

husbandman 

Beheld  the  gather'd  rain  about  to  fall, 

Her  breath  would  drive  it  to  the  desert 

sands,  [soil 

While  in  the  marshes'  parch' d  and  gaping 

The  rice-roots  by  the  searching  Sun 

were  dried, 

And  in  lean  groups,  assembled  at  the 

side 

Of  the  empty  tank,  the  cattle  dropt 

and  died  ;  [wide 

And  Famine,  at  her  bidding,  wasted     { 
The  wretched  land,  till,  in  the  public 
way,  no  I 

Promiscuous  where  the  dead  and  dying 

lay, 

Dogs  fed  on  human  bones  in  the  open 

light  of  day, 

7 

Her  secret  cell  the  accursed  Arvalan, 

In  quest  of  vengeance,  sought,  and  thus 

began. 

Mighty  mother  !   mother  wise  ! 

Revenge  me  on  my  enemies. 

I.ORRINITE 

Comest  thou,  son,  for  aid  to  mo  ? 

Tell  me  who  have  injured  thee, 

Where  they  are,  and  who  they  be  : 

Of  the  Earth,  or  of  the  »Sea,       120 

(Jr  of  the  aerial  com2:)any  V 

Earth,  nor  Sea,  nor  Air  is  free 

From  the  powers  who  wait  on  me, 

And  my  tremendous  witchery. 


ARVALAN 

She  for  whom  so  ill  I  sped, 
Whom  my  Father  deemeth  dead, 

Lives,  for  Marriataly's  aid 

From  the  water  saved  the  Maid. 

In  hatred  I  desire  her  still, 

And  in  revenge  would  have  my  will. 

A  Ueveta  with  wings  of  blue,      131 

And  sword  whose  edge  even  now  1  rue, 

In  a  Ship  of  Heaven  on  high. 

Pilots  her  along  the  .sky. 

Where  they  voyage  thou  canst  tell, 

Mistress  of  the  mighty  spell. 

8 

At  this  the  Witch,  through  shrivel  I'd 

lips  and  tliin. 

Sent  forth  a  sound  half  whistle  and  half 

hiss. 

Two  winged  Hands  came  in. 

Armless  and  bodiless,  140 

Bearing  a  globe  of  liquid  crystal,  set 

In  frame  as  diamond  bright,  yet  black 

as  jet.  [ii'ght 

A  thousand  eyes  were  quench' d  in  endless 

To  form  that  magic  globe  ;  for  Lorrinite 

Had,  from  their  sockets,  drawn  the 

liquid  sight. 

And  kneaded  it,  with  re-creating  skill, 

Into  this  organ  of  her  mighty  will. 

Look  in  yonder  orb,  she  cried. 

Tell  mc  what  is  there  descried. 

9 

AKVALAN 

A  mountain  top,  in  clouds  of  light 

Enveloped,  rises  on  my  sight ;     151 

Thence  a  cataract  rushes  do\m, 

Hung  with  many  a  rainbow  crown  ; 

Light  and  clouds  conceal  its  head  ; 

Below,  a  silver  Lake  is  Bi)read  ; 

Tpon  its  shores  a  Bower  I  see. 

Fit  home  for  blessed  company. 

See  they  come  forward,   .   .   one,   two, 

three,  .  . 


156 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


The  last  a  Maiden,  .  .  it  is  she  !    159 

The  foremost  shakes  his  wings  of  blue, 

'Tis  he  whose  sword  even  yet  I  me ; 

And  in  that  other  one  I  know 

The  visage  of  my  deadliest  foe. 

Mother,  let  thy  magic  might 

Arm  me  for  the  mortal  fight ; 

Helm  and  shield  and  mail  afford. 

Proof  against  his  dreaded  sword. 

Then  will  I  invade  their  seat. 
Then  shall  vengeance  be  complete. 

10 

LORRINITE 

Spirits  who  obey  my  will,        170 
Hear  him,  and  his  wish  fulfil ! 
So  spake  the  mighty  Witch,  nor  farther 

ispell 

Needed ;    anon  a  sound,  like  smother' d 

thunder, 

Was  heard,  slow  rolling  under  ; 

The  solid  pavement  of  the  cell 

Quaked,  heaved,  and  cleft  asunder, 

And  at  the  feet  of  Arvalan  display' d, 

Helmet  and  mail,  and  shield  and 

Bcymitar,  were  laid. 

11 

The  Asuras,  often  put  to  flight 

And  scatter' d  in  the  fields  of  light 

By  their  foes'  celestial  might,     i3i 

Forged  this  enchanted  armour  for  the 

fight. 

'Mid  fires  intense  did  they  anneal. 

In  mountain  furnaces,  the  quivering 

steel,  [hue, 

Till,  trembling  through  each  deepening 

It  settled  in  a  midnight  blue  ; 

Last  they  cast  it,  to  aslake, 

In  the  penal  icy  lake. 

Then  they  consign' d  it  to  the  Giant 

brood  ; 

And  while  they  forged  the  impenetrable 

arms,  190 


The  Evil  Powers,  to  oversee  them,  stood. 

And  there  imbued 

The  work  of  Giant  strength  with  magic 

charms. 

Foul  Arvalan,  with  joy,  survey' d 

The  crescent  sabre's  cloudy  blade. 

With  deeper  joy  the  impervious  mail, 

The  shield  and  helmet  of  avail. 

Soon  did  he  himself  array, 

And  bade  her  speed  him  on  his  way. 

12 

Then  she  led  him  to  the  den,      200 

Where  her  chariot,  night  and  day, 

Stood  harness' d  ready  for  the  way. 

Two  Dragons,  yoked  in  adamant,  convey 

The  magic  car  ;  from  either  collar 

sprung 

An  adamantine  rib,  which  met  in  air, 

0'er-arch'd,and  crost  and  bent  diverging 

there. 

And  firmly  in  its  arc  upbore. 

Upon  their  brazen  necks,  the  seat  of 

power. 

Arvalan  mounts  the  car,  and  in  his  hand 

Receives  the  magic  reins  from  Lorrinite ; 

The  dragons,  long  obedient  to  command, 

Their  ample  sails  expand  ;      212 

Like  steeds  well- broken  to  fair  lady's 

hand. 

They  feel  the  reins  of  might,  ' 

And  up  the  northern  sky  begin  their' 

flight. 

13 

Son  of  the  Wicked,  doth  thy  soul  delight 

To  think  its  hour  of  vengeance  now  is 

nigh  ? 

Lo  !   where  the  far-off  light 

Of  Indra's  palace  flashes  on  his  sight. 

And  Meru's  heavenly  summit  shines  on 

high.  22ff 

With  clouds  of  glory  bright. 

Amid  tiie  dark-blue  sky. 

Already,  in  his  hope,  doth  he  espy. 


XI.    THE    ENCHANTRESS 


157 


Himself  secure  in  mail  of  tenfold  charms, 

Ereonia  writhing  from  the  magic  blade. 

The  Father  sent  to  bear  his  Curse,  .  .  the 

Maid 

Resisting  vainly  in  his  impious  arms. 

14 

Ah,  Sinner  !    whose  anticipating  soul 

Incurs  the  guilt  even  when  the  crime  is 

spared  ! 

Joyous  toward  Meru's  summit  on  he 

fared,  230 

While  the  twin  Dragons,  rising  as 

he  guides,  [the  pole. 

With  steady  flight,  steer  northward  for 

Anon,  with  irresistible  controul. 
Force  mightier  far  than  his  arrests  their 

course  ; 
It  wrought  as  though  a  Power  unseen 

had  caught 

Their  adamantine  yokes  to  drag  them  on. 

Straight  on  they  bend  their  way,  and 

now,  in  vain. 

Upward  doth  Arvalan  direct  the  rein  ; 

The  rein  of  magic  might  avails  no  more. 

Bootless  its  strength  against  that  unseen 

Power  240 

That  in  their  mid  career, 

Hath  seized  the  Chariot  and  the 

Cliarioteer. 

With  hands  resisting,  and  down-pressing 

feet 

Upon  their  hold  insisting. 

He  struggles  to  maintain  his  difficult 

seat. 

Seeking  in  vain  with  that  strange  Power 

to  vie. 

Their  doubled  speed  the  affrighted 

Dragons  try. 

Forced  in  a  stream  from  whence  was  no 

retreat. 
Strong  as  they  are,  behold  them  whirl'd 

along. 
Headlong,  with  useless  pennons,  through 
the  sky.  250 


What  Power  was  that,  which,  with 

resistless  might, 

Foil'd  the  dread  magic  thus  of 

Ix)rrinite  ? 

'Twas  all-commanding  Nature  .  .  They 

were  here 

Within  the  sphere  of  the  adamantine 

rocks 

Which  gird  Mount  Meru  round,  as  far 

below 

That  heavenly  height  where  Ganges 

hath  its  birth 

Involved  in  clouds  and  light, 

So  far  above  its  roots  of  ice  and  snow. 

K) 
On  .  .  on  they  roll  .  .  rapt  headlong  they 

roll  on  ;  .  . 

The  lost  canoe,  less  rapidly  than  this, 

Down  the  precipitous  stream  is  whirl'd 

along  ^    261 

To  the  brink  of  Niagara's  dread  abyss. 

On  .  .  on  they  roll,  and  now,  with 

shivering  shock. 

Are  dash'd  against  the  rock  that  girds 

the  Pole. 

Do\vn  from  his  shatter'd  mail  the 

unhappy  Soul 

Is  dropt,   .    .    ten   thousand   thousand 

fathoms  down,  .  . 

Till  in  an  ice-rift,  'mid  the  eternal  snow. 

Foul  Arvalan  is  stopt.     There  let  him 

howl. 
Groan  there,  .  .  and  there  with  unavail- 
ing moan. 
For  aid  on  his  Almighty  Father  call. 

17 
All  human  sounds  are  lost       271 
Amid  those  deserts  of  perpetual  frost, 

Old  Winter's  drear  domain. 

Beyond  the  limits  of  the  living  World, 

Beyond  Kehama's  reign. 


158 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


Of  utterance  and  of  motion  soon  bereft, 

Frozen  to  the  ice-rock,  there  behold  him 

lie. 

Only  the  painful  sense  of  Being  left, 

A  Spirit  who  must  feel,  and  cannot  die. 

Bleaching  and  bare  beneath  the  polar 

sky.  ^8o 


XII.    THE  SACRIFICE 
COMPLETED 


0  YE  who,  by  the  Lake 

On  Meru  Mount,  partake 

The  joys  which  Heaven  hath  destined 

for  the  blest, 

Swift,  swift,  the  momenta  fly. 

The  silent  hours  go  by. 

And  ye  must  leave  your  dear  abode  of 

rest. 

O  wretched  Man,  prepare 

Again  thy  Curse  to  bear  ! 

Prepare,  0  wretched  Maid,  for  farther 

woe  ! 

The  fatal  hour  draws  near,         lo 

When  Indra's  heavenly  sphere 

Must  own  the  Tyrant  of  the  World 

below. 

To-day  the  hundredth  Steed, 

At  Seeva's  shrine  must  bleed, 

The  dreadful  sacrifice  is  full  to-day  ; 

Nor  man  nor  God  hath  power, 

At  this  momentous  hour. 

Again  to  save  the  Swerga  from  his  sway. 

Fresh  woes,  0  Maid  divine. 

Fresh  trials  must  be  thine  :        20 

And   what   must   thou,    Ladurlad,   yet 

endure ! 

But  let  your  hearts  be  strong, 

And  rise  against  all  wrong, 

For  Providence  is  just,  and  virtue  is 

secure. 


They,  little  deeming  that  the  fatal  daj 

Was  come,  beheld  where  through  the 

morning  sky 

A  Ship  of  Heaven  drew  nigh. 

Onward  they  watch  it  steer  its  steady 

flight ; 

Till  wondering,  they  espy         29 

Old  Casyapa,  the  Sire  of  Gods,  alight. 

But  when  Ereenia  saw  the  Sire  appear. 

At  that  unwonted  and  unwelcome  sight 

His  heart  received  a  sudden  shock  of 

fear : 

Thy  presence  doth  its  doleful  tidings  tell, 

0  Father !  cried  the  startled  Glendoveer, 

The  dreadful  hour  is  near  !    I  know 

it  well !  [Gods 

Not  for  less  import  would  the  Sire  of 
Forsake  his  ancient  and  august  abodes. 

3 

Even  so,  serene  the  immortal  Sire  replies; 
Soon  like  an  earthquake  will  ye  feel  the 
blow  40 

Which  consummates  the  mighty  sacri- 
fice :  . 
And  this  World,  and  its  Heaven,  and  all 

therein. 
Are  then  Eehama's.    To  the  second  ring  I 
Of  these  seven  Spheres,  the  Swerga- 
King, 
Even  now,  prepares  for  flight. 
Beyond  the  circle  of  the  conquer' d  world, 
Beyond  the  Rajah's  might. 
Ocean,  that  clips  this  inmost  of  the 
Spheres, 
And  girds  it  round  with  everlasting  roar, 
Set  like  a  gem  appears  50 

Within  that  bending  shore. 
Thither  fly  all  the  Sons  of  heavenly  race : 
I  too  forsake  mine  ancient  dwelling- 
place,  [go : 
And  now,  O  Child  and  Father,  ye  must 
Take  up  the  burthen  of  your  woe, 
And  wander  once  again  below. 


XII.    THE   SACRIFICE   COMPLETED 


159 


With  patient  heart  hold  onward  to  the 

i\ 

end,  .  . 

0  ye  immortal  Bowers, 

Bo  true  unto  yourselves,  and  bear  in 

Where  hitherto  the  Hours 

mind                 [friend ; 

Have  led  their  dance  of  happiness  for 

Tiiat  every  God  is  still  the  good  Man's 

aye. 

And  when  the  Wicked  have  their  day 

With  what  a  sense  of  woe 

assign'd,                         60 

Do  ye  expect  the  blow. 

Then  they  who  suffer  bravely  save 

And  see  your  heavenly  dwellers  driven 

mankind. 

away  !                            90 

4 

Lo  !    where  the  aunnay-birds  of  graceful 

Oh  tell  me,  cried  Ercenia,  for  from  thee 

mien. 

Nought  can  be  hidden,  when  the  end 

Whose  milk-white  forms  were  seen. 

will  be  ! 

Lovely  as  Nymphs,  your  ancient  trees 

Seek  not  to  know,  old  Casyapa  replied, 

between, 

What  pleaseth  Heaven  to  hide. 

And  by  your  silent  springs, 

Dark  is  the  abyss  of  Time, 

With  melancholy  cry 

But  light  enough  to  guide  yoiu-  steps  is 

Now  spread  unwilling  wings  ; 

given  ; 

Their  stately  necks  reluctant  they 

Wliatever  weal  or  woe  betide, 

protend, 

Turn  never  from  the  way  of  truth  aside, 

And  through  the  sullen  sky. 

And  leave  the  event,  in  holy  hope,  to 

To  other  worlds,  their  mournful  progress 

Heaven.                         70 

bend. 

The  moment  is  at  hand,  no  more  delay. 

7 

Ascend  the  etherial  bark,  and  go  your 

Tlje  affrighted  gales  to-day       100 

way  ; 

O'er  their  beloved  streams  no  longer 
play. 

And  Ye,  of  heavenly  nature,  follow  me. 

5 

The  streams  of  Paradise  have  ceased  to 

The  will  of  Heaven  be  done,  Ladurlad 

flow  ; 

cried. 

The  Fountain-Tree  withholds  its 

Nor  more  the  man  replied  ; 

diamond  shower. 

But  placed  his  daughter  in  the  etherial 

In  this  portentous  hour.  .  . 

bark. 

This  dolorous  hour,  .  .  this  universal 

Tlien  took  his  seat  beside. 

woe. 

There  was  no  word  at  parting,  no  adieu. 

Where  is  the  Talace,  whose  far-flashing 

Down  from  that  empyreal  height  they 

beams. 

flew: 

With  streaks  and  streams  of  ever- 

One  groan  Ladurlad  breathed,  yet 

varying  light, 

utter' d  not,                       80 

Brighten'd  the  polar  night 

When,  to  his  heart  and  brain. 

Around   the  frozen   North's  cxtremest 

The  fiery  Curse  again  like  lightning  shot. 

shore  ? 

And  now  on  earth  the  Sire  and  Child 

G'one  like  a  morning  rainbow,  .  .  like 

alight, 

a  dream,  .  .                       no 

Up  soar'd  the  Ship  of  Heaven,  and 

A  star  that  shoots  and  falls,  and  then  is 

sail'd  away  from  sight. 

seen  no  more. 

160 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


Now  !  now  !  .  .  Before  the  Golden 

Palaces, 

The  Bramin  strikes  the  inevitable  hour. 

The  fatal  blow  is  given, 

That  over  Earth  and  Heaven 

Confirms  the  Almighty  Rajah  in  his 

power. 

All  evil  Spirits  then, 

That  roam  the  World  about, 

Or  wander  through  the  sky, 

Set  up  a  joyful  shout.  120 

The  Asuras  and  the  Giants  join  the  cry  ; 
The  damn'd  in  Padalon  acclaim 
Their  hoped  Deliverer's  name  ; 
Heaven  trembles  with  the  thunder- 
drowning  sound ; 
Back  starts  affrighted  Ocean  from  the 
shore,  [floor 

And  the  adamantine  vaults  and  brazen 

Of  Hell  are  shaken  with  the  roar. 
Up  rose  the  Rajah  through  the  ^on- 

quer'd  sky. 

To  seize  the  Swerga  for  his  proud  abode  ; 

Myriads  of  evil  Genii  round  him  fly,    130 

As  royally  on  wings  of  winds  he  rode. 

And  scaled  high   Heaven,   triumphant 

like  a  God. 


XIII.    THE    RETREAT 

1 
Around  her  Father's  neck  the  Maiden 

lock'd 
Her  arms,  when  that  portentous  blow 
was  given ;  [uproar, 

Clinging   to   him  she   heard  the  dread 
And  felt  the  shuddering  shock   which 
ran  through  Heaven  ; 
Earth  underneath  them  rock'd, 
Her  strong  foundations  heaving  in  com- 
motion. 
Such  as  wild  winds  upraise  in  raving 
Ocean, 


As  though  the  sohd  base  were  rent 

asunder.  [sky. 

And  lo  !   where,  storming  the  astonish' d 

Kehama  and  his  evil  host  ascend  !  10 

Before  them  rolls  the  thunder. 

Ten  thousand  thousand  lightnings 

round  them  fly. 

Upward  the  lengthening  pageantries 

aspire. 

Leaving  from  Earth  to  Heaven  a  widen- 

inor  wake  of  fire. 


When  the  wild  uproar  was  at  length 

allay' d, 

And  Earth  recovering  from  the  shock 

was  still. 

Thus  to  her  father  spake  the  imploring 

Maid :  [borne 

Oh  !  by  the  love  which  we  so  long  have 

Each  other,  and  we  ne'er  shall  cease  to 

bear,  .  . 

Oh  !    by  the  sufferings  we  have  shared. 

And  must  not  cease  to  share,  .  .    21 

One  boon  I  supplicate  in  this  dread  hour. 

One  consolation  in  this  hour  of  woe  ! 

Father,  thou  hast  it  in  thy  power. 

Thou  wilt  not.  Father,  sure  refuse  me 

now  [know. 

The  only  comfort  my  poor  heart  can 


0  dearest,  dearest  Kailyal !  with  a 

smile 

Of  tenderness  and  anguish,  he  replied, 

0  best  beloved,  and  to  be  loved  the  best. 

Best  worthy,  .  .  set  thy  duteous  heart 

at  rest.  30 

1  know  thy  wish,  and  let  what  will 

betide. 

Ne'er  will  I  leave  thee  wilfully  again. 

My  soul  is  strengthen' d  to  endure  its 

pain  ;  [guide ; 

Be  thou  in  all  my  wanderings,  still  my 

Be  thou,  in  all  my  sufferings,  at  my  side. 


XIII.    THE   RETREAT 


IGl 


Tlie  Maiden,  at  those  welcome  words, 
imprest 
A  passionate  kiss  upon  lier  father's 
cheek !  [seek 

Tliey  look'd  around  them  then  as  if  to 
Where  they  should  turn.  North,  South, 
'  or  East,  or  West, 

Wherever  to  their  vagrant  feet  seem'd 
best.  40 

But.  turning  from  the  view  her  mournful 
eyes,  [cries, 

Oh,  whither  should  we  wander,  Kailyal 
Or  wherefore  seek  in  vain  a  place  of  rest? 
Have  we  not  here  the  Earth  beneath 
our  tread, 
Heaven  overhead, 
A  brook  that  winds  through  this 
sequester' d  glade, 
And  yonder  woods,  to  yield  us  fruit  and 

shade  ? 

Tlie  little  all  our  wants  require  is  nigh  ; 

Hope  we  have  none ;  .  .  why  travel 

on  in  fear  ? 

We  cannot  fly  from  Fate,  and  Fate  will 

find  us  here.  50 


'Twas  a  fair  scene  wherein  they  stood, 

A  green  and  sunny  glade  amid  the  wood, 

And  in  the  midst  an  aged  Banian  grew. 

It  was  a  goodly  sight  to  see 

That  venerable  tree, 

For  o'er  the  lawn,  irregularly  spread, 

Fifty  straight  columns  propt  its  lofty 

head  ; 

And  many  a  long  depending  shoot, 

Seeking  to  strike  its  root. 

Straight  like  a  plummet,  grew  towards 

the  ground.  60 

Some  on  the  lower  boughs  which  crost 

their  way. 
Fixing  their  bearded  fibres,  round  and 
round,  [wound 


Some  to  the  passing  wind  at  times,  with 

sway 

Of  gentle  motion  swung  ; 

Others  of  younger  growth,  unmoved, 

were  hung 

Like  stone-drope  from  the  cavem'8 

fretted  height ; 

Beneath  was  smooth  and  fair  to  sight, 

Nor  weeds  nor  briars  deform'd  the 

natural  floor, 
And  through  the  leafy  cope  which 

bower' d  it  o'er  70 

Came  gleams  of  chequer'd  light. 
So  like  a  temple  did  it  seem,  that  there 
A  pious  heart's  first  impulse  would  be 
prayer. 

6 

A  brook,  with  easy  current,  murmur'd 

near ; 

Water  so  cool  and  clear     [well, 

The  peasants  drink  not  from  the  humble 

W^hich  they  with  sacrifice  of  rural  pride. 

Have  wedded  to  the  cocoa-grove  beside  ; 

Nor  tanks  of  costliest  masonry  dispense 

To  those  in  towns  who  dwell,       80 

The  work  of  Kings,  in  their  beneficence. 

Fed  by  perpetual  springs,  a  small  lagoon. 

Pellucid,  deep  and  still,  in  silence  join'd 

And  swell'd  the  passing  stream.    Like 

burnish' d  steel 
Glowing,  it  lay  beneath  the  eye  of  noon  ; 

And  when  the  breezes  in  their  play, 
Ruffled    the    darkening    surface,    then 

with  gleam 
Of  sudden  light,  around  the  lotus  stem 
It  rippled,  and  the  sacred  flowers  that 

crown 

The  lakelet  with  their  ro.seate  beauty, 

ride  90 

In  easy  waving  rock'd,  from  side  to  side  ; 

And  as  the  wind  upheaves 

Their  broad  and  buoyant  weight,  the 

glossy  leaves  [dov^Ti. 


With  many  a  ring  and  wild  contortion   Flap  on  the  twinkling  waters,  up  and 


162 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


They  built  them  here  a  bower,  of  jointed 
cane,  [long 

Strong  for  the  needful  use,  and  light  and 
Was  the  slight  framework  rear'd,  with 
little  pain ;  [supply, 

Lithe  creepers,  then,  the  wicker  sides 
And  the  tall  jungle-grass  fit  roofing  gave 
Beneath  the  genial  sky.        loo 
And  here  did  Kailyal,  each  returning 
day,  [pay 

Pour  forth  libations  from  the  brook  to 
The  Spirits  of  her  Sires  their  grateful  rite; 
In  such  libations  pour'd  in  open 
glades, 
Beside  clear  streams  and  solitary  shades, 
The  Spirits  of  the  virtuous  dead  delight. 
And  duly  here,  to  Marriataly's  praise, 
The  Maid,  as  with  an  angel's  voice 
of  song, 
Poured  her  melodious  lays 
Upon  the  gales  of  even,  no 

And  gliding  in  religious  dance  along, 
Moved  graceful  as  the  dark-eyed  Nymphs 

of  Heaven, 
Such  harmony  to  all  her  steps  was  given. 

8 
Thus  ever,  in  her  Father's  doating  eye, 
Kail3^al  perform' d  the  customary  rite  ; 
He,    patient   of   his   burning   pain   the 

while, 
Beheld  her,  and  approved  her  pious  toil ; 
And  sometimes  at  the  sight 
A  melancholy  smile 
Would  gleam  upon  his  aweful  coun- 
tenance. 120 
He  too  by  day  and  night,  and  every 
hour. 
Paid  to  a  higher  Power  his  sacrifice ; 
An  offering,  not  of  ghee,  or  fruit,  and 
rice, 
Flower-cro\vn,  or  blood  ;   but  of  a  heart 
subdued, 
A  resolute,  uuconquer'd  fortitude, 


An  agony  represt,  a  will  resign' d. 

To  her,  who,  on  her  secret  throne 

recUned, 

Amid  the  Sea  of  Milk,  by  Veeshnoo's  side. 

Looks  with  an  eye  of  mercy  on  mankind.! 

By  the  Preserver,  with  his  power 

endued,  130 

There  Voomdavee  beholds  this  lower 

cHme,  [good. 

And  marks  the  silent  sufferings  of  the 

To  recompense  them  in  her  own  good 

time. 

9 

0  force  of  faith  !  0  strength  of  virtuous; 

will! 
Behold  him  in  his  endless  martyrdom. 

Triumphant  still ! 

Tlie  Curse  still  burning  in  his  heart  and 

brain. 

And  yet  doth  he  remain 

Patient  the  while,  and  tranquil,  and 

content ! 

The  pious  soul  hath  framed  unto  itselfl 

A  second  nature,  to  exist  in  pain  141 

As  in  its  own  allotted  element. 

10 

Such  strength  the  will  reveal' d  had  given  1 

This  holy  pair,  such  influxes  of  grace, 

That  to  their  solitary  resting  place 

They  brought  the  peace  of  Heaven. 

Yea,  all  around  was  hallow' d  !   Danger, 

Fear, 
Nor  thought  of  evil  ever  enter'd  here. 
A  charm  was  on  the  Leopard  when  he 

came 

Within  the  circle  of  that  mystic  glade ; 

Sub  miss  he  crouch' d  before  the  heavenly 

maid,  151 

And  offer' d  to  her  touch  liis  speckled 

side ;  [head, 

Or  with  arch'd  back  erect,  and  bending, 

And  eyes  half -closed  for  pleasure,  would  1 

he  stand, 
Courting  the  pressure  of  her  gentle  hand. I 


XIII.    THE    RETREAT 


103 


11  I 

Trampling  his  path  through  wood  and  ! 

brake. 

And  cane.s  which  crackling  fall  before  hia 

way,  [play 

And  tas!»el-grass,  whose  silvery  feathers 

O'ertopping  the  young  trees, 

On  comes  the  Elephant,  to  slake  i6o 

His  thirst  at  noon  in  you  pellucid  springs, 

Lo  !    from  his  trunk  upturned,  aloft  he 

flings 

The  grateful  shower  ;   and  now 

Plucking  the  broad-leaved  bough 

Of  yonder  plane,   with   wavey   motion 

slow. 

Fanning  the  languid  air. 

He  moves  it  to  and  fro. 

But  when  that  form  of  beauty  meets  his 

sight. 
The  trunk  its  undulating  motion  stops, 
From  his  forgetful  hold  the  plane- branch 
drops,  170 

Reverent  he  kneels,  and  lifts  his  rational 
\  eyes 

'  To  her  as  if  in  prayer  ; 

And  when  she  pours  her  angel  voice  in 
song,  [notes. 

Entranced  he  listens  to  the  thrilling 
Till  his  strong  temples,  bathed  with 

sudden  dews, 

Tlieir  fragrance  of  delight  and  love 

diffuse. 


12 


Lo 


as  the  voice  melodious  floats 
around. 
The  Antelope  draws  near. 
The  Tigress  leaves  her  toothless  cubs  to 

hear ; 

The  Snake  comes  gliding  from  the  secret 

brake,  180 

Himself  in  fascination  forced  along 

By  that  enchanting  song  ; 

The  antic  Monkies,  whose  wild  gambols 

late, 


When  not  a  breeze  waved  the  tnll  junj^le 

grass. 

Shook  the  wliole  wood,  are  hush'd.  and 

silently 

Hang  on  the  cluster'd  tree. 

All  things  in  wonder  and  delight  are  still ; 

Only  at  times  the  Nightingale  is  heard, 

Not  that  in  emulous  skill  that  sweetest 

bird 

Her  rival  strain  would  try,        190 

A  mighty  songster,  with  the  Maid  to  vie  ; 

She  only  bore  her  part  in  powerful 

sympathy. 

13 

Well  might  they  thus  adore  that  heavenly 

Maid  ! 

For  never  Nymph  of  Mountain, 

Or  Grove,  or  Lake,  or  Fountain, 

With  a  diviner  presence  fdl'd  the  shade. 

No  idle  ornaments  deface 

Her  natural  grace. 

Musk-spot,  nor  sandal-streak,  nor  scarlet 

stain. 

Ear-drop  nor  chain,  nor  arm  nor 

ankle-ring,  200 

Nor  trinketry  on  front,  or  neck,  or  breast 
Marring  the  perfect  form  :  she  seem'd 

a  thing 

Of  Heaven's  prime  uncorrupted  work, 

a  child 

Of  early  nature  undefded, 

A  daughter  of  the  years  of  innocence. 

And  therefoi*'  all  things  loved  her.  When 

she  stood 

Beside  the  glassy  pool,  the  fish,  that  flies 

Quick  as  an  arrow  from  all  other  eyes, 

Hover'd  to  gaze  on  her.     The  mother 

bird. 

When  Kailyal's  step  she  heard,    210 

Sought  not  to  tempt  her  from  her  secret 

nest. 

But  hastening  to  the  dear  retreat, 

would  fly 

To  meet  and  welcome  her  benignant  eye. 


164 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


u 

Hope  we  have  none,  said  Kailyal  to  her 

Sire.  [Maid 

Said  she  aright  ?    and  had  the  mortal 

No  thoughts  of  heavenly  aid,  .  . 

No  secret  hopes  her  inmost  heart  to 

move  [desire, 

With  longings  of  such  deep  and  pure 

As  Vestal  ]\Iaids,  whose  piety  is  love, 

Feel  in  their  ecstasies,  when  rapt  above. 

Their  souls  unto  their  heavenly  Spouse 

aspire  ?  221 

Why  else  so  often  doth  that  searching 

eye 

Roam  through  the  scope  of  sky  ? 

Why,  if  she  sees  a  distant  speck  on  high, 

Starts  there  that  quick  suffusion  to  her 

cheek  ? 

'  Tis  but  the  Eagle  in  his  heavenly  height ; 

Reluctant  to  believe,  she  hears  his  cry. 

And  marks  his  wheeling  flight, 

Then  pensively  averts  her  mournful 

sight. 

Why  ever  else,  at  morn,  that  waking 

sigh,  230 

Because  the  lovely  form  no  more  is  nigh 

Which  hath  been  present  to  her  soul  all 

night ; 

And  that  injurious  fear 

Which  ever,  as  it  riseth,  is  represt, 

Yet  riseth  still  within  her  troubled 

breast,  [veer ! 

That  she  no  more  shall  see  the  Glendo- 

15 

Hath  he  forgotten  me^  ?  The  wrong- 
ful thought 
Would  stir  within  her,  and  though  still 
repell'd 
With  shame  and  self-reproaches, 
would  recur. 
Days  after  days  unvarying  come  and  go. 
And  neither  friend  nor  foe        241 
Approaches  them  in  their  sequester' d 
bower. 


Maid  of  strange  destinj- !   but  tliink  not 

thou 

Thou  art  forgotten  now, 

And  hast  no  cause  for  farther  hope  or 

fear; 

High-fated  Maid,  thou  dost  not  know 

What  eyes  watch  over  thee  for  weal  and 

woe  ! 

Even  at  this  hour, 

Searching  the  dark  decrees  divine, 

Kehama,  in  the  fulness  of  his  power, 

Perceives  his  thread  of  fate  entwine  with 

thine.  251 

The  Glendoveer,  from  his  far  sphere, 

With  love  that  never  sleeps,  beholds  thee 

here, 

And  in  the  hour  permitted  will  be  near. 

Dark  Lorrinite  on  thee  hath  fix'd  her 

sight, 

And  laid  her  wiles,  to  aid 

Foul  Arvalan  when  he  shall  next  appear; 

For  well  she  ween'd  his  Spirit  would 

renew  [hate ; 

Old  vengeance  now,  with  unremitting 

The  Enchantress  well  that  evil  nature 

knew,  260 

The  accursed  Spirit  hath  his  prey  in 

view ; 

And  thus,  while  all  their  separate 

hopes  pursue, 

All  work,  unconsciously,  the  will  of  Fate. 

IG 

Fate  work'd  its  own  the  while.    A  band 

Of  Yoguees,  as  they  roam'd  the  land 

Seeking  a  spouse  for  Jaga-Naut  their 

God, 

Stray' d  to  this  solitary  glade, 

And  reach' d  the  bower  wherein  the 

Maid  abode. 

Wondering  at  form  so  fair,  they  deera'd 

the  Power 

Divine  had  led  them  to  his  chosen  bride, 

And  seized  and  bore  her  from  her 

Father's  side.  271 


XIV.    JAGA-NAUT 


105 


XIV.    JAGA-NAUT 

1 

Joy  in  the  City  of  great  Jagii-Naut  ! 

r  Joy  in  the  seven- headed  Idol's  shrine  ! 

!         A  virgin- bride  his  ministers  have 

brought, 

A  mortal  maid,  in  form  and  faee  divine, 

Peerless  among  all  daughters  of 

mankind  ; 

Searched  they  the  world  again  from  East 

to  West, 

In  endless  quest, 

Peeking  the  fairest  and  the  best, 

2s'o  maid  so  lovely  might  they  hope  to 

tind  ;  .  . 

For  she  hath  breathed  celestial  aii-,  lo 

And  heavenly  food  hath  been  her  fare, 

And  heavenly  thoughts  and  feelings  give 

her  face 

That  heavenly  grace. 

Joy  in  the  City  of  great  Jaga-Naut, 

Joy  in  the  seven-headed  Idol's  shrine  ! 

The  fairest  Maid  his  Yoguees  sought, 

A  fairer  than  the  fairest  have  they 

brought, 

A  maid  of  charms  surpassing  human 

thought, 

A  maid  divine. 


Now  bring  ye  forth  the  Chariot  of  the 

\  God !  20 

Bring  him  abroad, 

That  through  the  swarming  City  he  may 

ride  ; 

And  by  his  side 

Place  ye  the  Maid  of  more  than  mortal 

grace, 

The  Maid  of  perfect  form  and  heavenly 

face  ; 

iSet  lier  aloft  in  triumph,  like  a  bride 

Tpon  the  Bridal  Car, 

And  spread  the  joyful  tidings  wide  and 

far,  .  . 


8pread  it  with  trump  and  voice 

That  all  may  hear,  and  all  who  hear 

rejoice,  .  .  30 

Ureat  Jaga-Naut  hath  found  his  matel 

the  (iod 

Will  ritle  abroad  ! 

To-night  will  he  go  forth  from  his  alutlc  ! 

Ye  myriads  who  adore  him, 

Prepare  the  way  before  him  ! 

;{ 

Uprear'd  on  twenty  wheels  elate. 

Huge  as  a  .Ship,  the  Bridal  Car  appeared  ; 

Loud  creak  its  ponderous  wheels,  as 

tluough  the  gate  [load. 

A  thousand  Bramins  drag  the  enormous 

There  throned  aloft  in  state,       40 

The  Image  of  the  seven-headed  God 

Came  forth  from  his  abode  ;    and  at  his 

side 

iSate  Kailyal  like  a  bride. 

A  bridal  statue  rather  might  she  seem. 

For  she  regarded  all  things  like  a  dream, 

Having  no  thought,  nor  fear,  nor  will, 

nor  aught 

Save  hope  and  faith,  that  lived  within 

her  still. 


O  silent  night,  how  have  they  startled 

thee 

With  the  brazen  trumi)et's  blare  ; 

And  thou,  0  Moon  !    whose  quiet  light 

serene  50 

Filleth  wide  heaven,  and  bathing  hill 

and  wood,  [flood, 

.Spreads  o'er  the  peaceful  valley  like  a 

How  have  they  dimm'd  thee  with  the 

torches'  glare. 

Which  round  yon  moving  pageant  llame 

and  ihur. 

As  the  wild  rout,  with  deafening  song 

and  shout, 

l''ling  their  long  Hashes  out, 

That,  like  infernal  lightnings,  fire  the  air. 


166 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


A  thousand  pilgrims  strain 

Arm,  shoulder,  breast  and  thigh,  with 

might  and  main, 

To  drag  that  sacred  wain,  60 

And  scarce  can  draw  along  the  enormous 

load. 
Prone  fall  the  frantic  votaries  in  its  road. 

And  calling  on  the  God, 

Their  self-devoted  bodies  there  the}'  lay 

To  pave  his  chariot- wa3\ 

On  Jaga-Naut  they  call, 

The  ponderous  Car  rolls  on,  and  crushes 

all. 
Through  flesh  and  bones  it  ploughs  its 

dreadful  path. 

Groans  rise  unheard  :    the  d^'ing  cr}'. 

And  death  and  agony  70 

Are  trodden  under  foot  by  yon  mad 

throng, 

"Who  follow  close,  and  thrust  the  deadly 

wheels  along. 

6 

Pale  grows  the  Maid  at  this  accursed 

sight ; 

The  yells  which  round  her  rise 

Have  roused  her  with  affright, 

And  fear  hath  given  to  her  dilated  eyes 

A  wilder  light. 

AVhere  shall  those  eyes  be  turn'd  ?    she 

knows  not  where  ! 

Downward  they  dare  not  look,  for 

there 

Is  death,  and  horror,  and  despair ;  80 

Nor  can  her  patient  looks  to  Heaven 

repair. 

For  the  huge  Idol  oxer  her,  in  air, 

.Spreads  his  seven  hideous  heads,  and 

wide 

Extends  their  snaky  necks  on  every  side ; 

And  all  around,  behind,  before, 

The  Bridal  Car,  is  the  raging  rout, 

With  frantic  shout,  and  deafening  roar, 

Tossing  the  torches'  flames  about. 


And  the  double  double  peals  of  the  drum 

are  there. 

And  the  startling  burst  of  the  trumpet's 

blare ;  90 

And  the  gong,  that  seems,  with  its 

thunders  dread 

To  astound  the  living,  and  waken  the 

dead.  [rent, 

The  ear-strings  throb  as  if  they  were 

And  the  eyelids  drop  as  stunned 

and  spent.  [fast. 

Fain  would  the  Maid  have  kept  them 
But  open  they  start  at  the  crack  of  the 
blast. 


Where  art  thou.  Son  of  Heaven,  Ereenia  ! 

where 
In  this  dread  hour  of  horror  and  despair? 
Thinking  on  him,  she  strove  her  fear  to 

quell. 
If  he  be  near  me,  then  will  all  be  well; 

And,  if  he  reck  not  for  my  misery, 

Let  come  the  worst,  it  matters  not  to 

me.  102 

Repel  that  wrongful  thought, 

O  Maid  !    thou  feelest,  but  believest  it 

not ; 

It  is  thine  own  imperfect  nature's  fault 

That  lets  one  doubt  of  him  arise  within  ; 

And  this  the  Virgin  knew  ;  and  like 

a  sin, 

Rcpell'd  the  thought,  and  still  believed 

him  true  ; 
And  summoned  up  her  spirit  to  endure 
All  forms  of  fear,  in  that  firm  trust 
secure.  no 


(She  needs  that  faith,  she  needs  that 

consolation, 

For  now  the  Car  hath  measured  back  its 

track 

Of  death,  and  hath  re-enterd  now  its 

station. 


XIV.    JAGA-NAUT 


107 


There,  in  the  Temple-court  with  soug 

and  dance, 

A  harlot- band,  to  meet  the  Maid, 

advance. 

Tlio  drum  hath  ceased  itt^^pcals  ;  the 

trump  and  gong 

Are  still  ;  the  frantic  crowd  forbear  their 

yells  ; 
And  sweet  it  was  to  hear  the  voice  of 

song. 

And  the  sweet  music  of  their  girdle- bells. 

Armlets  and  anklets,  that,  with  cheerful 

sound,  120 

Symphonious  tinkled  as  they  wheel' d 

around. 


They  sung  a  bridal  measure, 
A  song  of  pleasure, 
A  hymn  of  joyaunce  and  of  gratulation. 
Go,  chosen  One,  they  cried. 
Go,  happy  bride  ! 
For  thee  the  God  descends  in  expecta- 
tion ! 
For  thy  dear  sake 
He  leaves  his  Heaven,  0  Maid  of  match- 
less charms  ! 
Go,  happy  One,  the  bed  divine  partake, 
And  till  his  longing  arms  !         131 
Thus  to  the  inner  fane, 
With  circling  dance  and  hymeneal  strain, 

The  astonish' d  Maid  they  led. 

And  there  they  laid  her  on  the  bridal  bed. 

Then  forth  they  go,  and  close  the 

Temple-gate, 

And  leave  the  wretched  Kailyal  to  her 

fate. 

10 
Where  art  thou.  Son  of  Heaven,  Ereenia, 
/  where  ? 

'     From  the  loathed  bed  she  starts,  and 
in  the  air 
Looks  up,  as  if  she  thought  to  find  him 
there ;  140 


Then,  in  despair, 

Anguish  and  agony,  and  hopeless 

prayer. 

Prostrate  she  laid  herself  upon  the  floor. 

There  trembling  as  she  lay, 

The  J3ramin  of  the  fane  advanced 

And  came  to  seize  his  pre}'. 

But  as  the  abominable  Priest  drew  nigh, 

A  power  invisible  opposed  his  way  ; 

Starting,  he  utter'd  wildly  a  death-cry, 

And  fell.    At  that  the  Maid  all  eagerly 

Lifted  in  hope  her  head  ;  151 

She  thought  her  own  deliverer  had  been 

near ; 
When  lo  !    with  other  life  re-animate, 

She  saw  the  dead  ari^fc. 

And  in  the  fiendish  joy  within  his  eyes, 

She  knew^  the  hateful  Spirit  who 

look'd  through 

Their  specular  orbs,  .  .  clothed  in  the 

flesh  of  man. 

She  knew  the  accursed  soul  of  Arvalan. 

11 

Where  art  thou,  Son  of  Heaven,  Ereenia, 

where  '! 

But  not  in  vain,  with  sudden  shriek 

of  fear,  160 

She  calls  Ereenia  now  ;    the  Glendoveer 

Is  here  !    Upon  the  guilty  sight  he  burnt 

Like  lightning  from  a  cloud,  and  caught 

the  accurst. 
Bore  him  to  the  roof  aloft,  and  on  the 

floor 

\\'ith  vengeance  dash'd  him,  (quivering 

there  in  gore, 

Lo  !  from  the  pregnant  air,  .  .  heart - 

withering  sight. 

There  issued  forth  the  dreadful  Lorrinite. 

Seize  him  !    the  Enchantress  cried  ; 

A  host  of  Demons  at  her  word  aj)pcar. 

And  like  tornado  winds,  from  every  side 

At  once  they  rush  upon  the  Glendoveer. 

Alone  against  a  legion,  little  here   17a 

Avails  his  single  might, 


168 


THE   CURSE   OF  KEHAJMA 


Nor  that  celestial  f  aulchion,  which  in 

fight 

So  oft  had  put  the  rebel  race  to  flight. 

There  are  no  Gods  on  earth  to  give 

him  aid  ; 

Hemm'd  round,  he  is  overpower' d,  beat 

down,  and  bound. 

And  at  the  feet  of  Lorrinite  ia  laid. 

12 

Meantime  the  scatter' d  members  of  the 

slain, 

Obedient  to  her  mighty  voice  assum'd 

Their  vital  form  again,  i8i 

And  that  foul  Spirit  upon  vengeance 

bent. 

Fled  to  the  fleshly  tenement. 

Lo  !    here,  quoth  Lorrinite,  thou  seest 

thy  foe  ! 

Him  in  the  Ancient  Sepulchres,  below 

The  billows  of  the  Ocean  will  I  lay  ; 

Gods  are  there  none  to  help  him  now, 

and  there 

For  Man  there  is  no  way. 

To  that  dread  scene  of  durance  and 

despair, 

Asuras,  bear  your  enemy  !  I  go  190 

To  chain  him  in  the  Tombs.    Meantime 

do  thou, 
Freed  from  thy  foe,  and  now  secure  from 

fear. 
Son  of  Kehama,  take  thy  pleasure  here. 

13 

Her  words  the  accursed  race  obey'd  ; 

Forth  with  a  sound  like  rushing  winds 

they  fled. 

And  of  all  aid  from  Earth  or  Heaven 

bereft, 

Alone  with  Arvalan  the  Maid  was  left. 

But  in  that  hour  of  agony,  the  Maid 

Deserted  not  herself  ;  her  very  dread 

Had  calm'd  her  ;  and  her  heart  200 

Kuew  the  whole  horror,  and  its  only 

part. 


Yamen,  receive  me  undefiled  !   she  said, 
And  seized  a  torch,  and  fired  the  bridal 

bed. 

Up  ran  the  rapid  flames ;    on  every  side 

They  find^ieir  fuel  wheresoe'er  they 

spread  ; 

Thin  hangings,  fragrant  gums,  and 

odorous  wood, 

That  piled  like  sacrificial  altars  stood. 

Around  they  run,  and  upward  they 

aspire,  [fire. 

And,  lo  !  the  huge  Pagoda  lined  with 

U 

The  wicked  Soul,  who  had  assumed 
again  210 

A  form  of  sensible  flesh  for  his  foul  will. 
Still  bent  on  base  revenge  and  baffled 

still. 

Felt  that  corporeal  shape  alike  to  pain 

Obnoxious  as  to  pleasure  :  forth  he 

flew,  [flame ; 

Howling  and  scorch" d  by  the  devouring 

Accursed  Spirit !  Still  condemn" d  to  rue, 

The  act  of  sin  and  punishment  the  same. 

Freed  from  his  loathsome  touch,  a 

natural  dread 

Came  on  the  self-devoted,  and  she  drew 

Back  from  the  flames,  which  now  toward 

her  spread,  220 

And,  like  a  living  monster,  seem'd  to  dart 

Their  hungry  tongues  toward  their 

shrinking  prey. 

Soon  she  subdued  her  heart ; 

O  Father  !  she  exqlaim'd,  there  was 

no  way 

But  this  !  And  thou,  Ereenia,  who  for 

me  [pany. 

Suflerest,  my  soul  shall  bear  thee  com- 

15 

So  having  said,  she  knit 

Her  body  up  to  work  her  soul's  desire, 

And  rush  at  once  among  the  thickest 

fire. 


^ 


XIV.    JAGA-NAUT 


169 


A  sudden  cry  withheld  her,  .  .  Kailyal, 

stay !  230 

Child  !    Daughter  !    1  am  here  !   the 

voice  exclaiiut'. 

And  from  the  gate,  unliarm'd,  through 

smoke  and  liamesi, 

Like  as  a  CJod,  Ladurhid  made  his  way  ; 

Wrapt  his  preserving  arms  around, 

and  bore 

His  Child,  uuuijured,  o'er  the  buiniiig 

tioor. 


XV.    THE  CITY   OF  BALY 


^ 


KAILYAL 

Ereenia  ! 


LADURLAD 

Nay,  let  no  reproachful  thought 

Wrong  his  heroic  heart !    The  Evil 

Powers 

Have  the  dominion  o'er  this  wretched 

World,  [here. 

And  no  good  Spirit  now  can  venture 

KAILYAL 

Alas,  my  Father  !    he  hath  ventured 

here, 

And  saved  me  from  one  horror.   But  the 

Powers 

Of  Evil  beat  him  down,  and  bore  away 

To  some  dread  scene  of  durance  and 

despair  ; 
The  Ancient  Tombs,  methought  their 
mistress  said,  10 

Beneath  the  ocean- waves ;    no  way  for 

Man 

Is  there  ;    and  Gods,  she  boasted,  there 

arc  none 

On  Earth  to  help  him  now. 

LADURLAD 

Is  that  her  boast  ? 

And  hath  she  laid  him  in  the  Ancient 

Tombs, 


Relying  that  the  Waves  will  guard  him 

there  ".'  [ucss, 

.Short-sighted  are  the  eyes  of  Wicked- 

And  all  its  craft  but  folly.   Uh  my  child  ! 

The  Curses  of  the  Wicked  are  upon  me, 

And  the  immortal  Deities,  who  see  20 

And  sutler  all  things  for  their  own  wise 

end. 

Have  made  them  blessings  to  us  I 

KAILYAL 

Then  thou  knowest 
Where  they  have  borne  him  ? 

LADURLAD 

To  the  Sepulchres 

Of  the  Ancient  Kings,  which  Baly  in  his 

power 

Made  in  primeval  times;   and  built 

above  them 

A  City,  like  the  Cities  of  the  Gods, 

Being  like  a  God  himself.    For  many  an 

age 
Hath  Ocean  warr'd  against  his  Palaces, 
Till,  overwhelm'd,  they  lie  beneath  the 
waves,  31 

Not  overthrown,  so  well  the  aweful  Chief 
Had  laid  their  deep  foundations.  Rightly 

said 

The  Accursed,  that  no  way  for  man  was 

there. 

But  not  like  man  am  I ! 

2 

Up  from  the  ground  the  Maid  exultant 

sprung, 
And  clapp'd  her  happy  hands  in  attitude 

Of  thanks  to  Heaven,  and  flung 
Her  arms  around  her  Father's  neck,  and 
stood 
Struggling  awhile  for  utterance,  with 
excess  4° 

Of  hope  and  pious  thankfulnes.s. 
Come  .  .  come  !   she  cried.  Oh  let  us  not 
delay,  .  .  [away  I 

He  is  in  torments  there,  .  .  away !  .  . 
3 


170 


THE   CURSE   OF  KEHAMA 


-/      Long-time  they  travell'd  on;    at  dawn 

of  day 

Still  setting  forward  with  the  earliest 

light, 

Nor  ceasing  from  their  way 

Till  darkness  closed  the  night. 

Short  refuge  from  the  noontide  heat, 

Reluctantly  compell'd,  the  Maiden  took. 

And  ill  her  indefatigable  feet       50 

Could  that  brief  respite  brook. 

Hope  kept  her  up,  and  her  intense  desire 

Supports  that  heart  which  ne'er  at 

danger  quails. 

Those  feet  which  never  tire. 

That  frame  which  never  fails. 


Their  talk  was  of  the  City  of  the  days 
Of  old,  Earth's  wonder  once,  and  of  the 

fame 
Of  Baly  its  great  founder,  .  .  he  whose 

name 

In  ancient  story  and  in  poet's  praise, 

Liveth  and  flourisheth  for  endless 

glory,  60 

Because  his  might 

Put  do^^Ti  the  \ATong,  and  aye  upheld 

the  right. 

Till  for  ambition,  as  old  sages  teU, 

At  length  the  universal  Monarch  fell : 

For  he  too,  having  made  the  World  his 

own. 

Then  in  his  pride,  had  driven 

The  Devetas  from  Heaven, 

And  seized  triumphantly  the  Swerga 

throne. 

The  Incarnate  came  before  the  Mighty 

One, 
In  dwarfish  stature,  and  in  mien  obscure ; 
The  sacred  cord  he  bore,  71 

And  ask'd,  for  Brama's  sake,  a  little 

boon,  [more. 

Three  steps  of  Baly's  ample  reign,  no 


Poor  was  the  boon  required,  and  poor 

was  he 

Who  begg'd,  .  .  a  little  wTctch  it  seem'd 

to  be ;  [praj-er. 

But  Baly  ne'er  refused  a  suj^pliant's 

He  on  the  Dwarf  cast  down 

A  glance  of  pity  in  contemptuous  mood, 

And  bade  him  take  the  boon. 

And  measure  where  he  would.      80 

5 

Lo,  Son  of  giant  birth, 

I  take  my  grant !    the  Incarnate  Power 

replies. 

With  his   first  st€p  he   measured  o'er 

the  Earth, 

The  second  spann'd  the  skies. 

Three  paces  thou  hast  granted, 

Twice  have  I  set  my  footstep,  Veeshnoo 

cries. 

Where  shall  the  third  be  planted  ? 

(i 

Then  Baly  knew  the  God,  and  at  his  feet, 

In  homage  due,  he  Jaid  his  humbled  head. 

Mighty  art  thou,  0  Lord  of  Earth 

and  Heaven,  90 

Mighty  art  thou  !  he  said. 

Be  merciful,  and  let  me  be  forgiven. 

He  ask'd  for  mercy  of  the  Merciful, 

And  mercy  for  his  virtue's  sake  was 

shown. 

For  though  he  was  cast  down  to  Padalon, 

Yet  there,  by  Yamen's  throne. 

Doth  Bah*  sit  in  majesty  and  might, 

To  judge  the  dead,  and  sentence  them 

aright. 

And  forasmuch  as  he  was  still  the  friend 

Of  righteousness,  it  is  permitted  him, 

Yearly,  from  those  drear  regions  to 

ascend,  loi 

And  walk  the  Earth,  that  he  may  hear 

his  name 

Still  hymn'd  and  honour" d  by  the 

grateful  voice 

Of  humankind,  and  in  his  fame  rejoice. 


XV.    THE   CITY   OF  BALY 


171 


Such  was  the  talk  they  held  upon  their 

way, 

C)f  him  to  whoso  old  City  they  were 

bound ;  [day 

Aud  now,  upon  their  journey,  many  a 

Had  risen  and  elosed,  and  many  a 

week  gone  round, 

And  many  a  realm  and  region  had  they 

pass'd, 
When  now  the  Ancient  Towers  appear'd 
at  last.  110 

8 

Their  golden  summits  in  the  noon-day 

light, 

Shone  o'er  the  dark  green  deep  that 

roH'd  between, 

For  domes,  and  pinnacles,  and  spires 

were  seen 

Peering  above  the  sea,  .  .  a  mournful 

sight ! 

Well  might  the  sad  beholder  ween 

from  thence 

What  works  of  wonder  the  devouring 

wave 

Had  swallow" d  there,  when  monuments 

so  brave 

Bore  record  of  their  old  magniticencc. 

And  on  the  sandy  shore,  beside  the 

verge 

Of  Ocean,  here  and  there,  a  rock-hewn 

fane  120 

Resisted  in  its  strength  the  surf  and 

Burgo 

That  on  their  deep  foundations  beat  in 

vain. 

In  Bclitude  tiie  Ancient  Temples  stood, 

Once  resonant  with  instrument  and 

song, 

And  solemn  dance  of  festive  multitude  ; 

Now  as  the  weary  ages  pass  along. 

Hearing  no  voice  save  of  the  Ocean  Hood, 

^Vhich  roars  for  ever  on  the  restless 

shores ; 


Or,  visiting  their  solitary  caves. 
The  lonely  sound  of  winds,  that  moan 
around  130 

Accordant  to  the  melancholy  waves. 


With  reverence  did  the  travellers  see 

The  works  of  ancient  days,  and  silently 

Approach  the  shore.     Now  on  the 

yellow  sand, 

^^'here  round  their  feet  the  rising  surges 

part. 

They  stand.     Ladurlad's  heart 

Exulted  in  his  wondrous  destiny. 

To  Heaven  he  raised  his  hand 
In  attitude  of  stern  heroic  pride  ; 
Oh  what  a  power,  he  cried,        140 
Thou  dreadful   Rajah,   doth  thy  curse 
impart ! 
I  thank  thee  now  I  .  .  Then  turning 
to  the  Maid, 
Thou  seest  how  far  and  wide 
Yon  Towers  extend,  he  said, 
My  search  must  needs  be  long.    Mean- 
time the  tiood 
Will  cast  thee  up  thy  food,  .  . 
And  in  the  Chambers  of  the  Rock  by 
night. 
Take  thou  thy  safe  abode. 
No  prowling  beast  to  harm  thee,  or 
affright. 
Can  enter  there  ;   but  wrap  thyself  with 
with  care  150 

From  the  foul  Birds  obscene  that  thirst 

for  blood  ; 

For  in  such  caverns  doth  the  Bat  delight 

To  have  its  haunts.    Do  thou  with  stono 

and  shout, 

Ere  thou  licst  down  at  evening,  scare 

them  out. 

And  in  this  robe  of  mine  involve  thy 

feet. 

Duly  commend  us  both  to  Heaven 

in  prayer,  [sweet ! 

Be  of  good  heart,  and  may  thy  sleep  be 


17 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


10 

fSo  saying,  he  put  back  his  arm,  and  gave 
The  cloth  which  girt  his  loins,  and  press'd 

her  hand 

With  fervent  love,  then  from  the  sand 

Advanced  into  the  sea  ;   the  coming 

Wave  i6i 

\Vhich  knew  Kehama's  curse,  before  his 

way 
Started,  and  on  he  went  as  on  dry  land, 
And  still  around  his  path  the  waters 
parted. 
She  stands  upon  the  shore,  where  sea- 
weeds play, 
Lashing  her  polish' d  ankles,  and  the 

spray  [fled. 

Which  off  her  Father,  like  a  rainbow. 
Falls  on  her  like  a  shower  ;  there  Kailyal 

stands, 

And  sees  the  billows  rise  above  his  head. 

She  at  the  startling  sight  forgot  the 

power  170 

The  Curse  had  given  him,  and  held  forth 

her  hands 

Imploringly,  .  .  her  voice  was  on  the 

wind, 

And  the  deaf  Ocean  o'er  Ladurlad  closed. 

Soon  she  recall' d  his  destiny  to  mind. 

And  shaking  off  that  natural  fear, 

composed 

Her  soul  with  prayer,  to  wait  the  event 

resign' d. 

11 

Alone,  upon  the  solitary  strand, 

The  lovely  one  is  left ;   behold  her  go. 

Pacing  with  patient  footsteps,  to  and  fro, 

Along  the  bending  sand.  180 

Save  her,  ye  Gods  !  from  Evil  Powers, 

and  here 

From  man  she  need  not  fear  : 

For  never  Traveller  comes  near 

These  aweful  ruins  of  the  days  of  yore, 

Nor  fisher  s  bark,  nor  venturous  mariner. 

Approach  the  sacred  shore. 


All  day,  she  walk'd  the  beach,  at  night 

she  sought 
The  Chamber  of  the  Rock;  with  stone 

and  shout 

Assail' d  the  Bats  obscene,  and  scared 

them  out ; 

Then  in  her  Father's  robe  involved  her 

feet,  190 

And  wrapt  her  mantle  round  to  guard 

her  head, 

And  laid  her  down  ;  the  rock  was 

Kailyal' s  bed,  [sky, 

Her  chamber-lamps  were  in  the  starry 
The  winds  and  waters  were  her  lullaby. 

12 
Be  of  good  heart,  and  may  thy  sleep  be 

sweet, 
Laduilad  said  :  .  .  Alas  !   that  cannot  be 
To  one  whose  days  are  days  of  miser}'. 
How  often  did  she  stretch  her  hands  to 

greet 
Ereenia,  rescued  in  the  dreams  of  night ! 

How  oft  amid  the  vision  of  delight. 

Fear  in  her  heart  all  is  not  as  it  seems ; 

Then  from  unsettled  slumber  start,  and 

hear  202 

The  Winds  that  moan  above,  the  Waves 

below  ! 

Thou  hast  been  call'd,  O  Sleep  !   the 

friend  of  Woe,  [so. 

But  'tis  the  happy  who  have  call'd  thee 

13 

Another  da}',  another  night  are  gone, 
A  second  passes,  and  a  third  wanes  on. 

So  long  she  paced  the  shore. 
So  often  on  the  beach  she  took  her  stand, 
That  the  wild  Sea-Birds  knew  her,  and 
no  more  210 

Fled,  when  she  pass'd  beside  them  on 
the  strand.  [light 

Bright  shine  the  golden  summits  in  the 
Of  the  noon-sun,  and  lovelier  far  by 
night  [shed : 

Their  moonlight  glories  o'er  the  sea  they 


XV.    THE   CITY  OF   BALY 


173 


Fair  is  the  dark-green  deep  :    by  night 

and  da^' 

UnvesM  with  storms,  th«^  peaceful 

billows  play. 

As  when  they  closed  above  Ladnrlad's 

head  ; 

Tlie  firmament  above  is  bright  and  clear ; 

The  sea-fowl,  lords  of  water,  air.  and 

land. 

Joyous  alike  upon  the  wing  appear. 

Or  when  they  ride  the  waves,  or  walk 

the  sand  ;  221 

Beauty  and  light  and  joy  are  every 

where : 

There  is  no  sadness  and  no  sorrow  here. 

Save  what  that  single  human  breast 

contains. 

But  oh  !    what  hopes,  and  fears,  and 

pains  are  there  ! 

11 

Seven  miserable  days  the  expectant 

^[aid. 

From  earliest  dawn  till  evening,  watch'd 

the  shore  ; 

Hope  left  her  then  ;  and  m  her  heart 

she  said,  [more. 

"I     Never  should  she  behold  her  Father 


XVT.    THE   ANCIENT 
SEPULCHRES 

1 

WiTFN'  the  broad  Ocean  on  Ladurlad's 

head 

Had  closed  and  arch'd  him  o'er. 

With  steady  tread  he  held  his  way 

Adown  the  sloping  shore. 

The  dark  green  waves  with  emerald  luie, 

Imbue  the  beams  of  day, 

And  on  the  wrinkled  sand  below. 

Rolling  their  mazy  network  to  and  fro, 

Lisht  shadows  shift  and  play.        9 

The  hungry  Shark,  at  scent  of  prey. 


Toward  Ladurl.ul  darted  ; 

Beliolding  then  that  hiiman  form  erect. 

How  like  a  ( Jod  the  depths  he  trod, 

Appall'd  tlie  monster  started. 

And  in  his  fear  departed. 

(inward  Tiadinlad  went  with  heart  elate, 

An<l  now  hath  reaeh'd  the  Ancient 

City's  gate. 

o 

Wondering  lie  stood  awhile  to  gaze 

Upon  the  works  of  eider  days. 

The  brazen  portals  open  stood,      20 

Even  as  the  fearful  multitude 

Had  left  them,  wlien  they  fled 

Before  the  rising  flood. 

High  over-head,  sublime, 

The  mighty  gateway' .s  storied  roof  was 

spread. 

Dwarfing  the  puny  piles  of  younger  time. 

With  the  deeds  of  days  of  yore 

That  ample  roof  was  sculptured  o'er. 

And  many  a  godlike  form  there  met  his 

his  eye. 

And  many  an  emblem  dark  of  mystery. 

Through  these  wide  portals  oft  had 

Baly  rode  31 

Tiiumphant  from  his  proud  a])ode, 

Wiien,  in  his  greatness,  he  bestrode 

The  Aullay,  hugest  of  four-footed  kind, 

The  Aullay-Horse,  that  in  his  force. 

With  elepiiantine  trunk,  could  bind 

And  lift  the  elepliant,  and  on  the  wind 

Whirl  him  away,  with  sway  and  swing. 

Even  like  a  pebble  from  the  practised 

sling. 

3 

Those  streets  which  never,  since  the 

days  of  3'ore,  40 

By  liuman  footstep  had  been  visited. 
Those  streets  which  never  more         r^ 
A  human  foot  shall  tread, 
Ladurlad  tro<l.       In  sun-lipht  and  sea- 
green, 
Tlie  thousand  Palaces  were  .seen 


17i 


THE   CURSE    OF   KEHAMA 


Of  that  proud  City,  whose  superb  abodes 

Seem'd  rear'd  by  Giants  for  the  immortal 

Gods,  [stand, 

How  silent  and  how  beautiful  they 

Like  things  of  Nature  !   the  eternal 

rocks 

Themselves  not  firmer.      Neither  hath 

the  sand  5° 

Drifted  within  their  gates  and  choak'd 

their  doors, 

Nor  slime  defiled  their  pavements  and 

their  floors. 

Did  then  the  Ocean  wage 

His  war  for  love  and  envy,  not  in  rage, 

0  thou  fair  City,  that  he  spared  thee 

thus  ? 

Art  thou  Varounin's  capital  and  court. 

Where  all  the  Sea-Gods  for  delight 

resort, 

A  place  too  godlike  to  be  held  by  us. 

The  poor  degenerate  children  of  the 

^  Earth  ? 
So  thought  Ladurlad,  as  he  look'd 

around,  60 

Weening  to  hear  the  sound 

Of  Mermaid's  shell,  and  song 

Of  choral  throng  from  some  imperial 

hall, 

Wherein  the  Immortal  Powers  at 

festival, 

Their  high  carousals  keep  ; 

But  all  is  silence  dread. 

Silence  profound  and  dead, 

The  everlasting  stillness  of  the  Deep. 


Through  many  a  solitary  street. 
And  silent  market-place,  and  lonely 

square,  70 

Arm'd  with  the  mighty  Curse,  behold 

him  fare.  [fane 

And  now  his  feet  attain  that  royal 

Where  Baly  held  of  old  his  aweful  reign. 

What  once  had  been  the  Gardens 

spread  around, 


Fair  Gardens,  once  which  wore  per- 
petual green. 
Where  all  sweet  flowers  through  all  the 
year  were  found. 
And  all  fair  fruits  were  through  all 
seasons  seen ; 
A  place  of  Paradise,  where  each  device 
Of  emulous  Art  with  Nature  strove  to  vie; 
And  Nature  on  her  part,  80 

Call'd  forth  new  jDOwers  wherewith  to 
vanquish  Art.  [ej'e. 

The  Swerga-God  himself,  with  envious 
Survey' d  those  peerless  gardens  in  their 
prime  ; 
Nor  ever  did  the  Lord  of  Light, 
Who  circles  Earth  and  Heaven  upon 
his  way,  [sight 

Behold  from  eldest  time  a  goodlier 
Than  were  the  groves  which  Baly,  in 

his  might. 

Made  for  his  chosen  place  of  solace 

and  delight. 

5 

It  was  a  Garden  still  beyond  all  price, 
Even  yet  it  was  a  place  of  Paradise  ; 
For  where  the  mighty  Ocean  could  not 
spare,  91 

There  had  he  with  his  ovm  creation. 
Sought  to  repair  his  work  of  devasta- 
tion. 
And  here  were  coral  bowers. 
And  grots  of  madrepores. 
And  banks  of  sponge,  as  soft  and  fair  to 
eye 
As  e'er  was  mossy  bed 
Whereon  the  Wood  Nymphs  lie 
With  languid  limbs  in  summer's  sultry 
hours. 
Here  too  were  living  flowers      100 
Which,  like  a  bud  compacted. 
Their  purple  cups  contracted. 
And  now  in  open  blossom  spread, 
Stretch' d  like  green  anthers  many  a 
seeking  head. 


XVI.    THE   ANCIENT 


And  arboreta  of  jointed  stone  were 

there, 

And  plants  of  fibres  fine,  as  silkworm's 

thread ;  [hair 

YoA,  beautiful  as  Mermaid's  golden 

Upon  the  waves  dispread. 
Others  tiiat,  like  the  broad  banana 

growing. 

Raised  their  long  wrinkled  leaves  of 

purple  hue,  no 

Like  streajuers  wide  out-flowing. 

And  whatsoe'er  the  depths  of  Ocean 

hide 

From  human  ej'es,  Liidurlad  there 

espied, 

Trees  of  the  deep,  and  shrubs  and 

fruits  and  flowers. 

As  fair  as  ours, 

Wlierewith  the  Sea- Nymphs  love  tlieir 

locks  to  braid. 

When  to  their  father's  hall,  at  festival 

Repairing  thej',  in  emulous  array, 

Their  charms  displa}', 

To  grace  the  banquet,  and  the  solemn 

day.  120 


The  golden  fountains  had  not  ceased 

to  flow : 

And  where  they  mingled  with  the 

briny  Sea, 
There  was  a  sight  of  wonder  and 

delight. 

To  see  the  fish,  like  birds  in  air. 

Above  Ladurlad  flying. 

Round  those  strange  waters  they  repair, 

Their  scarlet  fins  outspread  and  plying. 

They  float  with  gentle  hovering  there  ; 

And  now  upon  those  little  wing.^^. 

As  if  to  dare  forbidden  things,     130 

With  wilful  purpose  bent, 

Swift  as  an  arrow  from  a  bow, 

They  shoot  across,  and  to  and  fro. 

In  rapid  glance,  like  lightning  go 

Through  that  unwonted  element. 


Almost  in  scenes  so  wondrous  fair, 

Ladurlad  liad  forgot 

The  mighty  cause  which  h'd  him  there  ; 

His  busy  eye  was  every  where. 

His  mind  had  lost  all  thought  ;    140 

His  heart,  surrender'd  to  the  joy-s 

Of  sight,  was  happy  as  a  boy's. 

But  soon  the  awakening  thought 

recurs 

Of  him  who  in  the  Sepulchres, 

Hopeless  of  human  aid.  in  chains  is 

laid  ; 
And  her  who  on  the  solitary  shore. 
By  night  and  day  her  weary  watch 

will  keep, 
Till  she  shall  see  them  issuing  from 
the  deep. 

8 

Now  hath  Ladurlad  reach' d  the  Court 

Of  the  great  Palace  of  the  King;   ita 

floor  ISO     't- 

was of  the  marble  rock  ;  and  there 
before 
Tlie  imperial  door, 
A  mighty  Image  on  the  steps  was 
seen. 
Of  stature  huge,  of  countenance  serene. 
A  crown  and  sceptre  at  his  feet  were 
laid; 
One  hand  a  scroll  display'd, 
The  other  pointed  there,  that  all  might 
see; 
My  name  is  Death,  it  said. 
In  mercy  have  the  Gods  appointed  me. 
Two  brazen  gates  beneath  him  night 

and  day  160 

Stood  open  ;   and  within  them  you        /"" 

behold 

Descending  steps,  which  in  the  living 

stone 

Were  hewn,  a  spacioua  way 

Down  to  the  Chambers  of  the  Kings 

of  old. 


176 


THE    (  URSE    OF   KEHAMA 


Trembling  with  hope,  the  adventurous 

man  descended. 

The  sea-green  light  of  day 

Not  far  along  the  vault  extended  ; 

But  where  the  slant  reflection  ended. 

Another  light  was  seen 

Of  red  and  fiery  hue,  170 

Tliat  with  the  water  blended, 

And  gave  the  secrets  of  the  Tombs  to 

view. 

10 

Deep  in  the  marble  rock,  the  Hall 

Of  Death  was  hollow' d  out,  a  chamber 

wide, 

Low-roof  d,  and  long  ;  on  either  side, 

Each  in  his  o\^ti  alcove,  and  on  his 

throne,  [hand 

Tlie  Kings  of  old  were  seated  :  in  liis 
Each  held  the  sceptre  of  command. 
From  whence,  across  that  scene  of 

endless  night, 
A  carbuncle  diffused  its  everlasting 

light.  180 

11 

So  well  had  the  embalmers  done  their 

part  [imbue 

With  spice  and  precious  unguents  to 

The  perfect  corpse,  that  each  had  still 

the  hue 

Of  living  man,  and  everj'  limb  was  still 

Supple  and  firm  and  full,  as  when  of 

yore 

Its  motion  answer'd  to  the  moving  will. 

The  robes  of  royalty  which  once  they 

wore, 

Long  since  had  moulder' d  off  and  left 

them  bare  :  [there. 

Naked  upon  their  thrones  behold  them 

Statues  of  actual  flesh,  .  .  a  fearful 

sight  !  190 

Tlieir  large  and  rayless  eyes 
Dimly  reflecting  to  that  gem-born  light. 


Glazed,  fix'd,  and  meaningless,  .  ,  yet, 
open  wide, 
Their  ghastly  balls  belied 
Tlie  mockery  of  life  in  all  beside.  ^. 

12 

But  if  amid  these  chambers  drear. 
Death  were  a  sight  of  shuddering  and 
of  fear, 
Life  was  a  thing  of  stranger  horror 
here. 
For  at  the  farther  end,  in  yon  alcove, 
Where  Baly  should  have  lain,  had  he 
obey'd  200 

Man's  common  lot.  behold  Ereenia  laid.       ' 
Strong  fetters  link  him  to  the  rock  ;  I 

his  eye 

Now  rolls  and  widens,  as  \^-ith  effort 

vain 

He  strives  to  break  the  chain. 

Now  seems  to  brood  upon  his  misery. 

Before  him  couch' d  there  lay 

One  of  the  mighty  monsters  of  the 

deep. 

Whom  Lorrinite  encountering  on  the 

way, 
Tliere  station' d,  his  perpetual  guard 

to  keep ; 
In  the  sport  of  wanton  power,  she 

charm'd  him  there,  210 

As  if  to  mock  the  Glendoveer's  despair. 

13 
Upward  his  form  was  human,  save 

that  here 
Tlie  skin  was  cover'd  o'er  with  scale 

on  scale 
Compact,  a  panoply  of  natural  mail. 

His  mouth,  from  ear  to  ear. 

Weapon' d  with  triple  teeth,  extended 

wide, 

And  tusks  on  either  side; 

A  double  snake  below,  he  roird 

His  supple  length  behind  in  many 

a  sinuous  fold. 


XVT.    THE   ANCIENT   SEPULCHRES 


177 


14 

With  rod  and  kindling  eye.  the  Beast 

beholds  220 

A  living  man  draw  nigh. 

And  rising  on  his  folds. 

In  hungry  joy  awaits  the  expected 

feast. 
His  mouth  lialf-open,  and  liis  teeth 

unsheath'd.  [arms 

Then  on  he  sprung,  and  in  liis  scaly 
Seized  him,  and  fasten'd  on  his  neck, 

to  suck. 

With  greedy  lips  the  warm  life-blood  : 

and  sure  [charms. 

But  for  the  mighty  power  of  magic 

As  easih^  as,  in  the  blithesome  hour 

Of  spring,  a  child  doth  crop  the 

meadow- flower,  230 

Piecemeal  those  claws 

Had  rent  their  victim,  and  those  armed 

jaws  [stood, 

Snapt  him  in  twain.     Naked  Ladurlad 

Yet  fearless  and  unharm'd  in  this 

dread  strife, 

So  well  Kehama's  Curse  had  charm'd 

his  fated  life. 

15 

He  too,  .  .  for  anger,  rising  at  the 

sight 

Of  liim  he  sought,  in  such  strange 

thrall  confined, 

With  desperate  courage  fired  Ladur- 

lad's  mind,  .  . 

He  too  unto  the  fight  himself  addrest, 

And  grappling  breast  to  breast,    240 

With  foot  firm-planted  stands, 

And  seized  the  monster's  throat  with 

both  his  hands. 
Vainly,  with  throttling  grasp,  he  prest 

The  impenetrable  scales ; 

And  lo  !  the  fluard  rose  up,  and  round 

his  foe. 

With  gliding  motion,  wreath'd  his 

lengthening  coils, 


Then  tighten'd  all  their  folds  with 

stress  and  strain. 
Nought  would  the  raging  Tiger's 

strength  avail  [toils  ; 

If  once  involved  within  tho.so  mighty 

The  arm'd  Rhinoceros,  so  clasp' d,  in 

vain  250 

Had  trusted  to  his  hide  of  rugged  mail. 

His  bones  all  broken,  and  the  breath 

of  life 
Crush' d  from  the  lungs,  in  that  un- 
equal strife.  [break 
Again,  and  yet  again,  he  sought  to 
The  impassive  limbs  ;   but  when  the 
Monster  found 
His  utmost  power  was  vain. 
A  moment  he  relax' d  in  every  round, 
Tlien  knit  his  coils  again  with  closer 

strain. 

And,  bearing  forward,  forced  him  to 

the  ground. 

10 

Ereenia  groan'd  in  anguish  at  the  sight 

Of  this  dread  fight :   once  more  the 

Olendoveer  261 

Essay' d  to  break  his  bonds,  and  fear 
For  that  brave  father  who  had  soutfht 

him  here. 

Stung  him  to  wilder  strugglings.    From 

the  rock 

He  raised  himself  half-up,  with  might 

and  main 

Pluck'd  at  the  adamantine  chain, 

And  now  with  long  and  unrelaxing 

strain. 

In  obstinate  effort  of  indignant  strength, 

Labour'd  and  strove  in  vain  ; 

Till  his  immortal  sinews  failM  at  length  ; 

And  yielding,  with  an  inward  groan, 

to  fate,  271 

Despairingly,  he  let  himself  again 

Fall  prostrate  on  his  prison-bed  of 

stone.  [weight. 

Body  and  chain  alike  with  lifcle.ss 


178 


THE   CURSE    OF   KEHAMA 


17 

Struggling  they  lay  in  mortal  fray 

All  day,  while  day  was  in  our  upper 

sphere, 

For  light  of  day 

And  natural  darkness  never  entered 

here  ; 

All  night,  with  unabated  might. 

They  waged  the  unremitting  fight. 

A  second  day,  a  second  night,     281 

With  furious  will  thej'  wrestled  still. 

The  third  came  on,  the  fourth  is  gone  ; 

Another  comes,  another  goes, 

And  5"et  no  respite,  no  repose  ! 

But  day  and  night,  and  night  and  day, 

Involv'd  in  mortal  strife  they  lay  ; 

Six  days  and  nights  have  pass'd 

away. 

And  still  they  wage,  with  mutual  rage, 

Tlie  unremitting  fray.  290 

With  mutual  rage  their  war  they  wage. 

But  not  with  mutual  will ; 

For  when  the  seventh  morning  came, 

The  monster's  worn  and  wearied  frame 

In  this  strange  contest  fails  ; 

And  weaker,  weaker,  every  hour. 

He  yields  beneath  strong  Nature's 

power. 

For  now  the  Curse  prevails. 

18 

Sometimes  the  Beast  sprung  up  to  bear 

His  foe  aloft  ;   and  trusting  there  300 

To  shake  him  from  his  hold. 

Relax' d  the  rings  that  wreatli"d  him 

round  ; 

But  on  his  throat  Ladurlad  hung 

And  weigh'd  him  to  the  ground  ; 

And  if  they  sink,  or  if  they  float, 

Alike  with  stubborn  clasp  he  clung. 

Tenacious  of  his  grasp  ; 

For  well  he  knew  with  what  a  power, 

Exempt  from  Nature's  laws,      309 

The  Curse  had  arm'd  him  for  this  hour  ; 

And  in  the  monster's  gasping  jaws. 


And  in  his  hollow  eye. 

Well  could  Ladurlad  now  descry 

Tlie  certain  signs  of  victory. 

19 

And  now  the  Beast  no  more  can  keep 

His  painful  watch  ;   his  eyes,  opprest. 

Are  fainting  for  their  natural  sleep  ; 

His  living  flesh  and  blood  must  rest. 

The  Beast  must  sleep  or  die. 

Then  he,  full  faint  and  languidly.  320 

Unwreathes  his  rings  and  strives  to  fly. 

And  still  retreating,  slowly  trails 

His  stiff  and  heavy  length  of  scales. 

But  that  unweariable  foe. 

With  will  relentless  follows  still ; 

No  breathing  time,  no  pause  of  fight 

He  gives,  but  presses  on  his  flight  ; 

Along  the  vaulted  chambers,  and  the 

I  ascent 

Up  to  the  emerald-tinted  light  of  day. 

He  harasses  liis  way,  330 

Till  lifeless,  underneath  his  grasp, 

Tlie  huge  Sea-^Ionster  lay. 

20 
That  obstinate  work  is  done  ;   Ladur- 
lad cried. 
One  labour  yet  remains  ! 
And  thouglitfuUy  he  e^'ed 
Ereenia's  ponderous  chains  ; 
And  with  faint  effort,  half-despairing, 

tried 
The  rivets  deep  in-driven.     Instinc- 
tively, 
As  if  in  search  of  aid,  he  look'd  around : 
Oh,  then  how  gladly,  in  the  near 

alcove,  340 

Fallen  on  the  ground  its  lifeless  Lord 

beside, 

Tlie  crescent  scymitar  he  spied. 

Whose  cloudy  blade,  with  potent  spells 

imbued. 

Had  lain  so  many  an  age  unhurt  in 

solitude. 


XVI.    THE   ANCIENT   .SKiUU  ilKi.s 


ITU 


21 

Joj^fully  springing  there 

He  seized  the  weapon,  and  with  eager 

stroke 

HewM  at  llie  cliain  ;   the  force  was 

(h\'ilt  in  vain. 

For  not  aa  if  througli  yielding  air 

Pass'd  the  descending  scyniitar. 

Its  deaden'd  way  the  heavy  water 

broke ;  350 

\   Yet  it  bit  deep.     Again,  with  both  his 
'  liands. 

He  wields  the  blade,  and  dealt  a  surer 
blow. 
The  baser  metal  yields 
To  that  fine  edge,  and  lo  !   the 
Olendoveer 
Rises  and  snaps  the  half-sever'd  links, 
and  stands 
"/         Freed  from  his  broken  bands. 


XVn.    BALY 

1 

This  is  the  appointed  night. 

The  night  of  joy  and  consecrated  mirth, 

When  from  his  judgement-seat  in 

Padalon, 

By  Yamen's  throne, 

.  Baly  goes  forth,  that  he  may  walk  the 

Earth 

Unseen,  and  hear  his  name 

Still  hymn'd  and  lionom'd  by  the 

grateful  voice 

Of  humankind,  and  in  his  fame  rejoice. 

Therefore  from  door  to  door,  and 

street  to  street. 

With  willing  feet,  10 

Shaking  their  firebrands,  the  glad 

children  run  ; 

Baly  !  great  Baly  !  they  acclaim. 

Where'er  they  run  they  bear  the  mighty 

name, 


Where'er  they  meet, 
Baly  !  great  Baly  !   still  their  choral 

tongues  rejx'at. 
Therefore  at  every  door  the  votive 

flame 

Through  pendant  lanterns  sheds  its 

painted  light. 

And  rockets  hissing  upward  through  the 

sky. 

Fall  like  a  shower  of  stars 

From  Heaven's  black  canopy.      20 

Therefore,  on  yonder  mountain's 

temi)led  height. 

The  brazen  caldron  blazes  through 

the  night. 

Huge  as  a  Ship  that  travels  the  main 

sea 

Is  that  capacious  brass  ;    its  wick  as  tall 

As  is  the  mast  of  some  great  admiral. 

Ten  thousand  votaries  bring 

Camphor  and  ghee  to  feed  the  sacred 

flame  ; 

And  while,  through  regions  round,  the 

nations  see 

Its  fiery  pillar  curling  high  in  heaven, 

Baly  !  great  Baly  !   they  exclaim,   30 

For  ever  hallowed  be  his  blessed  name  ! 

Honour  and  praise  to  him  for  ever 

more  be  given  ! 

2 

Why  art  not  thou  among  the  festive 

throng, 
Baly,  O  righteous  Judge  !   to  hear  thy 

fame  ? 
Still,  as  of  yore,  with  pageantry  and 

SOUL', 

The  glowing  streets  along. 

They  celebrate  thy  name  ; 

Baly  !   great  Baly  !   .still 

Tlie  gratefid  hal»itants  of  Earth 

acclaim. 

Baly  !   great  Baly  !   still  io 

The  ringing  walls  and  echoing  towers 

proclaim. 


180 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


From  yonder  mountain  the  portentous 

flame 
Still  blazes  to  the  nations  as  before ; 
All  things  appear  to  human  eyes  the 
same, 
As  perfect  as  of  yore  ; 
To  human  eyes,  .  .  but  how  unlike  to 
thine  ! 
Thine  which  were  wont  to  see 
The  Company  divine. 
That  with  their  presence  came  to 
honour  thee ! 
For  all  the  blessed  ones  of  mortal  birth 
Who  have  been  clothed  with  immor- 
tality, 51 
From  the  eight  corners  of  the  Earth, 
From  the  Seven  Worlds  assembling,  all 
Wont  to  attend  thy  solemn  festival. 
Then  did  thine  eyes  behold 
The  wide  air  peopled  with  that  glorious 
train  ; 
Now  may'st  thou  seek  the  blessed 

ones  in  vain, 

For  Earth  and  Air  are  now  beneath 

the  Rajah's  reign. 

3 

Therefore  the  righteous  Judge  hath 

walk'd  the  Earth 

In  sorrow  and  in  solitude  to-night.    60 

Tlie  sound  of  human  mirth 

To  him  is  no  delight ; 

He  turns  away  from  that  ungrateful 

sight. 

Hallowed  not  now  by  visitants  divine, 

And  there  he  bends  his  melancholy 

way 

Where,  in  yon  full-orb'd  Moon's 

refulgent  light, 

Tlie  Oolden  Towers  of  his  old  City 

shine 

Above  the  silver  sea.    The  ancient  Chief 

There  bent  his  way  in  grief. 

As  if  sad  thoughts  indulged  would 

work  their  own  relief.  70 


There  he  beholds  upon  the  sand 
A  lovely  Maiden  in  the  moonlight  stand. 

The  land-breeze  lifts  her  locks  of  jet. 

The  waves  around  her  polish' d  ankles 

play, 

Her  bosom  with  the  salt  sea-spray  is 

wet ; 

Her  arms  are  cross' d,  unconsciously, 

to  fold 

That  bosom  from  the  cold. 

While  statue-like  she  seems  her  watch 

to  keep, 

Gazing  intently  on  the  restless  deep. 

5 

Seven  miserable  days  had  Kailyal 

there,  80 

From  earliest  dawn  till  evening  watch' d 

the  deep  ; 

Six  nights  within  the  chamber  of  the 

rock. 

Had  laid  her  down,  and  found  in 

prayer 

That  comfort  which  she  sought  in  vain 

from  sleep. 

But  when  the  seventh  night  came. 

Never  should  she   behold  her  father 

more, 

The  wretched  Maiden  said  in  her         1 

despair ; 

Yet  would  not  quit  the  shore. 

Nor  turn  her  eyes  one  moment  from 

the  sea ; 

Never  before  90 

Had  Kailyal  watch' d  it  so  impatiently, 

Never  so  eagerly  had  hoped  before, 

As  now  when  she  believed,  and  said  all 

hope  was  o'er. 

Cy 

Beholding  her,  how  beautiful  she  stood. 

In  that  wild  solitude, 

Baly  from  his  invisibility 

Had  issued  then,  to  know  her  cause 

of  woe ; 


XVII.    BALi 


181 


But  that  in  the  air  beside  her,  he  espied 

Two  Powers  of  Evil  for  her  hurt  allied, 

\  Foul  AivaUui  and  dieadful  Lorrinite. 

Walking  in  darkness  him  they  could  not 

see  loi 

And  marking  with  what  demou-liko 

delight 

They  kept  their  innocent  prey  in  sight, 

He  waits,  exi>ecting  what  the  end 

may  be. 

7 

She  starts  ;  for  lo  !   where  floating 

many  a  rood, 

A  Monster,  hugcst  of  the  Ocean  brood, 

Weltering  and  lifeless,  drifts  toward 

the  shore. 

Backward  she  starts  in  fear  before  the 

flood, 

And,  when  the  waves  retreat, 

They  leave  their  hideous  buithen  at 

her  feet.  no 

.  8 
bhe  ventures  to  approach  with  timid 
tread, 
tShe  starts,  and  half  draws  back  in 

fear. 
Then  stops,  and  stretches  out  her 

head, 

To  aec  if  that  huge  Beast  indeed  be 

dead. 

Now  growing  bold,  the  Maid  advances 

near, 
Even  to  the  margin  of  the  occan-tiood. 
'    Rightly  she  reads  her  Father's  victory. 
And  lifts  her  joyous  hands  exultingly 

To  Heaven  in  gratitude. 

Then  spreading  them  toward  the  »Sea, 

While  pious  tears  bedim  her  streaming 

eyes,  121 

Come  !   come  !   my  Father,  come  to  me, 

Erecnia,  come  !  she  cries, 
Lo  I   from  the  opening  deep  they  rise, 
Jt   And  to  Ladurlad's  arms  the  happy 
Kailyal  flies. 


9 

.She  turn'd  from  him,  to  mccl  with 

beating  heart. 

The  (Jlendo veer's  embraux*. 

Now  turn  to  me,  for  mine  thou  art ! 

Foul  Aivalau  exclaim' d  ;   his  loathsome 

face 

Came  forth,  and  from  the  air,     130 

In  fleshly  form,  he  burst. 

Always  in  horror  and  despair 

Had  Kailyal  seen  that  form  and  face 

accurst. 

But  yet  so  sharp  a  pang  had  ne'er 

Shot  with  a  thrill  like  death  through 

all  her  frame, 
As  now  when  on  her  hour  of  joy  the 
Spectre  came. 

10 

Vain  is  resistance  now, 
The  tiendish  laugh  of  Lorrinite  is  heard ; 
And  at  her  dreadful  word, 
The  Asuras  once  again  appear,    140 
And  seize  Ladurlad  and  the  Glcndoveer.    L_ 

11 

Hold  your  accursed  hands  ! 
A  voice  exciaim'd,  whose  dread  com- 
mands [Padalon  ; 
Were  fcar'd  through  all  the  vaults  of 
And  there  among  them,  in  the  mid- 
night air. 
The  presence  of  the  mighty  Baly  shone.     U 
He,  making  manifest  his  mightiness, 
Tut  forth  on  every  side  an  hundred 
arms, 
And  seized  the  Sorceress  ;   uiaugre  all 
her  charms, 
Her  and  her  liendish  ministers  ho  ' 
caught                          150 
With  force  as  uncontroulable  as  fate  ; 
And  that  unhappy  Soul,  to  whom 
The  Almighty  Rajah's  power  availeth  not 
Living  to  avert,  nor  dead  to  mitigate 
His  righteous  doom. 


182 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


12 

Help,  help,  Kehama  !  Father,  help  ! 
he  cried, 
But  Baly  tarried  not  to  abide 
That  mightier  Power  ;   with  irresistible 
feet 
He  stampt  and  cleft  the  Earth  ;  it 
open'd  wide, 
And  gave  him  way  to  his  own  Judge- 
ment-seat. i6o 
Down,  like  a  plummet,  to  the  World 
below 
He  sunk,  and  bore  his  prey 
To  punishment  deserved,  and  endless 


XVIII.    KEHAMA'S  DESCENT 

1 
The  Earth,  by  Baly's  feet  divided. 
Closed  o'er  his  way  as  to  the  Judge- 
ment-seat 
He  plunged  and  bore  his  prey. 
Scarce  had  the  shock  subsided. 
When,  darting  from  the  Swerga's 
heavenly  heights, 
Kehama,  like  a  thunderbolt,  alights. 
In  wrath  he  came,  a  bickering  flame 
Flash' d  from  his  eyes  which  made  the 
moonlight  dim. 
And  passion  forcing  way  from  every 
limb, 
Like  furnace-smoke,  with  terrors  WTapt 
him  round.  lo 

Furious  he  smote  the  ground  : 
Earth  trembled  underneath  the  dread- 
ful stroke. 
Again  in  sunder  riven  ; 
He  hurl'd  in  rage  his  whirling  weapon 

down. 
But  lo  !  the  fiery  sheckra  to  his  feet 
Return' d,  as  if  by  equal  force  re- 
driven. 


And  from  the  abyss  the  voice  of  Baly 

came : 

Not  yet,  0  Rajah,  hast  thou  won 

The  realms  of  Padalon  ! 

Earth  and  the  Swerga  are  thine  own. 

But,  till  Kehama  shall  subdue 

the  throne  zi 

Of  Hell,  in  torments  Yamen  holds  his 
son. 


Fool  that  he  is  !  .  .  in  torments  let 

him  lie  ! 

Kehama,  wrathful  at  his  son,  replied. 

But  what  am  I, 

That  thou  should' st  brave  me  ?  .  . 

kindling  in  his  pride 

The  dreadful  Rajah  cried. 

Ho  !  Yamen  !  hear  me.     God  of 

Padalon, 

Prepare  thy  throne, 

And  let  the  Amreeta  cup  30 

Be  ready  for  my  lips,  when  I  anon 

Triumphantly  shall  take  my  seat 

thereon, 

And  plant  upon  thy  neck  my  royal  feet. 

3 

In  voice  like  thunder  thus  the  Rajah 

cried. 

Impending  o'er  the  abyss,  with 

menacing  hand 

Put  forth,  as  in  the  action  of  command. 

And  eyes  that  darted  their  red  anger 

dowTi. 
Then  drawing  back  he  let  the  earth 

subside. 

And,  as  his  wrath  relax' d,  survey' d. 

Thoughtfully  and  silently,  the  mortal 

Maid.  40 

Her  eye  the  while  was  on  the  farthest 

sky, 

Where  up  the  ethereal  height 

Ereenia  rose  and  pass'd  away  from 

eight. 


XVIII.    KEHAMA'S  DESCENT 


is;i 


Never  had  she  so  joyfully 

Beheld  the  coming  of  the  Glendovcer, 

Dear  as  ho  was  and  he  deserved  to  be, 

As  now  she  saw  him  rise  and  disap- 

l>car. 

Come  now  wliat  will,  within  her  heart 

said  she, 

For  thou  art  safe,  and  what  have  I  to 

fear  ? 


Meantime  the  Almighty  Rajah,  late  50 

In  power  and  majesty  and  wrath  array' d. 

Had  laid  his  terrors  by 

And  gazed  upon  the  Maid, 

Pride  could  not  quit  his  eye. 

Nor  that  remorseless  nature  from  his 

front 

Depart;   yet  whoso  had  beheld  him  then 

Had  felt  some  admiration  mix'd  with 

dread, 

And  might  have  said, 

That  sure  he  seem'd  to  be  the  King 

of  Men  ! 

Less  than  the  greatest  that  he  could  not 

be,  60 

Who  carried  in  his  port  such  might 

and  majesty. 

5 

In  fear  no  longer  for  the  Glendoveer, 

Now  towards  the  Rajah  Kailyal  turn'd 

her  eyes 

As  if  to  ask  what  doom  awaited  her. 

But  then  surprise. 

Even  as  with  fascination  held  them 

there, 

So  strange  a  thing  it  seem'd  to  see  the 

change 

Of  purport  in  that  all-commanding 

brow, 

AVhich  thoughtfully  was  bent  upon  her 

now. 

Wondering  she  gazed,  the  while  her 

Father's  eye  70 


Was  tix'd  upon  Kehama  haughtily  ; 

It  spake  defiance  to  him,  high  disdain. 

Stern  patience  unsubduable  by  pain, 

And  pride  triumphant  over  agony. 


Ladurlad,  said  the  Rajah,  thou  and  1 
Alike  have  done  the  work  of  Destiny, 
Unknowing  each  to  what  the  impulse 

tended  ; 
But  now  that  over  Earth  and  Heaven 

my  reign 
Is  stablish'd,  and  the  ways  of  Fate  are 

plain 
Before  me,  here  our  enmity  is  ended. 
I  take  away  thy  Curse  .  .  As  thus  he 

said,  81 

The  fire  which  in  Ladurlad"  s  heart  and 

brain 

Was  burning,  lied,  and  left  him  free 

from  pain. 

So  rapidly  his  torments  were  departed, 

Tliat  at  the  sudden  ease  he  started. 

As  with  a  shock,  and  to  his  head 

His  hands  up- fled, 

As  if  he  felt  through  every  failing  limb 

The  power  and  sense  of  life  forsaking 

him. 


Then  turning  to  the  Maid,  the  Rajah 

cried,  90 

U  Virgin,  above  all  of  mortal  birth 

Favour'd  alike  in  beauty  and  in  worth. 

And  in  the  glories  of  thy  destiny, 

Now  let  thy  happy  heart  exult  with 

pride, 

For  Fate  hath  chosen  thee 

To  be  Kehama's  bride. 

To  be  the  Queen  of  Heaven  and  Earth, 

And  of  whatever  \N'orlds  beside 

Infinity  may  hide  .  .  For  I  can  see 

The  writing  which,  at  thy  nativity. 

All -knowing  Nature  UTOUght  upon  thy 

brain,  101 


184 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


Y]\< 


In  branching  veins,  which  to  the  gifted 

eye 

Map  out  the  mazes  of  futurity. 

There  is  it  written,  Maid,  that  thou 

and  I, 

Alone  of  human  kind  a  deathless  pair, 

Are  doom'd  to  share 

The  Amreeta-drink  divine 

Of  immortality.     Come,  Maiden  mine  ! 

High-fated  One,  ascend  the  subject 

sky. 

And  by  Kehama's  side  no 

Sit  on  the  Swerga  throne,  his  equal 

bride. 

8 

Oh  never,  .  .  never,  .  .  Father ! 

Kailyal  cried ; 

It  is  not  as  he  saith,  .  .  it  cannot  be  ! 

I !  .  .  I,  his  bride  ! 

Nature  is  never  false ;  he  wrongeth  her ! 

My  heart  belies  such  lines  of  destiny. 

There  is  no  other  true  interpreter  ! 

9 

At  that  reply,  Kehama's  darkening 

brow 

Bewray' d  the  anger  which  he  yet 

suppress' d  ; 

Counsel  thy  daughter !  tell  her  thou  art 

now  120 

Free  from  thy  Curse,  he  said,  and  bid 

her  bow 

In  thankfulness  to  Fate's  benign  behest. 

Bid  her  her  stubborn  will  restrain. 

For  Destiny  at  last  must  be  obey'd, 

And  tell  her,  while  obedience  is  delay' d, 

Thy  Curse  will  burn  again. 

10 

She  needeth  not  my  counsel,  he  replied. 

And  idly,  Rajah,  dost  thou  reason  thus 

Of  destiny  !   for  though  all  other 

things  129 

Were  subject  to  the  starry  influencings, 
And  bow'd  submissive  to  thy  tyranny. 


The  virtuous  heart  and  resolute  mind 

are  free. 

Thus  in  their  wisdom  did  the  Gods 

decree 

When  they  created  man.     Let  come 

what  will,  [ill. 

This  is  our  rock  of  strength ;  in  every 

Sorrow,  oppression,  pain  and  agony, 

The  spirit  of  the  good  is  unsubdued, 

And,  suffer  as  they  may,  they  triumph 

still. 

11 

Obstinate  fools  !  exclaim' d  the  Mighty 

One, 
Fate  and  my  pleasure  must  be  done. 

And  ye  resist  in  vain  !  141 

Take  your  fit  guerdon  till  we  meet 

again  ! 

So  saying,  his  vindictive  hand  he  flung 

Towards  them,  fill'd  with  curses; 

then  on  high 

Aloft  he  sprung,  and  vanish' d  through 

the  Sky. 


XIX.    MOUNT  CALASAY 

1 

The  Rajah,  scattering  curses  as  he  rose, 

Soar'd  to  the  Swerga,  and  resumed  his 

throne. 

Not  for  his  own  redoubled  agony, 

Which  now  through  heart  and  brain 

With  renovated  pain, 
Rush'd  to  its  seat,  Ladurlad  breathes 

that  groan, 
That  groan  is  for  his  child  ;  he  groan' d 
to  see 
That  she  was  stricken  now  with 
leprosy, 
Which  as  the  enemy  vindictive  fled, 
O'er  all  her  frame  with  quick  con- 
tagion spread.  10 


XIX.    MOUNT   CAJ.A.SAV 


ibd 


She,  wondering  at  events  so  passing 

strange, 

And  till'd  with  hope  and  foar. 

And  J03'  to  see  the  Tyrant  disappear, 

And  glad  expectance  <if  her  Glendo\  eer, 

Perceived  not  in  herself  the  hideous 

change. 

His  burning  pain,  she  thought,  had 

forced  the  groan 

Her  father  breathed  ;   his  agonies  alone 

Were  present  to  her  mind  ;  she  clasp'd 

his  knees. 

Wept  for  his  Curse,  and  did  not  feel 

her  own. 


Nor  when  she  saw  her  plague,  did  her 
good  heart,  20 

True  to  itself,  even  for  a  moment  fail. 
Ha,  Rajah  !   with  disdainful  smile  she 

cries, 

Mighty  and  wise  and  wicked  as  thou  art, 

Still  thy  blind  vengeance  acts  a  friendly 

part. 

Shall  I  not  thank  thee  for  this  scurf 

and  scale  [ness, 

Of  dire  deformity,  whose  loathsome- 
Surer  than  panoply  of  strongest  mail. 
Arms  me  against  all  foes  ?  Oh,  better  so. 
Better  such  foul  disgrace. 
Than  that  this  innocent  face       30 
Should  tempt  thy  wooing !     That  I 
need  not  dread  ; 
Nor  ever  impious  foe 
Will  offer  outrage  now,  nor  farther  woe 
Will  beauty  draw  on  my  unhappy  head, 
Safe  through  the  unholy  world  may 
Kailyal  go. 


Her  face  in  virtuous  pride 

\\'as  lifted  to  the  ekien. 

As  him  and  his  ])Oor  vengeance  she 

defied  ; 


But  earthward,  when  she  ceased,  she 
turn'd  her  eyes, 
As  if  she  thought  to  hide  40 

The  tear  which  in  her  own  despite 

would  rise. 
Did  then  the  thought  of  her  o\mi 
Olendoveer 
Call  forth  that  natural  tear  ? 
Was  it  a  woman's  fear, 
A  thought  of  earthly  love  which 
troubled  her  ? 
Like  yon  thin  cloud  amid  the  moon- 
light sky 
lliat  flits  before  the  wind 
And  leaves  no  trace  behind, 
The  womanly  pang  pass'd  ovcrKailyal's 

mind. 

This  is  a  loathsome  sight  to  human  e3-e. 

Half-shrinking  at  herself  the  Maiden 

thought ;  50 

Will  it  be  BO  to  him  ?    Oh  surely  not  ! 

The  immortal  Powers,  who  see 

Tlirougli  the  poor  wrappings  of 

mortality,  [within. 

Behold  the  soul,  the  beautiful  soul, 

Exempt  from  age  and  wasting  maladies. 

And  undeform'd,  while  pure  and  free 

from  sin. 

Tliis  is  a  loathsome  sight  to  human  eyes. 

But  not  to  eyes  divine, 

Ereenia,  Son  of  Heaven,  oh  not  to 

thine !  60 

4 

The  wrongful  thought  of  fear,  the 

womanly  pain 

Had  pass'd  away,  her  heart  waa  calm 

again.  [see 

She  raised  her  head,  exi)ecting  now  to 

Tlie  CJlendoveer  apjK'ar; 

Where  hath  he  fled,  (juoth  she. 

That  he  should  tarry  now  ?    Oh  !    Imd 

she  known 

Whither  the  adventurous  son  of  Hea\  eii 

was  tiown, 


186 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


Strong  as  her  spirit  was,  it  had  not 

borne 

The  appalling  thought,  nor  dared  to 

hope  for  his  retui-n. 

5 

For  he  in  search  of  Seeva's  throne  was 

gone,  70 

To  tell  his  tale  of  wrong  ; 

In  search  of  Seeva's  own  abode 

The  Glendoveer  began  his  heavenly 

road.  [skies 

0  wild  emprize  !  above  the  farthest 
He  hoped  to  rise  ! 
Him  who  is  throned  beyond  the  reach 

of  thought. 

The  Alone,  the  Inaccessible,  he  sought. 

0  wild  emprize  !  for  when  in  days  of 

yore, 

For  proud  pre-eminence  of  power, 

Brama  and  Veeshnoo,  wild  with  rage 

contended,  80 

And  8eeva,  in  his  might. 

Their  dread  contention  ended  ; 

Before  their  sight 

In  form  a  fiery  column  did  he  tower, 

Whose  head  above  the  highest  height 

extended, 

Whose  base  below  the  deepest  depth 

descended. 

Downward,  its  depth  to  sound 

Veeshnoo  a  thousand  years  explored 

The  fathomless  j)rofound. 

And  yet  no  base  he  found  :        90 

Upward,  to  reach  its  head, 

Ten  myriad  years  the  aspiring  Brama 

soar'd, 

And  still,  as  up  he  fled, 

Above  him  still  the  Immeasurable 

spread. 

The  rivals  own'd  their  Lord, 

And  trembled  and  adored. 

How  shall  the  Glendoveer  attain 

What  Brama  and  what  Veeshnoo  sought 

in  vain  ? 


6 

Ne'er  did  such  thought  of  lofty  daring 

enter 

Celestial  Spirit's  mind.     0  wild 

adventure  ic 

That  throne  to  find,  for  he  must  leavt 

behind 

This  World,  that  in  the  centre. 

Within  its  salt-sea  girdle,  lies  confined 

Yea  the  Seven  Earths  that,  each  with 

its  own  ocean. 

Ring  clasping  ring,  compose  the 

mighty  round. 

What  power  of  motion. 

In  less  than  endless  years  shall  bear 

him  there, 

Along  the  limitless  extent, 

To  the  utmost  bound  of  the  remotest 

spheres  V 

What  strength  of  wing  n 

Suffice  to  pierce  the  Golden  Firmamen 

That  closes  all  within  '! 

Yet  he  hath  pass'd  the  measureless 

extent 

And  pierced  the  Golden  Firmament ; 

For  Faith  hath  given  him  power,  an< 

Space  and  Time 

Vanish  before  that  energy  sublime. 

Nor  doth  eternal  Night 

And  outer  Darkness  check  his  resolute 

flight ; 

By  strong  desire  through  all  he  makel 

his  way,  ' 

Till  Seeva's  Seat  appears,  .  .  behold  | 

Mount  Calasay  !  12 

7 

Behold  the  Silver  Mountain  !  round 

about 

Seven  ladders  stand,  so  liigh,  the 

aching  eye. 

Seeking  their  tops  in  vain  amid 

the  sky. 

Might  deem  they  led  from  earth  to 

highest  Heaven. 


XIX.    MOUNT   CALASAV 


187 


Ages  would  pass  away, 

And  worlds  with  ago  decay. 

Ere  oue  whose  patient  feet  from  ring 

to  ring 

Must  win  their  upward  way. 

Could  reach  the  Bummit  of  Mount 

Calasay. 

But  that  strong  power  that  nerved  his 

\\ing,  130 

That  all-surmounting  will. 

Intensity  of  faith  and  holiest  love, 

Sustain'd  Ereenia  still, 

And  he  hath  gain'd  the  plain,  the 

aauctuary  above. 

8 

Lo,  there  the  Silver  Bell, 

That,  self -sustain'd,  hangs  buoyant  in 

the  air  ! 
Lo  I   the  broad  Table  there,  too  bright 

For  mortal  sight. 

From  whose  four  sides  the  bordering 

gems  unite 

Their  harmonising  rays,  140 

In  one  mid  fount  of  many-colour' d  light. 

The  stream  of  splendour,  flashing  as 

it  Hows, 

Plays  round,  and  feeds  the  stem  of  yon 

celestial  Rose  !         [declare 

Where  is  the  .Sage  whose  wisdom  can 

The  hidden  things  of  that  mysterious 

flower,  [to  bear  '1 

That  flower  which  serves  all  mysteries 

The  sacred  Triangle  is  there. 
Holding  the  Emblem  which  no  tongue 

may  tell ; 

Is  this  the  Heaven  of  Heavens,  where 

tSeeva  a  self  doth  dwell  '/ 

y 

Here  first  the  Glendoveer         150 
Felt  his  wing  flag,  and  paused  upon 

his  flight.  [here 

\Nas  it  that  fear  came  over  him,  when 
He  saw  the  imagined  throne  appear  ? 


Not  so,  for  his  immortal  sight 

Endured  the  Table's  light ; 

Distinctly  he  beheld  all  things  around. 

And  doubt  and  wonder  rose  within  hie 

mind 

That  this  was  all  he  found. 

Howbeit  ho  lifted  up  his  voice  and 

spake. 

There  is  oppression  in  the  \\'orld  below  ; 

Earth  groans  beneath  the  yoke  ;  yea, 

in  her  woe,  161 

.She  asks  if  the  Avenger's  eye  is  blind  ' 

Awake,  U  Lord,  awake  ! 

Too  long  thy  vengeance  sleepeth.  Holiest 

One !  [sake. 

Put  thou  thy  terrors  on  for  mercy's 

And  strike  the  blow,  in  justice  to 

mankind  ! 

10 

So  as  he  pray'd,  intenser  faith  he  felt. 

His  spirit  seem'd  to  melt 

With  ardent  yearnings  of  increasing 

love ; 

Upward  he  turn'd  his  eyes        170 

As  if  there  should  be  something  yet 

above  ;  [cries  ; 

Let  me  not,  Seeva,  seek  in  vain  !  he 
Thou  art  not  here,  .  .  for  how  should 

these  contain  thee  ? 
Thou  art  not  here,  .  .  for  how  should 
I  sustain  thee  ".' 
But  thou,  where'er  thou  art. 
Canst  hear  the  voice  of  prayer. 
Canst  read  the  righteous  heart. 
Thy  dwelling  who  can  tell. 
Or  who,  O  Lord,  hath  seen  thy  .'^ecret 
throne  '! 
But  thou  art  not  alone,  180 

Not  unappioachable  I 
O  all-coutairniiK  Mind, 
Thou  who  art  »very  where. 
Whom  all  who  seek  shall  find. 
Hear  me,  O  Seeva  !   hear  the  sup- 
pliant's prayer  I 


188 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


11 

So  saying,  up  he  sprung, 
And  struck  the  Bell,  which  self-sus- 
pended hung 
Before  the  mystic  Rose. 
From  side  to  side  the  silver  tongue 
Melodious  swung,  and  far  and  wide 
Soul-thrilling  tones  of  heavenly  music 
rung.  191 

Abash' d,  confounded, 
It  left  the  Glendoveer ;  .  .  yea  all 
astounded 
In  overpowering  fear  and  deep  dismay  ; 
For  when  that  Bell  had  sounded, 
The  Rose,  with  all  the  mysteries  it 
surrounded, 
The  Bell,  the  Table,  and  Mount  Calasay, 

The  holy  Hill  itself,  with  all  thereon, 
Even  as  a  morning  dream  before  the  day 
Dissolves  away,  they  faded  and  were 
gone.  200 

12 

Where  shall  he  rest  his  wing,  where 

turn  for  flight, 

For  all  around  is  Light, 

Primal,  essential,  all-pervading  Light ! 

Heart  cannot  think,  nor  tongue  declare. 

Nor  eyes  of  Angel  bear 

That  Glory  unimaginably  bright ; 

The  Sun  himself  had  seem'd 

A  speck  of  darkness  there, 

Amid  that  Light  of  Light ! 

13 

Down  fell  the  Glendoveer,        210 
Do\vn  through  all  regions,  to  our 
mundane  sphere 
He  fell ;  but  in  his  ear    [heard, 
A  Voice,  which  from  within  him  came,  was 
The  indubitable  word 
Of  Him  to  whom  all  secret  things  are 
known :  [throne. 

Go,  ye  who  suffer,  go  to  Yamen's 
He  hath  the  remedy  for  every  woe  ; 
He  setteth  right  whate'er  is  wrong  below. 


XX.    THE  EMBARKATION 

] 

Down  from  the  Heaven  of  Heavens 

Ereenia  fell 

Precipitate,  yet  imperceptible 

His  fall,  nor  had  he  cause  nor  thought 

of  fear  ; 

And  when  he  came  within  this  mundane 

sphere. 

And  felt  that  Earth  was  near, 

The  Glendoveer  his  azure  \vings 

exj)anded. 

And,  sloping  down  the  sky 

Toward  the  spot  from  whence  he 

sprung  on  high. 

There  on  the  shore  he  landed. 


Kailyal  advanced  to  meet  him,     10 
Not  moving  now  as  she  was  wont  to 

greet  him, 

Joy  in  her  eye  and  in  her  eager  pace ; 

With  a  calm  smile  of  melancholy  pride 

She  met  him  now,  and  turning  half  aside 

Her  warning  hand'repell'd  the  dear 

embrace. 

3  I 

Strange  things,  Ereenia,  have  befallen  ' 

us  here, 
The  Virgin  said  ;  the  Almighty  Man 

hath  read 

The  lines  which,  traced  by  Nature  on 

my  brain. 

There  to  the  gifted  eye 

Make  all  my  fortunes  plain,        20 

Mapping  the  mazes  of  futurity. 

He  sued  for  peace,  for  it  is  written  there 

That  I  with  him  the  Amreeta  cup 

must  share ; 

Wherefore  he  bade  me  come,  and  by 

his  side 

Sit  on  the  Swerga  throne,  his  etiual 

bride. 


XX.    THE   EMBARKATION 


189 


I  need  not  tell  thee  what  reply  was 

given  ; 

»Iy  heart,  the  sure  interpreter  of  Heaven, 

His  impious  words  belied. 

Thou  seest  his  poor  revenge  !  Se 

having  said, 

One  look  she  glanced  upon  her  leprous 

stain  30 

Indignantly,  and  shook 

Her  head  in  calm  disdain. 

4 

0  Maid  of  soul  divine  ! 

0  more  than  ever  dear, 

And  more  than  ever  mine, 

Replied  the  Glendoveer ; 

He  hath  not  read,  be  sure,  the  mystic 

ways 
Of  Fate  ;  almighty  as  he  is,  that  maze 

Hath  mock'd  his  fallible  sight. 

Jaid  he  the  Amreeta-cup  ?   80  far  aright 

The  Evil  One  may  see  ;  for  Fate 

displays  41 

Her  hidden  things  in  part,  and  part 

conceals, 

Baffling  the  wicked  eye 

Alike  with  what  she  hides,  and  what 

reveals, 

.Vhen  with  unholy  purpose  it  would  pry 

Into  the  secrets  of  futurity. 

So  may  it  be  j^ermitted  him  to  see 

Dimly  the  inscrutable  decree  ; 

For  to  the  World  below, 

Where  Yamen  guards  the  Amreeta,  we 

must  go  ;  50 

Thus  Seeva  hath  express' d  his  will, 

even  he  [he  saith. 

The  Holiest  hath  ordain'd  it ;   there, 

All  wrongs  shall  be  redrest 

By  Yamen,  by  the  righteous  Power  of 

Death. 

5 

Forthwith  the  Father  and  the  fated 

Maid, 
And  that  heroic  Spirit,  who  for  them 


Such  flight  had  late  essay'd. 

The  will  of  Heaven  obe^-'d. 

They  went  their  way  along  the  road 

That  leads  to  Yamen's  dread  abode. 

0 

Many  a  day  hath  pass'd  away      61 

Since  they  began  their  arduous  way, 

Their  way  of  toil  and  pain  ; 

And  now  their  weary  feet  attain 

Tlie  Earth's  remotest  bound, 

Where  outer  Ocean  girds  it  round. 

But  not  like  other  Oceans  this  ; 

Rather  it  seem'd  a  drear  abyss. 

Upon  whose  brink  they  stood. 

Oh  !  scene  of  fear  !   the  travellers  hear 

The  raging  of  the  flood  ;  71 

Tliey  hear  how  fearfully  it  roars. 

But  clouds  of  darker  shade  than  night 

For  ever  hovering  round  those  shores. 

Hide  all  things  from  their  sight ; 

The  Sun  upon  that  darkness  pours 

His  unavailing  light. 

Nor  ever  Moon  nor  Stars  display. 

Through  the  thick  shade,  one  guiding 

ray 

To  show  the  perils  of  the  way.      80 


There  in  a  creek  a  vessel  lay. 

Just  on  the  confines  of  the  day, 

It  rode  at  anchor  in  its  bay. 

These  venturous  pilgrims  to  convey 

Across  that  outer  Sea. 

Strange  vessel  sure  it  seem'd  to  be. 

And  all  unfit  for  such  wild  sea  ! 

For  through  its  yawning  side  the  wave 

Was  oozing  in  ;  the  mast  was  frail. 

And  old  and  torn  its  only  sail.      90 

How  may  that  crazy  vessel  brave 

Tlie  billows  that  in  wild  commotion 

For  ever  roar  and  rave  ? 

How  hope  to  cross  the  dreadful  Ocean 

O'er  which  eternal  shadows  dwell, 

Who.sc  secrets  none  return  to  tell ! 


190 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


Well  might  the  travellers  fear  to  enter  ! 

But  summon' d  once  on  that  adventure, 

For  them  was  no  retreat. 

Nor  boots  it  with  reluctant  feet   loo 

To  linger  on  the  strand  ; 

Aboard  !   aboard  ! 

An  aweful  voice,  that  left  no  choice, 

Sent  forth  its  stern  command, 

Aboard  !   aboard  ! 

The  travellers  hear  that  voice  in  fear, 

And  breathe  to  Heaven  an  inward 

prayer. 

And  take  their  seats  in  silence  there. 

9 

Self-hoisted  then,  behold  the  sail 
Expands  itself  before  the  gale  ;    no 
Hands,  which  they  cannot  see,  let  slip 

Tlie  cable  of  that  fated  ship  ; 

The  land  breeze  sends  her  on  her  way, 

And  lo  !  they  leave  the  living  light  of 

day! 


XXI.    THE   WORLD'S   END 

1 

Swift  as  an  arrow  in  its  flight 

The  Ship  shot  through  the  incumbent 

night; 

And  they  have  left  behind 

The  raging  billows  and  the  roaring  wind, 

The  storm,  the  darkness,  and  all 

mortal  fears  ; 

And  lo  !  another  light 

To  guide  their  way  appears. 

The  light  of  other  spheres. 

2 

That  instant  from  Ladurlad's  heart 

and  brain 

The  Curse  was  gone  ;   he  feels  again 

Fresh  as  in  youth's  fair  morning,  and 

the  Maid  ii 

Hath  lost  her  leprous  stain. 


The  Tyrant  then  hath  no  dominion  here 

Starting  she  cried  ;   0  happy,  happy 

hour  ! 

We  are  bej^ond  his  power  ! 

Then  raising  to  the  Glendoveer, 

With  heavenly  beauty  bright,  her 

angel  face, 

Turn'd  not  reluctant  now,  and  met  hia 

dear  embrace. 


Swift  glides  the  Ship  with  gentle  motior 
Across  that  calm  and  quiet  ocean  ;  2( 
That  glassy  sea  which  seem'd  to  be 
Tlie  mirror  of  tranquillity.  j 

Tlieir  pleasant  passage  soon  was  o'er,  ; 
The  Ship  hath  reach' d  its  destined 
shore ; 
A  level  belt  of  ice  which  bound,       j 
As  with  an  adamantine  mound,       I 
Tlie  waters  of  the  sleeping  Ocean  roundj 

Strange  forms  were  on  the  strand 
Of  earth-born  spirits  slain  before  their 
time ;  i 

^^^l0  wandering  over  sea  and  sky  and  i 
land,  3c| 

Had  so  fulfill' d  their  term  ;  and  now  ! 
were  met 
Upon  this  icy  belt,  a  motley  band. 
Waiting  their  summons  at  the 
appointed  hour. 
When  each  before  the  Judgement-seat 
must  stand, 
And  hear  his  doom  from  Baly's 
righteous  power. 

4 

Foul  with  habitual  crimes,  a  hideous 

crew 

Were  there,  the  race  of  rapine  and  of 

blood. 

Now  having  overpass'd  the  mortal  flood^ 

Tlieir  own  deformity  they  knew. 

And  knew  the  meed  that  to  their 

deeds  was  due.  40 


XXI.    THE   WORLD  S   END 


191 


Therefore  in  fear  and  agony  they  stood. 

Expecting  when  the  Evil  Messenger 

Among  them  should  appear.     But  with 

their  fear 

A  liopo  was  mingled  now  ; 

O'er  the  dark  shade  of  guilt  a  deeper  hue 

It  threw,  and  gave  a  liercer  character 

To  the  wild  eye  and  lip  and  sinful  brow. 

Tliey  hoped  that  soon  Kehama  would 

subdue 

The  inexorable  God  and  seize  his  throne, 

Reduce  the  infernal  World  to  his 

command,  50 

And  with  his  irresistible  right  hand, 
Redeem  them  from  the  vaults  of 
Padalon. 

5 
Apart  from  these  a  milder  company, 
The  victims  of  offences  not  their  own, 
Look'd  when  the  appointed  Messenger 

should  come ; 

Gather' d  together  some,  and  some  alone 

Brooding  in  silence  on  their  future 

doom. 
Widows  whom,  to  their  husbands' 

funeral  fire,  [pyre, 

Force  or  strong  error  led,  to  share  the 
As  to  their  everlasting  marriage-bed  : 
And  babes,  by  sin  unstain'd,        61 
Whom  erring  parents  vow'd 
To  Ganges,  and  the  holy  stream  pro- 
faned [unordain'd 
With  that  strange  sacrifice,  rite 
By  Law,  by  sacred  Nature  unallow'd  : 
Others  more  hapleas  in  their  destiny, 
Scarce  having  first  inhaled  their  vital 
breath, 
Whose  cradles  from  some  tree 
I'nnatural  hands  suspended, 
Then  left,  till  gentle  Death,        70 
Coming  like  Sleep,  their  feeble  moan- 
ings  ended  ; 
Or  for  his  prey  the  ravenous  Kite 
descended  ; 


Or  marching  like  an  army  from  tht-ir 

caves, 

The  Pismires  blacken'd  o'er,  then 

l>leach'd  and  bare 

Left  their  unharden'd  bones  to  full 

asunder  there. 

6 

Innocent  Souls  !  thus  set  so  early  free 

From  sin  and  sorrow  and  mortality, 

Their  spotless  spirits  all-creating  Love 

Received  into  its  universal  breast. 

Yon  blue  serene  above  80 

Was  their  domain  ;  clouds  pillow'd 

them  to  rest ; 

The  Elements  on  them  like  nurses 

tended. 

And  with  their  growth  ethereal 

substance  blended. 

Less  pure  than  these  is  that  strange 

Indian  bird,  [bill. 

Who  never  dips  in  earthly  streams  her 

But,  when  the  sound  of  coming 

showers  is  heard, 

Looks  up,  and  from  the  clouds  receives 

her  fill. 

Less  pure  the  footless  fowl  of  Heaven, 

that  never  [ever 

Rest  upon  earth,  but  on  the  wing  for 

Hovering  o'er  flowers,  their  fragrant 

food  inhale,  90 

Drink  the  descending  dew  upon  its  way. 

And  sleep  aloft  while  floating  on  the  gale. 

7 
And  thus  these  innocents  in  yonder  sky 
Grow  and  are  strengthen'd,  while  the 
allotted  years 
Perform  their  course  ;   then  hither- 
ward  they  fiy, 
Being  free  from  moral  taint,  so  free 
from  fears, 
A  joyous  band,  expecting  soon  to  soar 
To  Indra's  happy  spheres.  98 

And  mingle  with  the  blessed  company 
Of  heavenly  spirits  there  for  ever  more. 


192 


THE   CURSE   OF  KEHAMA 


8 

A  Gulph  profound  surrounded 

This  icy  belt  ;  the  opposite  side 

With  highest  rocks  was  bounded  ; 

But  where  their  heads  they  hide, 

Or  where  their  base  is  founded, 

None  could  espy.    Above  all  reach  of 

sight 
They  rose,  the  second  Earth  was  on 

their  height,  [night. 

Their  feet  were  fix'd  in  everlasting 

9 

So  deep  the  Gulph,  no  eye 

Could  plum  its  dark  profundity,  no 

Yet  all  its  depth  must  try  ;  for  this 

the  road 

To  Padalon,  and  Yamen's  dread  abode. 

And  from  below  continually 

Ministrant  Demons  rose  and  caught 

The  Souls  whose  hour  was  come  ; 

'  Then  with  their  burthen  fraught, 

Plunged  down,  and  bore  them  to 

receive  their  doom. 

10 

Then  might  be  seen  who  went  in  hope, 

and  who 

Trembled  to  meet  the  meed 

Of  many  a  foul  misdeed,  as  \vild  they 

threw  120 

Their  arms  retorted  from  the  Demons' 

grasp, 

And  look'd  around,  all  eagerly,  to  seek 

For  help,  where  help  was  none  ;  and 

strove  for  aid 

To  clasp  the  nearest  shade  ; 

Yea,  with  imploring  looks  and  horrent 

shriek,  [bending. 

Even  from  one  Demon  to  another 

With  hands  extending. 

Their  mercy  they  essay' d. 

Still  from  the  verge  they  strain, 

And  from  the  dreadful  gulph  avert  their 

eyes,  130 


In  vain  ;  down  plunge  the  Demons,  anc 

their  cries 

Feebly,  as  down  they  sink,  from  that 

profound  arise. 

11  ! 

What  heart  of  living  man  could, 

undisturb'd,  [there 

Bear  sight  so  sad  as  this !  What  wondei. 
If  Kailyal's  lip  were  blanch' d  with 

inmost  diead  ! 

The  cliill  which  from  that  icy  belt 

Struck  through  her,  was  less  keen  than 

what  she  felt 

With  her  heart's  blood  through  every  ^ 

limb  dispread. 

Close  to  the  Glendoveer  she  clung. 

And  clasping  round  his  neck  her 

trembling  hands,  140 

She  closed  her  eyes,  and  there  in 
silence  hung. 

12 

Then  to  Ladurlad  said  the  Glendoveer, 
These  Demons,  whom  thou  seest,  the 

ministers 
Of  Yamen,  wonder  to  behold  us  here ; 
But  for  the  dead  they  come,  and  not 

for  us  :  [thus. 

Therefore  albeit  they  gaze  upon  thee 

Have  thou  no  fear. 

A  little  while  thou  must  be  left  alone, 

Till  I  have  borne  thy  daughter  down, 

And  placed  her  safely  by  the  throne 

Of  him  who  keeps  the  Gate  of  Padalonj) 

13 

Then  taking  Kailyal  in  his  arms,  he 

said,  152; 

Be  of  good  heart,  Beloved  !  it  is  I     ' 

Who  bear  thee.     Saying  tliis,  his  wings 

he  spread. 

Sprung  upward  in  the  sky,  and  poised 

his  flight, 

Tlien  plunged  into  the  Gulph,  and 

sought  the  World  of  Night. 


XXII.    THE   GATE   OF   PADALOX 


193 


XXII.  THE  GATE  OF  PADALON 

The  strong  fouiulalion.s  of  this  inmost 

Earth 

»  Rest  upon  Padalon.     That  icy  Mound 

Which  girt  the  mortal  Ocean  round, 

Reacli'd  the  profound,  .  . 

Ice  in  the  regions  of  the  upper  air. 

Crystal  midway,  and  adamant  below, 

Whose  strength  sufliced  to  bear 

The  weight  of  all  this  upper  World  of 

ours,  [of  Woe. 

And  with  its  rampart  closed  the  Realm 

Eight  gates  hath  Padalon  ;  eight 

heavenly  Powers  lo 

Have  them  in  charge,  each  alway  at 

his  post, 

Lest  from  their  penal  caves  the 

accursed  host, 

Maugre  the  might  of  Baly  and  the  God, 

Should  break,  and  carry  ruin  all  abroad. 

2 

Those  gates  stand  ever  open,  night  and 

day, 

And  Souls  of  mortal  men 

For  ever  throng  the  way. 

Some  from  the  dolorous  den, 

Cliildren  of  sin  and  wrath,  return  no 

more  : 
They,  fit  companions  of  the  Spirits 

accurst,  20 

Are  doom'd,  like  them  in  baths  of  fire 

immerst, 

Or  weltering  upon  beds  of  molten  ore. 

Or  stretch'd  upon  the  brazen  floor. 

Are  fasten' d  down  with  adamantine 

chains  ; 

♦Vhile,  on  their  substance  inconsumable, 

Leeches  of  fire  for  ever  hang  and  pull. 

And  worms  of  fire  for  ever  gnaw  their 

food. 

That,  still  renew'd, 

^Veshens  for  ever  their  perpetual  pains. 


Others  there  were  whom  Baly's  voice 

condemn'd,  30 

By  long  and  painful  penance,  to  atona 

Their  fleshly  deeds.     Them,  from  the 

Judgement -throne. 

Dread  Azyoruca,  where  she  sat  involved 

In  darkness  as  a  tent,  received,  and 

dealt 

To  each  the  measure  of  his  punishment ; 

Till,  in  the  central  springs  of  fire,  the 

Will 

Impure  is  purged  away  ;  and  the 

freed  soul. 

Thus  fitted  to  receive  a  second  birth, 

Embodied  once  again,  revisits  Earth. 

4 

But  they  whom  Baly's  righteous  voice 

absolved,  40 

And  Yamen,  viewing  with  benignant 

eye, 

Dismiss'd  to  seek  their  heritage  on  high. 

How  joyfully  they  leave  this  gloomy 

bourne. 

The  dread  sojourn 

Of  Guilt  and  twin-born  Punishment 

and  Woe, 

And  wild  Remorse,  here  link'd  with 

worse  Despair  ! 

They  to  the  eastern  Gate  rejoicing  go :  ^ 

The  Ship  of  Heaven  awaits  their 

coming  there,  [IJglit 

And  on  they  sail,  greeting  the  blessed 
Tlirough  realms  of  upper  air,       50 
Bound  for  the  Swerga  once  ;  but  now 

no  more 
Tlieir  voyage  rests  upon  that  happy 

shore,  [might 

Since  Tndra,  by  the  dreadful  Rajah's 
Compell'd,  hath  taken  flight  ; 
On  to  the  second  World  their  way 

they  wend. 

And  there,  in  trembling  hope,  await 

the  doubtful  end. 


194 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAIVIA 


For  still  in  them  doth  hope  pre- 
dominate, 
Faith's  precious  privilege,  when  higher 
Powers  [hours. 

Give  way  to  fear  in  these  portentous 
Behold  the  Wardens  eight,        60 
Each  silent  at  his  gate 
Expectant  stands  ;  they  turn  their 
anxious  eyes 
Within,  and,  listening  to  the  dizzy  din 
Of  mutinous  uproar,  each  in  all  his 

hands  [fight. 

Holds  all  his  weapons,  ready  for  the 

For,  hark  !   what  clamorous  cries 

Upon  Kehama,  for  deliverance,  call  ! 

Come,  Rajah  !  they  exclaim,  too  long 

we  groan 

In  torments.     Come,  Deliverer  ! 

yonder  throne 
Awaits  thee.  .  .  Now,  Kehama  ! 


Rajah,  now 


70 


Earthly  Almighty,  wherefore  tarriest 

thou  ? . . 

Such  were  the  sounds  that  rung,  in 

wild  uproar, 

O'er  all  the  echoing  vaults  of  Padalon  ; 

And  as  the  Asuras  from  the  Brazen 

floor,  [to  rise. 

Struggling  against  their  fetters,  strove 

Their  clashing  chains  were  heard,  and 

shrieks  and  cries, 
With  curses  mix'd,  against  the  Fiends 

who  urge, 

Fierce  on  their  rebel  limbs,  the  avenging 

scourge. 

6 
These  were  the  sounds  which,  at  the 

southern  gate. 

Assail' d  Ereenia's  ear  ;  alighting  here 

He  laid  before  Neroodi's  feet  the  Maid, 

Who,  pale  and  cold  with  fear,       8i 

Hung  on  his  neck,  well-nigh  a  lifeless 

weight. 


Who  and  what  art  thou  ?  cried  the 

Guardian  Power, 

Sight  so  unwonted  wondering  to 

behold,  .  . 

0  Son  of  Light ! 

Who  comest  here  at  this  portentous 

hour. 

When  Yamen's  throne 

Trembles,  and  all  our  might  can  scarce 

keep  down 

The  rebel  race  from  seizing  Padalon,  . . 

Who  and  what  art  thou  ?  and  what 

wild  despair,  91 

Or  wilder  hope,  from  realms  of  upper  air, 

Tempts  thee  to  bear 

This  mortal  Maid  to  our  forlorn  abodes? 

Fitter  for  her,  I  ween,  the  Swerga 

bowers, 

And  sweet  society  of  heavenly  Powers, 

Than  this,  .  .  a  doleful  scene. 

Even  in  securest  hours. 

And  whither  would  ye  go  ? 

Alas  !  can  human  or  celestial  ear, 

Unmadden'd,  hear  loi 

The  shrieks  and  yellings  of  infernal  woe? 

Can  living  flesh  and  blood 
Endure  the  passage  of  the  fiery  flood  ! 

8 

Lord  of  the  Gate,  replied  the  Glendoveer, 

We  come  obedient  to  the  will  of  Fate ; 

And  haply  doom'd  to  bring 

Hope  and  salvation  to  the  Infernal 

King, 

For  Seeva  sends  us  here. 

Even  He  to  whom  futurity  is  kno\\Ti, 

Tlie  Holiest,  bade  us  go  to  Yamen's 

throne.  iii 

Tliou  seest  my  precious  charge  ; 

Under  thy  care,  secure  from  harm,  I 

leave  her. 

While  I  ascend  to  bear  her  father  dowin 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  thine  arm 

receive  her  ! 


I 


XXII.    THE   GATE  OF   PADALON 


195 


Then  quoth  he  to  the  Maid, 

Be  of  good  cheer,  1113'  Kail3'al  !   dearest 

dear. 

In  faitli  subdue  th}-  dread  ; 

Anon  I  shall  be  here.     So  having  said, 

Aloft  with  vigorous  bound  the  Glen- 

dovecr  120 

Sprung  in  celestial  might, 

And  soaring  up,  in  spiral  circles,  wound 

His  indefatigable  flight. 

10 

But  as  he  thus  departed, 

Tlie  Maid,  who  at  Neroodi's  feet  was 

Like  one  entranced  or  dying, 
Recovering  strength  from  sudden 

terror,  started  ;  [siglit, 

And  gazing  after  him  with  straining 
And  straining  arms,  she  stood. 

As  if  in  attitude  130 

To  win  him  back  from  flight. 

Yea,  she  had  shaped  his  name 

For  utterance,  to  recall  and  bid  him 

stay,  [shame 

Nor  leave  her  thus  alone  ;   but  virtuous 

Represt  the  unbidden  sounds  upon 

their  way  ; 

And  calling  faith  to  aid. 

Even  in  this  fearful  hour,  the  pious  Maid 

Collected  courage,  till  she  seem'd  to  be 

C^lm  and  in  hope,  such  power  hath 

piety. 
Before  the  Giant  Keeper  of  the  Gate 
1  She  crost  her  patient  arms,  and  at  his 
'  feet,  141 

I  Prepar'd  to  meet 

The  aweful  will  of  Fate  with  equal  mind, 
She  took  her  seat  resign'd. 

11 

'Even  the  stern  trouble  of  Neroodi's  brow 

Relaxed  as  he  beheld  the  valiant  Maid. 

Hope,  long  unfelt  till  now. 


Rose  in  his  heart  reviving,  and  a  smile 

Dawn'd  in  his  brightening  countenance, 

the  while 

He  gazed  on  her  with  wonder  and 

delight.  150 

The  blessing  of  the  Powers  of  Padalon, 

Virgin,  be  on  thee  !   said  the  admiring 

Gotl ;  [birth, 

And  blessed  be  the  hour  that  gave  thco 

Daughter  of  Earth  ! 

For  thou  to  this  forlorn  abode  hast 

brought 

Hope,  who  too  long  hath  been  a 

stranger  here. 

And  surely  for  no  lamentable  lot 

Nature,  that  erreth  not. 

To  thee  that  heart  of  fortitude  hath 

given. 

Those  eyes  of  purity,  that  face  of 

love  ;  .  .  160 

If  thou  beest  not  the  inheritrix  of 
Heaven, 
There  is  no  truth  above. 

12 

Thus  as  Neroodi  spake,  his  brow  severe 

Shone  with  an  inward  joy  ;   for  sure 

he  thought 

When  Seeva  sent  so  fair  a  creature  here. 

In  this  momentous  hour. 
Ere  long  the  World's  deliverance  would 

be  wTOught, 

And  Padalon  escape  the  Rajah's  power. 

With  pious  mind  the  Maid,  in  humble 

guise 

Inclined,  received  his  blessing  silently. 

And  raised  her  grateful  eyes       171 

A  moment,  then  again       [high 

Abased  them  at  his  presence.    Hark  !  on 

Tlie  sound  of  coming  wings  !  .  .  her 

anxious  ears 

Have  caught  the  distant  sound.     Ereenin 

brings 

His  burthen  down  !   Upstarting  from 

her  seat, 


196 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


How  joyfully  she  rears 

Her  eager  head  !  and  scarce  upon  the 

ground  [found, 

Ladurlad's  giddy  feet  their  footing 

When,  with  her  trembling  arms,  she 

claspt  him  round.  i8o 

No  word  of  greeting. 

Nor  other  sign  of  joy  at  that  strange 

meeting ; 

Expectant  of  their  fate. 

Silent,  and  hand  in  hand, 

Before  the  Infernal  Gate, 

The  Father  and  his  pious  Daughter  stand. 

13 

Then  to  Neroodi  said  the  Glendoveer, 

No  Heaven- born  Spirit  e'er  hath  visited 

This  region  drear  and  dread  ;  but  I, 

the  first 

Who  tread  your  World  accurst.    190 

Lord  of  the  Gate,  to  whom  these 

realms  are  known, 

Direct  our  fated  way  to  Yamen's 

throne. 

14 

Bring  forth  my  Chariot,  Carmala  ! 

quoth  then 

The  Keeper  of  the  way. 

It  was  the  Car  wherein 

On  Yamen's  festal  day. 

When  all  the  Powers  of  Hell  attend 

their  King, 
Yearly  to  Yamenpur  did  he  repair 

To  pay  his  homage  there. 
Poised  on  a  single  wheel,  it  moved 

along,  200 

Instinct  with  motion  ;  by  what  won- 
drous skill 
Compact,  no  human  tongue  could  tell, 
Nor  human  wit  devise  ;  but  on  that 
wheel. 
Moving  or  still, 
As  if  with  life  indued, 
The  Car  miraculous  supported  stood. 


15 

Tlien  Carmala  brought  forth  two 

mantles,  white 

As  the  swan's  breast,  and  bright  as 

mountain  snow. 

When  from  the  wintry  sky 

The  sun,  late-rising,  shines  upon  the    I 

height,  2iai 

And  rolling  vapours  fill  the  vale  below. 

Not  without  pain  the  unaccustom'd 

sight 

That  brightness  could  sustain  ; 

For  neither  mortal  stain. 

Nor  parts  corruptible,  remain, 

Nor  aught  that  time  could  touch,  or 

force  destroy,  ' 

In  that  pure  web  whereof  the  robes 

were  wrought ;  [tried,, 

So  long  had  it  in  tenfold  fires  been     j 
And  blanch' d,  and  to  that  brightness 
purified.  I 

Apparell'd  thus,  alone,  22cj 

Children  of  Earth,  Neroodi  cried,      1 
In  safety  may  ye  pass  to  Yamen's     I 
throne,  [bloodj 

Thus  only  can  your  living  flesh  and 
Endure  the  passage  of  the  fiery  flood. 

16  I 

Of  other  frame,  0  son  of  Heaven,  art  ' 

thou! 

Yet  hast  thou  now  to  go 

Through  regions  which  thy  heavenly 

mould  will  try.  I 

Glories  unutterably  bright,  I  know,    | 

And  beams  intense  of  empyrean  light,  j 

Thine  eye  divine  can  bear  :  but  fires  '. 

of  woe,  23c 

The  sight  of  torments,  and  the  cry 

Of  absolute  despair,  i 

Might  not  these  things  dismay  thee  on  1 

thy  flight. 
And  thy  strong  pennons  flag  and  fail  ^ 
thee  there  ?        [thou  artji 
Trust  not  thy  wings,  celestial  thougln 


XXLL    THE   GATE   OF   PADALOxN 


197 


Nor  thy  good  heart,  which  horror  might 

assail 

And  pity  quail. 

Pity  in  these  abodes  of  no  avail ; 

But  take  thy  seat  this  mortal  pair 

beside, 

And  Carmala  the  infernal  Ctir  will 

guide.  240 

do,  and  may  happy  end  your  way 

betide  !  [roH'd  on, 

So,  as  he  spake,  the  self- moved  Car 
And  lo  !  they  pass  the  Gate  of  Padalon. 


XXIII.    PADALON 

Whoe'er  hath  loved  with  venturous 
step  to  tread 
The  chambers  dread 
Of  some  deep  cave,  and  seen  his  taper's 

beam 
Lost  in  the  arch  of  darkness  overhead, 

And  mark'd  its  gleam, 
Playing  afar  upon  the  sunless  stream, 

Where  from  their  secret  bed. 
And  course  unknown  and  inaccessible, 

The  silent  waters  well  ; 
Whoe'er  hath  trod  such  caves  of  endless 
night,  10 

He  knows,  when  measuring  back  the 

gloomy  way. 
With  what  delight  refresh'd  his  eye 
Perceives  the  shadow  of  the  light  of 
day,  [it  falls 

Through  the  far  portal  slanting,  where 
Dimly  reflected  on  the  watery  walls  ; 
How  heavenly  seems  the  sky  ; 
And  how,  with  (juicken'd  feet,  ho 
hastens  up, 
Eager  again  to  greet 
The  living  World  and  blessed  sunshine 
there, 
And  drink,  as  from  a  cuj)  20 

I     Of  joy,  with  thirsty  lips,  the  open  air. 


Far  other  light  than  that  of  day  there 

shone 

Upon  the  travellers,  entering  Padalon. 

They  too  in  darkness  enter' d  on  their 

way, 

But,  far  before  the  Car, 

A  glow,  as  of  a  fiery  furnace  light, 

Fill'd  all  before  them.     'Twas  a  light 

which  made 

Darkness  itself  appear 

A  thing  of  comfort,  and  the  sight, 

dismay'd. 

Shrunk  inward  from  the  molten 

atmosphere.  30 

Their  way  was  through  the  adaman- 
tine rock  [side 
Which  girt  the  World  of  Woe ;  on  either 
Its  massive  walls  arose,  and  overhead 
Arch'd  the  long  passage  ;  onward  as 

they  ride, 

W'ith  stronger  glare  the  light  around 

them  spread ; 

And  lo  !  the  regions  dread. 

The  World  of  Woe  before  them, 

opening  wide. 


There  rolls  the  fiery  flood, 

Girding  the  realms  of  Padalon  around. 

A  sea  of  flame  it  seem'd  to  be,      40 

Sea  without  bound  ; 

For  neither  mortal  nor  immortal  sight, 

Could  pierce  across  through  that 

intensest  light. 

A  single  rib  of  steel, 

Keen  as  the  edge  of  keenest  scymitar, 

Spann'd  this  wide  gulph  of  fire.  The 

infernal  Car 

RoH'd  to  th(!  (lulj)li.  and  on   its  single 

wheel 

Self-balanced,  rose  upon  that  edge  of 

steel.  [head, 

Red-(|uivering  float  the  vapours  (ner- 

The  fiery  gulph  beneath  them  spread. 


198 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAIMA 


Tosses  its  billowing  blaze  with  rush 

and  roar  ;  51 

Steady  and  swift  the  self-moved 

Chariot  went, 

Winning  the  long  ascent, 

Then,  downward  rolling,  gains  the 

farther  shore. 

4 

But,  oh !  what  sounds  and  sights  of  woe. 

What  sights  and  sounds  of  fear. 

Assail  the  mortal  travellers  here  ! 

Their  way  was  on  a  causey  straight 

and  wide, 

Where  penal  vaults  on  either  side  were 

seen, 

Ranged  like  the  cells  wherein      60 

Those  wondrous  \Wnged  alchemists 

infold 

Their  stores  of  liquid  gold. 

Thick  walls  of  adamant  divide 

The  dungeons  ;  and  from  yonder 

circling  flood, 

Off-streams  of  fire  through  secret 

channels  glide. 

And  wind  among  them,  and  in  each 

provide 

An  everlasting  food 

Of  rightful  torments  for  the  accursed 

brood. 

5 

These  were  the  rebel  race,  who  in  their 

might 
Cbntiding  impiously,  would  fain  have 
di'iven  70 

The  Deities  supreme  from  highest 

Heaven  : 

But  by  the  fSuras,  in  celestial  fight. 

Opposed  and  put  to  flight. 

Here,  in  their  penal  dens,  the  accursed  i 

crew,  j 

Not  for  its  crime,  but  for  its  failure,  rue 

Their  wild  ambition.     Yet  again  they 

long 

The  contest  to  renew. 


And  wield  their  arms  again  in  happier 

hour ; 

And  with  united  power, 

Following  Kehama's  triumph,  to  press 

on  80 

From  World  to  World,  and  Heaven 

to  Heaven,  and  Sphere 

To  Sphere,  till  Hemakoot  shall  be 

their  own, 

And  Meru-Mount,  and  Indra's  Swerga- 

Bowers, 

And  Brama's  region,  where  the 

heavenly  Hours  [day. 

Weave  the  vast  circle  of  his  age-long 
Even  over  Veeshnoo's  empyreal  seat 
They  trust  the  Rajah  shall  extend 

their  sway. 
And  that  the  seven-headed  Snake, 

whereon 
The  strong  Preserver  sets  his  con- 
quering feet, 
Will  rise  and  shake  him  headlong  from 
his  throne,  90 

When,  in  their  irresistible  array. 
Amid  the  Milky  Sea  they  force  their 
way. 
Even  higher  yet  their  frantic  thoughts 

aspire ; 
Yea,  on  their  beds  of  torment  as  they 

lie. 

The  highest,  holiest  Seeva,  they  defy. 

And  tell  him  they  shall  have  anon 

their  day, 

When  they  will  storm  his  realm,  and 

seize  Mount  Calasay. 

G 

Such  impious  hopes  torment 
Their  raging  hearts,  impious  and 

impotent  ; 
And  now,  with  unendurable  desue 
And  lust  of  vengeance,  that,  like  in- 
ward fire,  loi 
Doth  aggravate  their  punishment, 
they  rave 


XXIII.    PADALON 


199 


Upon  Kehama  ;  him  the  accursed  rout 

Acclaim  ;   with  furious  cries  and 

maddening  shout 

They  call  on  him  to  save  ; 

Kehama  !  they  exclaim  ; 

Thundering  the  dreadful  echo  rolls 

about, 

And  Hell's  whole  vault  repeats 

Kehama's  name. 

7 

Over  these  dens  of  punishment,  the  host 

Of  Padalon  maintain  eternal  guard. 

Keeping  upon  the  walls  their  vigilant 

ward.  Ill 

At  every  angle  stood 

'    A  watch-tower,  the  decmion  Demon's 

post, 

Where  raised  on  high  he  view'd  with 

sleepless  eye 

His  trust,  that  all  was  well.     And  over 

these,  [Hell, 

Such  was  the  perfect  discipline  of 

Captains  of  fifties  and  of  hundreds  held 

Authority,  each  in  his  loftier  tower  ; 

And  chiefs  of  legions  over  them  had 

power  ; 
And  thus  all  Hell  with  towers  was 

girt  around.  120 

Aloft  the  brazen  turrets  shone 

In  the  red  light  of  Padalon  ; 

And  on  the  walls  between. 

Dark  moving,  the  infernal  Guards 

were  seen, 

Gigantic  Demons,  pacing  to  and  fro  ; 

Who  ever  and  anon. 

Spreading  their  crimson'pennons, 

plunged  below. 

Faster  to  rivet  down  the  Asuras'  chains. 

And  with  the  snaky  scourge  and  fiercer 

pains, 

Repress  their  rage  rebellious.     Loud 

around,  130 

In  mingled  sound,  the  echoing  lash, 
the  clash 


Of  chains,  the  ponderous  hammer's 

iron  stroke, 

\N'ith  execrations,  groans,  and  shrieks 

and  cries 

Combined,  in  one  wild  dissonance, 

arise ; 

And  through  the  din  there  broke, 

Like  thunder  heard  through  all  the 

warring  winds, 

The  dreadful  name.     Kehama,  still 

they  rave, 

Hasten  and  save  ! 

Now,  now.  Deliverer  !  now,  Kehama, 

now  ! 
Earthly  Almighty,  wherefore  tarriest 
thou  '!  140 

8 

Oh,  if  that  name  abhorr'd. 

Thus  utter' d,  could  well  nigh 

Dismay  the  Powers  of  Hell,  and  daunt 

their  Lord, 

How  fearfully  to  Kailyal's  ear  it  came ! 

She,  as  the  Car  roll'd  on  its  rapid  way, 

Bent  down  her  head,  and  closed  her 

eyes  for  dread  ; 

And  deafening,  with  strong  effort 

from  within, 

Her  ears  against  the  din. 

Cover' d  and  press' d  them  close  with 

both  her  hands. 

Sure  if  the  mortal  Maiden  had  not  fed 

On  heavenly  food,  and  long  been 

strengthened  151 

With  heavenly  converse  for  such  end 

vouchsafed. 

Her  human  heart  had  fail'd,  and  she 

had  died 

Beneath  the  horrors  of  this  awcful  hour. 

But  Heaven  supplied  a  power 

Beyond  her  earthly  nature,  to  the 

measure 

Of  need  infusing  strength  ; 

And  Fate,  whose  secret  and  unerring 

pleasure 


200 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


Appointed  all,  decreed 
An  ample  meed  and  recompense  at 

length.  1 60 

High-fated  Maid,  the  righteous  hour 

is  nigh  ! 

The  all-embracing  Ej-e 

Of  Retribution  still  beholdeth  thee  ; 

Bear  onward  to  the  end,  0  Maid, 

courageously ! 

9 

On  roll'd  the  Car,  and  lo  !  afar 
Upon  its  height  the  towers  of  Yamenpur 

Rise  on  the  astonish' d  sight. 

Behold  the  infernal  City,  Yamen's  seat 

Of  empire,  in  the  midst  of  Padalon, 

Where  the  eight  causeys  meet.    170 

There  on  a  rock  of  adamant  it  stood, 

Resplendent  far  and  wide, 

Itself  of  solid  diamond  edified, 

And  all  around  it  roU'd  the  fiery  flood. 

Eight  bridges  arch'd  the  stream  ;  huge 

piles  of  brass 

Magnificent,  such  structures  as  beseem 

The  Seat  and  Capital  of  such  great  God, 

Worthy  of  Yamen's  own  august  abode. 

A  brazen  tower  and  gateway  at  each 

end 

Of  each  was  raised,  where  Giant 

Wardens  stood,  180 

Station' d  in  arms  the  passage  to  defend, 
That  never  foe  might  cross  the  fiery 
flood. 

10 

Oh  what  a  gorgeous  sight  it  was  to  see 

The  Diamond  City  blazing  on  its  height 

With  more  than  mid-sun  splendour, 

by  the  light 

Of  its  own  fiery  river  ! 

Its  towers  and  domes  and  pinnacles 

and  spires, 
Turrets  and  battlements,  that  flash 

and  quiver 

Through  the  red  restless  atmosphere 

for  ever : 


And  hovering  over  head,         190 
The  smoke  and  vapours  of  all  Padalon, 
Fit  firmament  for  such  a  world,  were 

spread. 
With  surge  and  swell,  and  everlasting 
motion,  [ocean. 

Heaving  and  opening  like  tumultuous 

11 

Nor  were  there  wanting  there 

Such  glories  as  beseem' d  such  region 

well ; 

For  though  with  our  blue  heaven  and 

genial  air 

The  firmament  of  Hell  might  not 

compare, 

As  little  might  our  earthly  tempests  vie 

With  the  dread  storms  of  that  infernal 

sky,  200 

Whose  clouds  of  all  metallic  elements 

Sublimed  were  full.     For,  when  its 

thunder  broke. 

Not  all  the  united  World's  artillery, 

In  one  discharge,  could  equal  that 

loud  stroke ; 

And  though  the  Diamond  Towers  and 

Battlements 

Stood  firm  upon  their  adamantine  rock. 

Yet  while  it  vollied  round  the  vault  of 

Hell,  [shock, 

Earth's  solid  arch  was  shaken  \nth  the 

And  Cities  in  one  mighty  ruin  fell. 

Through  the  red  sky  terrific  meteors 

scour ;  210 

Huge  stones  come  hailing  do\\Ti ;   or 

sulphur- shower. 
Floating  amid  the  lurid  air  like  snow. 

Kindles  in  its  descent, 
And  with  blue  fire-drops  rains  on  all 

below. 

At  times  the  whole  supernal  element 

Igniting,  burst  in  one  large  sheet  of 

flame, 

And  roar'd  as  with  the  sound 

Of  rushing  winds,  above,  below,  around  ; 


XXIII.    PADALON 


201 


Anon  the  tlame  was  spent,  and  overhead 
A  heavy  eloud  of  moving  darknesa 

spread.  220 

12 

Straight  to  the  brazen  bridge  and  gate 

The  self-moved  Cluuiot  bears  its 

mortal  load. 

At  sight  of  Carmala, 

On  either  side  the  Giant  guards  divide, 

And  give  the  chariot  way. 

Up  yonder  winding  road  it  rolls  along. 

Swift  as  the  bittern  soars  on  spiral  wing, 

And  lo  !  the  Palace  of  the  Infernal 

King! 

13 

Two  forms  inseparable  in  unity 
Hath  Yamen  ;  even  as  with  hope  or 
fear  230 

Tlio  Soul  regardeth  him  doth  he  appear  ; 
For  hope  and  fear 
At  that  dread  hour,  from  ominous 
conscience  spring. 
And  err  not  in  their  bodings.     There- 
fore some, 
They  who  polluted  with  offences  come, 
Behold  him  as  the  King 
Of  Terrors,  black  of  aspect,  red  of  eye, 
Reflecting  back  upon  the  sinful  mind, 
Heighten'd  with  vengeance,  and  with 
wrath  divine 
Its  own  inborn  deformity.         240 
But  to  the  righteous  Spirit  how  benign 

His  awcful  countenance, 

Where,  tempering  justice  with  parental 

love. 

Goodness  and  heavenly  grace 

And  sweetest  mercy  shine !   Yet  is  he  still 

Himself  the  same,  one  form,  one  face, 

one  will  ;  [one  ; 

And  these  his  twofold  aspects  are  but 

And  change  is  none 

In  him,  for  change  in  Yamen  could 

not  be, 

The  Immutable  ia  he.  250 

H 


14 

He  sat  upon  a  marble  sepulchre 
Massive  and  huge,  where  at  the 
Monarch's  feet, 
The  righteous  Baly  had  his  Judgement- 
seat,  [stood  ; 
A  Golden  Throne  before  them  vacant 
Three  human  forms  sustain' d  its  pou- 
dcrous  weight. 
With  lifted  hands  outspread,  and 
shoulders  bow'd 
Bending  beneath  the  load. 
A  fourth  was  wanting.     They  were  of 

the  hue 

Of  coals  of  fire  ;  yet  were  they  flesh 

and  blood, 

And  living  breath  they  drew  ;     260 

And  their  red  eye- balls  roll'd  with 

ghastly  stare. 

As  thus,  for  their  misdeeds,  they  stood 

tormented  there. 

15 

On  steps  of  gold  those  living  Statues 

stood. 

Who  bore  the  Golden  Throne.    A  cloud 

behind  [light 

Immovable  was  spread  ;  not  all  the 

Of  all  the  Hames  and  tires  of  Padalon 

Could  pierce  its  depth  of  night. 
There  Azyoruca  veil'd  her  aweful  form 
In  those  eternal  shadows  :   there  she         f- 
satc, 
And  as  the  trembling  Souls,  who  crowd 
around  270 

The  Judgement-seat,  received  the 
doom  of  fate. 
Her  giant  arms,  extending  from  the 
cloud, 
Drew  them  within  the  darkness.   Mov- 
ing out  [rout, 
To  grasp  and  bear  away  the  innumcrous 
For  ever  and  for  ever  thus  were  seen 
The  thousand  mighty  arms  of  that 
dread  Queen. 
3 


202 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


16 
Here,  issuing  from  the  car,  the  Glen- 

doveer 

Did  homage  to  the  God,  then  raised 

liis  head. 

Suppliants  we  come,  he  said, 

I  need  not  tell  thee  by  what  wTongs 

opprest,  280 

For  nought  can  pass  on  earth  to  thee 

unknown ; 

Sufferers  from  tyranny  we  seek  for  rest, 

And  Seeva  bade  us  go  to  Yamen's 

throne  ; 

Here,  he  hath  said,  all  ^^Tongs  shall  be 

redrest. 

Yamen  replied,  Even  now  the  hour 

draws  near. 

When  Fate  its  hidden  ways  will 

manifest. 

Not  for  light  purpose  would  the  Wisest 

send 

His  suppliants  here,  when  we,  in  doubt 

and  fear. 

The  aweful  issue  of  the  hour  attend. 

Wait  ye  in  patience  and  in  faith  the 

end !  290 


XXIV.  THE  a:miieeta 

1 

So  spake  the  King  of  Padalon,  when, 
lo !  [Hell 

The  voice  of  lamentation  ceased  in 
And  sudden  silence  all  around  them  fell, 

Silence  more  wild  and  terrible 
Than  all  the  infernal  dissonance  before. 
Through  that  portentous  stillness,  far 
away. 
Unwonted  sounds  were  heard,  ad- 
vancing on 
And  deepening  on  their  way  ; 
For  now  the  inexorable  hour 
Was  come,  and,  in  the  fulness  of  his 
power,  xo 


Now  that  the  dreadful  rites  had  all 

been  done, 

Kehama  from  the  Swerga  hasten' d 

do\\7i. 

To  seize  upon  the  throne  of  Padalon. 

o 

He  came  in  all  his  might  and  majesty, 
With  all  his  terrors  clad,  and  all  his 
pride  ; 
And,  by  the  attribute  of  Deity, 
Which  he  had  won  from  Heaven,  self- 
multiplied. 
The  Almighty  Man  appeared  on  every 

side. 
In  the  same  indivisible  point  of  time, 
At  the  eight  Gates  he  stood  at  once, 

and  beat  20 

The  Warden- Gods  of  Hell  beneath  his 

feet; 
Then,  in  his  brazen  Cars  of  triumph, 

straight, 
At  the  same  moment,  diove  through 

every  gate.  j 

By  Aullays,  hugest  of  created  kind. 
Fiercest,  and  fleeter  than  the  viewless 
wind,  I 

His  Cars  were  di-a\Mi,  ten  yokes  of 

ten  abreast,  .  . 

What  less  sufficed  for  such  almighty 

weight  ? 

Eight  bridges  from  the  tiery  flood  arose 

(Growing  before  his  way ;  and  on  he  goes. 

And  drives  the  thundering  Chariot 

wheels  along,  30 

At  once  o'er  all  the  roads  of  Padalon. 


Silent  and  motionless  remain 

The  Asuras  on  their  bed  of  pain, 

Waiting,  with  breathless  ho2)e,  the 

great  event. 

All  Hell  was  liush'd  in  dread. 

Such  awe  that  omnipresent  coming 

spread ; 


XXIV.    THE  AMREETA 


203 


Nor  had  its  voice  been  heard,  though 

all  its  rout 

Iimumerable  had  lifted  up  one  shout ; 

Nor  if  the  infernal  lirmanient 

Had  in  one  unimaginable  burst     40 

iSpent  ittj  collected  thundcrt^,  had  the 

sound, 

Been  audible,  such  louder  terrors  went 

Before  his  forms  substantial.     Round 

about  [wide, 

The  presence  scattered  lightnings  far  and 

That  ([uenchd  on  every  side, 

With  their  intcnsest  blaze,  the  feebler  fire 

Of  Padalon,  even  as  the  stars  go  out, 

When,  with  i)rodigious  light, 

Some  blazing  meteor  tills  the  astonish'd 

night. 

4 
The  Diamond  Gty  shakes  !         50 

The  adamantine  Rock 

Is  loosen'd  with  the  shock! 

From  itti  fomidation  moved,  it  heaves 

and  quakes  ;  [dust ; 

The  brazen  portals  crumbling  fall  to 

Prone  fall  the  Giant  Guards 

Beneath  the  AuUays  crush'd  ; 

On,  on,  through  Yamenpur,  their 

thundering  feet 

Speed  from  all  points  to  Ya men's 

Judgement-seat. 

And  lo  !   where  multiplied, 

Behind,  before  him,  and  on  every  side, 

^^'ielding  all  weapons  in  his  countless 

hands,  61 

Around  the  Lord  of  Hell  Kehama 

stands .! 

Then  too  the  Lord  of  Hell  put  forth 

his  might  : 

Thick  darkness,  blacker  than  the 

blackest  night, 
Rose  from  their  wrath,  and  veiPd 

The  unutterable  fight. 

The  power  of  Fate  and  .Sacrifice 

prevail' d, 


And  soon  the  strife  was  done. 
Then  did  the  Man-God  rc-assumo 
His  unity,  absorbing  into  one       70 
The  couaubstantiate  shapes  ;  and  as 

the  gloom 

Opened,  fallen  Yamen  on  the  ground 

was  seen. 

His  neck  beneath  the  con«iuering 

Rajah's  feet. 

Who  on  the  marble  tomb 

Had  his  triumphal  seat. 

5 

iSilent  the  Man- Almighty  sate  ; 

a  smile 

Gleam' d  on  his  dreadful  lips,  the 

while 

Dallying  with  power,  he  paused  from 

foUowuig  up 
His  con([uest,  as  a  man  in  social  hour 
Sips  of  the  grateful  cup,  80 

Again  and  yet  again  with  curious 

taste 
Searching  its  subtle  flavour  ere  he 

drink  : 

Even  so  Kehama  now  forbore  his 

haste ; 

Having  within  his  reach  whatc'er  he 

sought, 

On  his  own  haughty  power  he  sccm'd 

to  muse, 

Pampering  his  arrogant  heart  with 

silent  thought. 
Before  him  stood  the  Golden  Throne 

in  sight. 
Right  opposite  ;  he  could  not  choose 

but  sec 
Nor  seeing  choose  but  wonder.     Who 
are  ye 
Who  bear  the  ( Jolden  Throne  tor- 
mented there  ?  90 
He  cried  ;   for  whom  doth  Destiny 

prepare 

The  Imperial  Seat,  and  why  are  yo 

but  Three  r 


204 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


6 

FIRST  STATUE 

9 
A  short  and  sudden  laugh  of  won- 

I of  the  Children  of  Mankind  was  first, 

dering  pride               [I'eply 

Me  miserable  !   who,  adding  store  to 

Burst  from  him  in  his  triumph  :   to 

store,               [accurst, 

Scornful  he  deign' d  not ;  but  with 

Heapt  up  superfluous  wealth  ;  and  now 

alter' d  eye 

For  ever  I  the  frantic  crime  deplore. 

Wherein  some  doubtful  meaning 

SECOND  STATUE 

seem'd  to  lie,             [cried. 

I  o'er  my  Brethren  of  Mankind  the  first 

He  turn'd  to  Kailyal.     Maiden,  thus  he 

Usurping  power,  set  up  a  throne  sublime, 

I  need  not  bid  thee  see 

A  King  and  Conqueror  :  therefore 

How  vain  it  is  to  strive  with  Fate's 

thus  accurst,                      99 

decree,            [from  me, 

For  ever  I  in  vain  repent  the  crime. 

When  hither  thou  hast  fled  to  fly 

THIRD  STATUE 

And  lo  !  even  here  thou  find'st  me  at 

I  on  the  Children  of  Mankind  the  first, 

thy  side. 

In  God's  most  holy  name,  imposed  a  tale 

Mine  thou  must  be,  being  doom'd 

Of  impious  falsehood  ;   therefore  thus 

with  me  to  share                130 

accurst, 

The  Amreeta-cup  of  immortality  ; 

For  ever  I  in  vam  the  crime  bewail. 

Yea,  by  Myself  I  swear. 

It  hath  been  thus  appointed.     Jo3'fully 

7 

Join  then  thy  hand  and  heart  and  will 

Even  as  thou  here  beholdest  us. 

with  mine. 

Here  we  have  stood,  tormented  thus, 

Xor  at  such  glorious  destiny  repine. 

Such  countless  ages,  that  they  seem 

Nor  in  thy  folly  more  provoke  my 

to  be 

viTath  divine. 

Long  as  eternity. 

And  still  we  are  but  Three. 

10 

A  Fourth  will  come  to  share      no 

She  answer' d  ;  I  have  said.     It  must 

Our  pain,  at  yonder  vacant  corner  bear 

not  be  ! 

His  portion  of  the  burthen,  and  compleat 

Almighty  as  thou  art. 

The  Golden  Throne  for  Ya men's 

Thou  hast  put  all  things  underneath 

Judgement-seat.                [be 

thy  feet ; 

Thus  hath  it  been  appointed  :  he  must 

But  still  the  resolute  heart        140 

Equal  in  guilt  to  us,  the  guilty  Three. 

And  virtuous  will  are  free. 

Kehama,  come  !    too  long  we   wait  for 

Never,  oh  !  never,  .  .  never  .  .  can 

thee  ! 

there  be                      [me. 

8 

Communion,  Rajah,  between  thee  and 

Thereat,  with  one  accord. 

11 

The  Three  took  up  the  word,  like 

Once  more,  quoth  he,  I  urge,  and  once 

choral  song, 

alone. 

Come  Rajah  !  Man- God  !   Earth's 

Thou  seest  yon  Golden  Throne, 

Almighty  Lord  ! 

Where  I  anon  shall  set  thee  by  my  side ; 

Kehama,  come  !   we  wait  for  thee  too 

Take  thou  thy  seat  thereon, 

long.                        X20 

Kehama' 8  willing  bride, 

f 


XXIV.    THE   AMREETA 


205 


And  I  will  place  the  Kingdoms  of  flic 

World 

Beneath  thy  Father's  feet,         150 

Appointing  him  the  King  of  mortal 

men  : 

Else  underneath  that  Throne, 

The  Fourth  s\ipporter  he  shall  stand 

anil  groan  ; 

Praj-ers  will  be  vain  to  move  my 

mercy  then. 

12 

Again  the  Virgin  answer' d,  I  have  said  I 

Ladurlad  caught  her  in  his  proud 

embrace. 

While  on  his  neck  she  hid 

In  agony  her  face. 

1:3 
Bring  forth  the  Arareeta-cup  !  Kehama 
cried  159 

To  Yamen,  rising  sternly  in  his  pride. 

It  is  within  the  Marble  Sepulchre, 

The  vanquish'd  Lord  of  Padalon  replied, 

Bid  it  be  open'd.    Give  thy  treasure  up  ! 

Exclaim'd  the  Man- Almighty  to  the 

Tomb. 

And  at  his  voice  and  look 

The  massy  fabric  shook,  and  open'd 

wide. 

A  huge  Anatomy  was  seen  reclined 

Within  its  marble  womb.     Give  me 

the  Cup ! 

Again  Kehama  cried  ;   no  other  charm 

Was  needed  than  that  voice  of  stern 

command.  170 

From  his  repose  the  ghastly  form  arose, 

Put  forth  his  bony  and  gigantic  arm. 

And  gave  the  Amreeta  to  the  Rajah's 

hand. 

Take  !   drink  !   with  accents  dread  the 

Spectre  said, 

For  thee  and  Kailyal  hath  it  been 

assign' d, 

Ye  only  of  the  Children  of  Mankind. 


14 

Thiii  was  the  ^fan-Almighty's  heart 

elate  ; 

This  is  the  consummation!  ho  exclaim'd; 

Thus  have  I  triumphed  over  Death 

and  Fate.  179 

Now,  Seeva  !   look  to  thine  abo<le  ! 

Henceforth,  on  ecjual  footing  we  engage. 

Alike  immortal  now,  and  we  shall  wage 

Our  warfare,  (!od  to  tJod  ! 

Joy  fill'd  his  impious  soul, 

And  to  his  lips  he  raised  the  fatal  bowl. 

15 

Tlius  long  the  Glendoveer  had  stood 

Watching  the  wonders  of  the  eventful 

hour. 

Amazed  but  undismay'd;  for  in  his 

heart 

Faith,  overcoming  fear,  maintain'd  its 

power. 
Nor  had  that  faith  abated,  when  the 

God  190 

Of  Padalon  was  beaten  down  in  fight ; 
For  then  he  look'd  to  see  the  heavenly 
might  [now 

Of  Seeva  break  upon  them.     But  when 
He  saw  the  Amreeta  in  Kehama's  hand, 
An  impulse  which  defied  all  self- 
command 
In  that  extremity 
Stung  him,  and  he  resolved  to  seize 
the  cup. 
And  dare  the  Rajah's  force  in  Seeva's 
sight. 
Forward  he  sprung  to  tempt  the 
unequal  fray. 
When  lo  !   the  Anatomy.  200 

With  warning  arm,  withstood  his 
desperate  way. 
And  from  the  Golden  Throne  the  fiery 
Three 
Again,  in  one  accord,  renew'd  their 
«ong.  [long. 

Kehama,  come  !   we  wait  for  thee  too 


206 


THE   CURSE   OF   KEHAMA 


10 

19 

0  fool  of  drunken  hope  and  frantic 

The  fiery  Three, 

vice  ! 

Beholding  him,  set  up  a  fiendish  cry, 

Madman  !  to  seek  for  power  beyond  thy 

A  song  of  jubilee  ;           [long 

scope 

Come,  Brother,  come  !   they  sung  ;   too 

Of  knowledge,  and  to  deem 

Have  we  expected  thee. 

Less  than  Omniscience  could  suffice 

Henceforth  we  bear  no  more 

To  wield  Omnipotence  !   0  fool, 

The  unequal  weight ;   Come,  Brother, 

to  dream 

we  are  Four ! 

That  immortality  could  be        210 

20 

The  meed  of  evil  !  .  .  yea  thou  hast  it 

Vain  his  al  mightiness,  for  mightier  pain 

now, 
Victim  of  thine  own  wicked  heart's 

Subdued  all  power  ;   pain  ruled  supreme 
alone ;                          240 

device. 

And  yielding  to  the  bony  hand 

Thou  hast  thine  object  now,  and  now 

The  unemptied  cup,  he  moved  toward 

must  pay  the  price. 

the  Throne,              [stand. 

17 

And  at  the  vacant  corner  took  his 

He  did  not  know  the  holy  mystery 

Behold  the  Golden  Throne  at  length 

Of  that  divinest  cup,  that  as  the  lips 

complete,        [ment-seat. 

Which  touch  it,  even  such  its  quality. 

And  Yamen  silently  ascends  the  Judge- 

Good  or  malignant :   Madman  !  and 

21 

he  thinks 

For  two  alone,  of  all  mankind,  to  me 

The  blessed  prize  is  won,  and  joyfully 

The  Amreeta  Cup  was  given, 

he  drinks. 

Then  said  the  Anatomy  ; 

18 

The  i\Ian  hath  drunk,  the  Woman's 

Then  Seevaopen'd  on  the  Accursed  One 

turn  is  next. 

His  Eye  of  Anger  :  upon  him  alone 

^Come,  Kailyal,  come,  receive  thy  doom, 

The  wrath-beam  fell.     He  shudders  .  . 

And  do  the  Will  of  Heaven  !  .  .    251 

but  too  late  ;                    221 

Wonder,  and  Fear,  and  Awe  at  once 

The  deed  is  done, 

perplext 

The  dreadful  liquor  works  the  will  of 

Tlie  mortal  Maiden's  heart,  but  over  all 

Fate. 

Hope  rose  triumphant.     With  a 

Immortal  he  would  be, 

trembling  hand, 

Immortal  he  is  made  ;  but  through 

Obedient  to  his  call, 

his  veins 

She  took  the  fated  Cup  ;   and,  lifting  up 

Torture  at  once  and  immortality, 

Her  eyes,  where  holy  tears  began  to  swell. 

A  stream  of  poison  doth  tiie  Amreeta 

Is  it  not  your  command. 

run. 

Ye  heavenly  Powers  ?  as  on  her  knees 

And  while  within  the  burning  anguish 

she  fell, 

flows, 

The  pious  Virgin  cried  ;          260 

His  outward  bod}'  glows 

Ye  know  ray  innocent  will,  my  heart 

Like  molten  ore,  beneath  the  avenging 

sincere. 

Eye,                            230 

y^  govern  all  things  still, 

Doom'd  thus  to  live  and  burn  eternall}-. 

And  wherefore  should  I  fear  ! 

XXIV.    THE    AMREETA 


207 


She  said,  and  drank.     The  E3'e  of 
,  Mercy  bearad 

Upon  the  Maid  :   a  cloud  of  fragrance 

steam'd 
Like  incense-smoke,  as  all  her  mortal 

frame 

Dissolved  beneath  the  potent  agency 

Of  that  mysterious  draught  ;  such 

ijuality, 

From  her  pure  touch,  the  fated  Cup 

partook. 

Like  one  entranced  she  knelt,    270 

Feeling  her  body  melt 

Till  all  but  what  was  heavenly  pas.s'd 

away  : 

Yet  still  she  felt 

Her  Spirit  strong  within  her,  the  same 

heart. 

With  the  same  loves,  and  all  her 

heavenly  part 

Unchanged,  and  ripen' d  to  such  perfect 

state  [Earth, 

In  this  miraculous  birth,  as  here  on 

Dimly  our  holiest  hopes  anticipate. 

23 
Mine  !   mine  !   with  rapturous  joy 

Ereenia  cried. 
Immortal  now,  and  yet  not  more 

divine ;  280 

^rine,  mine,  .  .  for  ever  mine  ! 
Tlie  immortal  Maid  replied. 
For  ever,  ever,  thine  ! 

24 

Then  Yamen  said,  0  thou  to  whom 

by  Fate, 

Alone  of  all  mankind,  this  lot  is  given. 

Daughter  of  Earth,  but  now  the  Child 

of  Heaven  ! 

Go  with  thy  heavenly  Mate, 

Partaker  now  of  his  immortal  bliss  ; 

(Jo  to  the  Swerga  Bowers, 

And  there  recall  the  hours       290 

Of  endless  happiness. 


But  that  sweet  Angel,  for  she  still 

retain'd 

Her  human  loves  and  human  [)i<'ty. 

As  if  reluctant  at  the  (Jod's  commaiidii, 

Lingor'd,  with  anxious  eye 

Upon  her  Father  tix'd,  and  spread  her 

hands 

Toward  him  wistfully. 

Go  !   Yamen  said,  nor  cast  that  look 

behind 
Upon  Ladurlad  at  this  parting  hour, 
For  thou  shalt  find  him  in  thy  Mother's 
Bower.  300 

20 

Tlie  Car,  for  Carmala  his  word  obey'd. 

Moved  on,  and  bore  away  the 

Maid, 

While  from  the  Golden  Throne  the 

Lord  of  Death 
With  love  benignant  on  Ladurlad 

smiled. 

And  gently  on  his  head  his  blessing 

laid. 

As  sweetly  as  a  Child, 

Whom  neither  thought  disturbs  nor 

care  encumbers. 

Tired  with  long  play,  at  close  of 

summer  day, 

Lies  dowi\  and  slumbers. 

Even  thus  as  sweet  a  boon  of  sleep 

partaking,  310 

By  Yamen  blest,  Ladurlad  sunk  to 
rest. 
Blessed  that  sleep  !   more  blessed  was 

the  waking  ! 

For  on  that  night  a  heavenly  morning 

broke, 

The  light  of  heaven  was  round  him 

when  ho  woke. 

And  in  the  Swerga,  in  Yedillian's 

Bower, 

Ail  whom  he  loved  he  mot,  to  jjart  no 

more. 


RODERICK, 
THE  LAST   OF  THE  GOTHS 

A  TRAGIC  POEM. 


'Tanto  acrior  apud  majores,  sicut  virtutibus  gloria,  ita  flagitiis  poenitentia,  fuit. 
Sed  haec  aliaque,  ex  veteri  memoria  petita,  quotiens  res  locusque  exempla  recti,  aut 
solatia  mali,  poscet,  baud  absurde  memorabimus.' — Taciti  Hist.  lib.  iii.  c.  51. 


TO 

GROSVEXOR  CHARLES  BEDFORD, 
THIS   POEM  IS   INSCRIBED, 

IN   LASTING    MEMORIAL    OF    A   LONG    AND    UNINTERRUPTED    FRIENDSHIP, 
BY    HIS    OLD    SCHOOLFELLOW, 

ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 


.  .  *  As  the  ample  Moon, 
In  the  deep  stillness  of  a  summer  even 
Rising  behind  a  thick  and  lofty  Grove, 
Burns  like  an  unconsuming  fire  of  light 
In  the  green  trees  ;    and  kindling  on  all 

sides 
Their  leaf}'  umbrage,  turns  the  dusky  veil 
Into  a  substance  glorious  as  her  own, 
Yea,  with  her  own  incorporated,  by  power 


Capacious  and  serene  :   Like  power  abides 
In  Man's  celestial  Spirit ;   Virtue  thus 
Sets  forth  and  magnifies  herself ;  thus  feeds 
A  calm,  a  beautiful  and  silent  fire, 
From  the  incumbrances  of  mortal  life, 
From  error,  disappointment,  .  .  nay  from 

guilt ; 
And  sometimes,  so  relenting  Justice  wills, 
From  palpable  oppressions  of  Despair.' 

Wordsworth. 


PREFACE, 


The  history  of  the  Wisi-Goths  for 
some  years  before  their  overthrow  is 
very  imperfectly  knowTi.  It  is,  however, 
apparent,  that  the  enmity  between  the 
royal  families  of  Chindasuintho  and 
Wamba  was  one  main  cause  of  the 
destruction  of  the  kingdom,  the  latter 
party  having  as.sisted  in  betraying  their 
country  to  the  Moors  for  the  gratifica- 
tion of  their  own  revenge.  Theodofred 
and  Favila  were  younger  sons  of  King 
Chindasuintho  ;  King  Witiza,  who  was 
of  Wamba' s  family,  put  out  the  eyes  of 
Theodofred,  and  murdered  Favila,  at 
the  instigation  of  that  Chieftain's  wife, 
with  whom  he  lived  in  adulter}'.   Pelayo, 


I  the  son  of  Favila,  and  afterwards  the 
I  founder  of  the  Spanish  monarch}',  was 
'  driven  into  exile.  Roderick,  the  son  of 
Theodofred,  recovered  the  throne,  and 
I  put  out  Witiza' s  eyes  in  vengeance  for 
:  his  father  ;  but  he  spared  Orpas.  the 
,  brother  of  the  tyrant,  as  being  a  Priest. 
j  and  Ebba  and  Sisibert,  the  two  sons  of 
I  Witiza.  by  Pelayo' s  motlier.  It  may 
j  be  convenient  thus  brief!}'  to  premise 
these  circumstances  of  an  obscure  por- 
tion of  history,  with  which  few  readers 
'  can  be  supposed  to  be  familiar ;  and 
!  a  list  of  the  principal  persons  who  are 
I  introduced,  or  spoken  of,  may  as  pro- 
!  perly  be  prefixed  to  a  Poem  as  to  a  Play. 


I.    RODERICK   AND   ROMANO 


209 


WiTiZA, Kiiisj  of  fho   Wisi-Ciolhs  ; 

dethroned  and  Mindtnl  hy  Itodorick. 
Theopofred,  ..  soMof  Kingi'lundasuintlio, 

Minded  by  Kiiijj  ^^■itiza. 
Favila, his  brotl)er  ;   put  to  death 

by  Witiza. 
Tlie   Wife   of   Favila,   Witiza's   adulterous 

mistress. 
{Thesf  four  persons   are  dead  before  the 

action  of  the  poem  commences.) 

Roderick, the  last  King  of  the  Wisi- 

(loths  :   son  of  Theodofrod. 
Pei-ayo,   the  founder  of  the  Spanish 

Monarchy  :  son  of  Favila. 
GAuniosA,  .....  his  wife. 

GriSLA, his  sister. 

Favila, his  .son. 

HERMEsiN-n,  . . ,  his  daughter, 

RrsiLLA widow  of  Theodofred,  and 

mother  of  Roderick. 
Coi'.VT   Pedro,  >  powerful   Lords   of    Can- 
CorN'T  Et'DON,  )  tabria. 

Ai.PHOx.so, Count  Pedro's  son,  after- 
wards King. 

Urban- Archbishop  of  Toledo. 

RoMAKO, a   Monk    of    the    Caulian 

Schools,  near  Merida. 
Abdal^ziz,  ....  the  Moorish  Governor  of 

Spain. 
EoiLOXA, formerly     the     wife     of 

Roderick,  now  of  Abdalaziz, 


ABrLCACEM,  . .  \ 

Aloahman,    . . 

AvT-n, -Moorish  Chiefs. 

MA(iUED,     .  .  .  .  j 

Orpas, brother    to    Witiza,    and 

formerly  Archbishop  of  Seville,  now  a 

renegade. 

Sisibert, )  sons   of    Witiza    and    of 

Ebba, i        Pelayo's  mother. 

NuMACiAN',  ....  a    renegade,    governor   of 

Gegio. 
Count  Julia.v,  .  a    i)Owerful    Lord    among 

the  ^^'isi-(loths,  now  a  renegade. 
Florinda, his  daughter,  violated  by 

King  Roderick. 

Ado.sixda, daughter  of  the  Governor 

of  Aiuia. 

Odoar, Abbot  of  St.  Felix. 

SiVERiAV, Itoderick's  foster-father. 

Favixia, Count  Pedro's  wife. 


The  four  latter  persons  are  imaginary. 
All  the  others  are  mentioned  in  liistory. 
I  ought,  however,  to  observe  that  Romano 
is  a  creature  of  monkish  legends  ;  that  the 
name  of  Pelayo's  sister  has  not  been  pre- 
served ;  and  that  that  of  Roderick's  mother, 
Ru-scilo,  has  been  altered  to  Rusilla,  for  the 
sake  of  euphony. 


RODERICK,   THE  LAST  OF  THE   GOTHS. 


I.    RODERICK  AND   ROMANO 

Long  had  the  crimes  of  Spain  cried  out 

to  Heaven  ; 
At  length  the  measure  of  offence  was  full. 
Count  Julian  call'd  the  invaders ;    not 

because 
Inhuman  priests  with  unoffending  blood 
Had  stain'd  their  country  ;   not  because 

ayok--*^. 
Of  iror.  ^'^  serviv    oppress' d  and  gall'd 
Tl,    -e  children 01    ^^.,.  ^  private  wrong 
-Irnoused  the  reni^j^.^^  ^^^^^      ^^^^  ^^ 


wreak 
His  vengeance  iof     ^^^^^^^  ^^.^^ 
On  Rodericks  he^  ^^.^   ^^^^^  ^^^ 

Spain, 


10  1 


For  that  unhappy  daughter  and  himself, 
Desperate  apostate  .  .  on  the  Moors  he 

call'd  ; 
And  like  a  cloud  of  locusts,  whom  the 

South 
Waft.s  from  the  plains  of  wasted  Africa, 
The  Mu.sselmen  upon  Iberia's  shore 
Descend.     A  countle.ss  multitude  they 

came  ; 
Syrian,  Moor,  Saracen,  Greek  renegade, 
Persian  and  Copt  and  Tatar,  in  one  bond 
Of  erring  faith  conjoin'd,  .  .  strong  in 

the  youth 
And  heat  of  zeal,  .  .  a  dreadful  brother- 

hoo<l,  2o 

In    whom   all   turbulent    vices   were   let 

loose  ; 


210       RODERICK,   THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


While   Conscience,    with   their   impious 

creed  accurst. 
Drunk  as  with  wine,  had  sanctified  to 

them 
All  bloody,  all  abominable  things. 

Thou,    Calpe,    saw'st    their   coming ; 

ancient  Rock 
Renown'd,  no  longer  now  shalt  thou  be 

call'd 
From  Gods  and  Heroes  of  the  years  of 

yore, 
Kronos,  or  Imndred-handed  Briareus, 
Bacchus  or  Hercules ;  but  doom'd  to  bear 
The  name  of  thy  new  conqueror,  and 

thenceforth  30 

To  stand  his  everlasting  monument. 
Thou  saw'st  the  dark-blue  waters  flash 

before 
Their  ominous  way,  and  whiten  round 

their  keels ; 
Their  swarthy  myriads  darkening  o'er 

thy  sands. 
There   on   the   beach   the  Misbelievers 

spread 
Their  banners,  flaunting  to  the  sun  and 

breeze  ; 
Fair  shone  the  sun  upon  their  proud 

array, 
White  turbans,  glittering  armour,  shields 

engrail' d 
With  gold,  and  scy mitars  of  Syrian  steel ; 
And  gently  did  the  breezes,  as  in  sport. 
Curl    their   long    flags    outrolling,    and 

display  41 

The  blazon' d  scrolls  of  blasphemy.     Too 

soon 
The  gales  of  Spain  from  that  unhappy  land 
Wafted,  as  from  an  open  charnel-house. 
The  taint  of  death  ;    and  that  bright 

sun,  from  fields 
Of  slaughter,  with  the  morning  dew  drew 

up 
Corruption  through  the  infected  atmo- 
sphere. 


1 


Then  fell  the  kingdom  of  the  Goths; 

their  hour 
Was  come,  and  Vengeance,  long  with- 
held, went  loose.  49 
Famine  and  Pestilence  had  wasted  them, 
And  Treason,  like  an  old  and  eating  sore. 
Consumed  the  bones  and  sinews  of  their 

strength  ; 
And  worst  of  enemies,  their  Sins  were  1 

arm'd 
Against   them.     Yet   the   sceptre  from 

their  hands 
Pass'd   not   away   inglorious,   nor   was 

shame 
Left  for  their  children's  lasting  heritage  ; 
Eight    summer    days,    from    morn    till 

latest  eve. 
The  fatal  fight  endured,  till  perfidy 
Prevailing  to  their  overthrow,  they  sunk' 
Defeated,    not    dishonour' d.     On    th 

banks  60 

Of  Chrysus,  Roderick's  royal  car  was 

found, 
His  battle- horse  Orelio,  and  that  helm 
Whose  horns,  amid  the  thickestof  the  fray 
Eminent,  had  mark'd  his  presence.  Did 

the  stream 
Receive  him  with  the  undistinguish'd 

dead. 
Christian    and    ^loor,    who    clogg'd    its 

course  that  day  ? 
So  thought  the   Conqueror,   and  from 

that  day  forth. 
Memorial  of  his  perfect  victory. 
He  bade  the  river  bear  the  name  of  Joy. 
So  thought   the  Goths  ;     they  said  no 

prayer  for  him,  70 

For  him  no  service  sung. "  ;^r  mourning 

made,  j^ 

But  charged  their  crir  "P°^^  ^'^^-^z  head, 

and  curs' d  ^^ 

His  memory.  ^    .  , 

Bravely  C    ''^^^'^^y^'  fight 
The  King  ha^p^     '   '   '   ^"^  yictory 

first,  whi' 


1.    RODERICK   AND   ROMANO 


211 


Bemain'd,   then  desperately  in   pearch 

of  death. 
The  arrows  pass'd  him  hy  to  riji^ht  and 

left, 
The  spear-point    pierced   him  not,   the 

soy  mi  tar 
Glanced  from  his  helmet.     Is  the  shield 

of  Heaven. 
Wretch  that  I  am.  extended  over  me  V 
Cried  Roderick  ;    and  he  dropt  Orelio's 

reins,  80 

And   threw   his   hands   aloft   in   frantic 

prayer.  .  . 
Death  is  the  only  mercy  that  I  crave. 
Death  soon  and  short,  death  and  forget- 

fulness  ! 
Aloud  he  cried  ;   but  in  his  inmost  heart 
There  answer'd  him  a  secret  voice,  that 

spake 
Of  righteousness  and  judgement  after 

death. 
And  God's  redeeming  love,  which  fain 

would  save 
The  guilty  soul  alive.     'Twas  agony. 
And  yet  'twas  hojoe ;  .  .  a  momentary 

light, 
That  flash'd  through  utter  darkness  on 

the  Cross  90 

To  point  salvation,  then  left  all  within 
Dark  as  before.     Fear,   never  felt  till 

then. 
Sudden  and  irresistible  as  stroke 
Of    lightning,    smote    him.     From    his 

horse  he  dropt. 
Whether   with   human   impulse,    or   b}' 

Heaven 
Struck  down,   he  knew  not ;    loosen'd 

from  his  wrist 
Tlie  sword-chain,  and  let  fall  the  sword, 

whose  hilt 
Clung  to  his  palm  a  moment  ere  it  fell, 
fMued    there    with    ^loorish    gore.     His 

royal  robe,  99 

His  horned  helmet  and  enamell'd  mail. 
He  cast  aside,  and  taking  from  the  dead 


A   peasant's    garment,  in   those   weeds 

involved 
Stole,  like  a  thief  in  darkness,  from  the 

tield. 

Evening  closed  round  to  favour  him. 

All  night 
He  fled,  the  .soimd  of  battle  in  his  ear 
Ringing,  and  sights  of  death  before  his 

eyes. 
With  forms  more  horrible  of  eager  fiends 
That  seem'd  to  hover  round,  and  gulphs 

of  tire 
Opening  beneath  his  feet.     At  times  the 

groan 
Of   some    poor   fugitive,    who,    bearing 

with  him  no 

His  mortal  hurt,  had  fallen  beside  the 

way. 
Roused  him  from  these  dread  visions, 

and  he  call'd 
In  answering  groans  on  his  Redeemer's 

name. 
That  word  the  only  praj'er  that  pass'd 

his  lips 
Or  rose  within  his  heart.     Then  would 

he  see 
The  Cross  whereon  a  bleeding  Saviour 

hung, 
WHio  call'd  on  him  to  come  and  cleanse 

his  soul 
In  those  all-healing  streams,  which  from 

his  wounds. 
As    from    perpetual    springs,    for    ever 

flow'd. 
No    hart    e'er    panted    for    the    water- 
brooks  120 
As  Roderick  thirsted  there  to  drink  and 

live  ; 
But   Hell   was   interposed  ;    and   worse 

than  Hell  .  . 
Yea  to  his  eyes  more  dreadful  thiin  the 

fiends 
Who  flock'd  like  huntTy  ravens  round 

his  head,  .  . 


212      RODERICK,   THE  LAST  OF  THE   GOTHS 


Florinda    stoofl    between,   and    warn'd 

him  ofif 
With  her  abhorrent  hands,  .  .  that  agony 
Still  in  her  face,  which,  when  the  deed 

was  done. 
Inflicted  on  her  ravisher  the  curse 
That  it  invoked  from  Heaven.  .  .   Oh 

what  a  night 
Of  waking  horrors  !   Nor  when  morning 

came  130 

Did  the  realities  of  light  and  day 
Bring   aught   of  comfort ;     wheresoe'er 

he  went 
The  tidings  of  defeat  had  gone  before  ; 
And  leaving  their  defenceless  homes  to 

seek 
What    shelter    walls    and    battlements 

might  yield, 
Old  men  with  feeble  feet,  and  tottering 

babes. 
And  widows  with  their  infants  in  their 

arms, 
Hurried  along.     Nor  royal  festival, 
Nor  sacred  pageant,  with  like  multitudes 
E'er  fill'd  the  public  way.     All  whom 

the  sword  140 

Had  spared  were  here;  bed-rid  infirmity 
Alone  was  left  behind  ;   the  cripple  plied 
His  crutches,  with  her  child  of  yester- 
day 
The  mother  fled,  and  she  whose  hour 

was  come 
Fell  by  the  road. 

Less  dreadful  than  this  view 
Of    outward   suffering    which    the   day 

disclosed, 
Had    night    and    darkness    seem'd    to 

Roderick's  heart, 
With  all  their  dread  creations.     From 

the  throng 
He  tum'd  aside,  unable  to  endure 
This  burthen  of  the  general  woe ;    nor 

walls,  150 

Nor  towers,  nor  mountain  fastnesses  he 

sought, 


A  firmer  hold  his  spirit  yearn'd  to  find, 
A  rock  of  surer  strength.     Unknowing 

where, 
Straight  through  the  wild  he  hasten' d 

on  all  day. 
And  with  unslacken'd  speed  was  travel* 

ling  still 
When  evening  gather' d  round.     Seven 

days  from  morn 
Till  night  he  travell'd  thus ;    the  forest 

oaks, 
The  fig-grove  by  the  fearful  husbandman 
Forsaken  to  the  spoiler,  and  the  vines. 
Where  fox  and  household  dog  together 

now  160 

Fed  on  the  vintage,  gave  him  food  ;   the 

hand 
Of  Heaven  was  on  him,  and  the  agony 
Which     wrought     within,     supplied     a 

strength  beyond 
All  natural  force  of  man. 

When  the  eighth  eve 
Was  come,  he  found  himself  on  Ana's 

banks. 
Fast  by  the  Caulian  Schools.      It  was 

the  hour 
Of  vespers,  but  no  vesper  bell  was  heard, 
Nor  other  sound,  than  of  the  passing 

stream. 
Or  stork,  who  flapping  with  wide  wing 

the  air. 
Sought  her  broad  nest  upon  the  silent 

tower.  170 

Brethren  and  pupils  thence  alike  had 

fled 
To  save  themselves  within  the  embattled 

walls 
Of    neighbouring    Merida,     One    aged 

Monk 
Alone  was  left  behind ;    he  would  not 

leave 
The   sacred   spot   beloved,   for   having 

served 
There  from  his  childhood  up  to  ripe  old 

age 


1.    RODERICK   AND   ROxMANO 


213 


There  to  lay  down  tbo  burthen  of  hia  '_ 


God's  holy  altar,  it  became  him  now, 

Ho  thought,  before  that  altar  to  await  sins. 

The    mereilc^is    misbelievers,    and    lay    Lo  !   said  Romano,  I  am  waiting  liti 


down 
His  life,  a  willing  martyr.     iSo  he  staid 
When  all  were  gone,  and  duly  fed  the 

lamps,  i8i 

And  kept  devotedly  the  altar  drest. 
And  duly  offer'd  up  the  sacritice. 
Four  days  and  nights  he  thus  had  pasa'd 

alone. 
In  such  high  mood  of  saintly  fortitude, 
Tliat  hope  of  Heaven  became  a  heavenly 

joy; 

And  now  at  evening  to  the  gate  he  went 
If  he  might  spy  the  Moors,  .  .  for  it 

seem'd  long 
To  tarry  for  his  crowTi. 

Before  the  Cioss 
Roderick  had  thrown  himself  ;  his  body 

raised,  190 

Half  kneeling,  half  at  length  he  lay  ;   his 

arms 
Embraced  its  foot,  and  from  his  lifted 

face 
Tears    streaming    down    bedew'd    the 

senseless  stone. 
He  had  not  wept  till  now,  and  at  the 

gush 
Of  these  first  tears,  it  seem'd  as  if  his 

heart. 
From  a  long  winter's  icy  thrall  let  loose, 
Had  open'd  to  the  genial  influences 
Of  Heaven.     In  attitude,  but  not  in  act 
Of  prayer  he  lay ;   an  agony  of  tears 
Was  all  his  soul  could  offer.     When  the 

^lonk  200 

Beheld  him  suffering  thus,  he  raised  him 

up, 
And  took  him  by  the  arm,  and  led  him  in; 
And  there  before  the  altar,  in  the  name 
(Jf  Him  whose  bleeding  image  there  was 

hun^, 
Spake  comfort,  and  adjured  him  in  that 

name 


The  coming  of  the  Moors,  that  from  their 

hands 
My  spirit  may  receive  the  purple  robe 
Of   martyrdom,    and   rise   to  claim    its 

crown.  210 

That  God  who  willeth  not  the  sinner's 

death 
Hath  led  thee  hither.     Threescore  years 

and  five. 
Even  from  the  hour  when  I,  a  five-years' 

child, 
Enter'd  the  schools,  have  I  continued 

here 
And  served  the  altar  :    not  in  all  those 

years 
Hath  such  a  contrite  and  a  broken  heart 
Appear' d    before   me.     0    my    brother. 

Heaven 
Hath  sent  thee  for  thy  comfort,  and  for 

mine, 
That  my  last  earthly  act  may  reconcile 
A  sinner  to  his  God. 

Then  Roderick  knelt   220 
Before   the   holy    man,    and   strove    to 

speak. 
Thou  seest,  he  cried,  .  .  thou  seest,  .  . 

but  memory 
And  suffocating  thoughts  repress' d  the 

word. 
And  shudderiugs,  like  an  ague  fit,  from 

head 
To  foot  convulsed  him  ;    till  at  length, 

subduing 
His  nature  to  the  effort,  he  exclaim'd. 
Spreading  his  hands  and  lifting  up  his 

face, 
As  if  resolved  in  j)cniteiice  to  bear 
A  human  eye  upon  his  shame,  .  .  Tliou 

seest 
Roderick  the  Goth  !    That  name  would 

have  sulliecd  230 

To  tell  its  whole  abhorred  history : 


214      RODERICK,   THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


He  not  the  less  pursued, .  .  the  ravisher, 

The  cause  of  all  this  ruin  !  Having  said, 

In  the  same  j^osture  motionless  he  knelt, 

Arms  straighten' d  down,  and  hands  out- 
spread, and  eyes 

Raised  to  the  Monk,  like  one  who  from 
his  voice 

Awaited  life  or  death. 

All  night  the  old  man 

Pray'd  with  his  penitent,  and  minister' d 

Unto  the  wounded  soul,  till  he  infused 

A  healing  hope  of  mercy  that  allay'd  240 

Its  heat  of  anguish.     But  Romano  saw 

What    strong    temptations    of    despair 
beset. 

And  how  he  needed  in  this  second  birth. 

Even  like  a  yearling  child,  a  fosterer's 
care. 

Father  in  Heaven,  he  cried,  thy  will  be 
done  ! 

Surely  I  hoped  that  I  this  day  should 
sing 

Hosannahs   at    thy   throne ;    but   thou 
hast  3'et 

Work  for  thy  servant  here.     He  girt  his 
loins, 

And  from  her  altar  took  with  reverent 
hands 

Our  Lady's  image  down:  In  this,  quoth 
he,  250 

We  have  our  guide  and  guard  and  com- 
forter. 

The  best  provision  for  our  perilous  way. 

Fear  not  but   we  shall   find  a  resting- 
place. 

The  Almighty's  hand  is  on  us. 

They  went  forth, 

They    cross' d    the    stream,    and    when 
Romano  turn'd 

For  his  last  look  toward  the  Caulian 
towers. 

Far  off  the  Moorish  standards  in   the 
light 

Of    morn    were    glittering,    where    the 
miscreant  host 


Toward  the  Lusitanian  capital 

To  lay  their  siege  advanced  ;  the  eastern 

breeze  260 

Bore  to  the  fearful  travellers  far  away 
The  sound  of  horn  and  tambour  o'er  the 

plain. 
All  day  they  hasten'd,  and  when  evening 

fell 
Sped  toward  the  setting  sun,  as  if  its  line 
Of  glory  came  from  Heaven  to  point 

their  course. 
But  feeble  were  the  feet  of  that  old  man 
For  such  a  weary  length  of  way  ;    and 

now 
Being  jjass'd  the  danger  (for  in  Merida 
Sacaru  long  in  resolute  defence 
Withstood  the  tide  of  war,)  with  easier 

pace  270 

The  wanderers  journey'd  on  ;  till  having 

cross' d 
Rich  Tagus,  and  the  rapid  Zezere, 
They    from    Albardos'     hoary    height 

beheld 
Pine-forest,  fruitful  vale,  and  that  fair 

lake 
Where  Alcoa,  mingled  there  with  Baza's 

stream. 
Rests  on  its  passage  to  the  western  sea, 
That  sea  the  aim  and  boundary  of  their 

toil. 

The    fourth    week    of    their    painful 

pilgrimage 
Was  full,  when  they  arrived  where  from 

the  land 
A  rocky  hill,  rising  with  steep  ascent, 
O'erhung   the  glittering   beach ;     there 

on  the  top  281 

A  little  lowly  hermitage  they  found, 
And  a  rude  Cross,   and  at  its  foot  a 

grave, 
Bearing  no  name,  nor  other  monument. 
Where  better  could  they  rest  than  here, 

where  faith 
And  secret  penitence  and  happiest  death 


I.    RODERICK   AND   RO^L\NO 


215 


Had  bless'd  the  si>ot,  and  brought  good 

Aiigels  dowu, 
Aud  oiK'u'd  a^  it  were  a  way  to  Heaven  ? 
Ijehiiul   them   was  the  desert,   offering 

fruit 
And   water  for  their  need  :     on   either 

side  290 

The  white  sand  sparkling  to  the  sun  ;  in 

front, 
Great  Ocean  with  its  cverhisting  voice, 
As  in  perpetual  jubilee,  proclaim'd. 
The    wonders   of   the   Almighty,    tilhng 

thus 
The  pauses  of  their  fervent  orisons. 
Where  better  could  the  wanderers  rest 

than  here  'i 


II.    RODERICK   IN   SOLITUDE 

Twelve  months  they  sojourn'd  in  their 
f  solitude, 

And  then  beneath  the  burthen  of  old  age 
Romano  sunk.     No  brethren  were  there 

here 
To  spread  the  sackcloth,  and  with  ashes 

strew 
That  penitential  bed,  and  gather  round 
To  sing  his  requiem,  and  with  prayer 

and  psalm 
Assist  him  in  his  hour  of  agon}-. 
He  lay  on  the  bare  earth,   which  long 

had  been 
His  only  couch  ;    beside  him  Roderick 

knelt, 
Moisten'd     from     time     to     time     his 

blacken' d  lips,  10 

Received    a    blessing    with    his    latest 

breath, 
Then  closed  his  eyes,  and  by  the  name- 
less grave 
Of  the  fore-tenant  of  that  holy  place 
Consigned  him  earth  to  earth. 

Two  graves  are  here, 
I    And  Roderick  transverse  at  their  feet 


To  break  the  third.     In  all  his  intervals 
Of  prayer,  save  only  when  ho  search' d 

the  woods 
And  fill'd  the  water-cruise,  he  Uibour'd 

there  ; 
And  when  the  work  was  done  and  he 

had  laid 
Himself  at  length  within  its  narrow  sides 
And  measured  it,  lie  shook  his  head  to 

think  21 

There   was  no  other   business  now  for 

him. 
Poor    wretcli,    thy    bed    is    ready,    he 

exclaim'd. 
And  would  that  night  were  come  !  .  .  It 

was  a  task. 
All  gloomy  as  it  was,  which  had  beguiled 
The  sense  of  solitude  ;    but  now  he  felt 
The  burthen  of  the  solitary  hours  : 
The  silence  of  that  lonely  hermitage 
Lay  on  him  like  a  spell ;    and  at  the 

voice 
Of    his    own    prayers,    he    started    half 

aghast.  30 

Then  too  as  on  Romano's  grave  he  sate 
And   pored   upon    his   own,   a   natural 

thought 
Arose  within  him,  .  .  well  might  he  have 

spared 
That  useless  toil  ;    the  sepulchre  would 

be 
No  hiding  place  for  him  ;    no  Christian 

hands 
Were    here    who    should    compose    his 

decent  corpse 
And    cover    it    with    earth.     There    he 

might  drag 
His  wretched  body  at  its  passing  hour, 
But  there  the  !Sea-Birds  of  her  heritage 
Would  rob  the  worm,  or  peradventure 

seize,  40 

Ere    death    had    done    its    work,    their 

helpless  juey. 
Even  now  they  did  not  fear  him  :    when 

lie  walk'd 


216      RODERICK,   THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


Beside  them  on  the  beach,  regardlessly 

They  saw  his  coming ;  and  their  whirring 
wings 

Upon  the  height  had  sometimes  fann'd 
his  cheek. 

As  if,  being  thus  alone,  humanity 

Had  lost  its  rank,  and  the  prerogative 

Of  man  were  done  awaj-. 

For  his  lost  crown 

And  sceptre  never  had  he  felt  a  thought 

Of  pain ;    repentance  had  no  pangs  to 
spare  5° 

For  trifles  such  as  these,  .  .  the  loss  of 
these 

Was  a  cheap  penalty ;  .  .  that  he  had 
fallen 

Down  to  the  lowest  depth  of  wretched- 
ness. 

His  hope  and  consolation.     But  to  lose 

His    human    station    in    the    scale    of 
things,  .  . 

To   see   brute   nature   scorn   him,    and 
renounce 

Its  homage  to  the  human  form  divine  ; .  . 

Had    then    Almighty    vengeance    thus 
reveal' d 

His    punishment,    and    was    he    fallen 
indeed 

Below  fallen  man,  below  redemption's 
reach,  .  .  60 

Made  lower  than  the  beasts,  and  like  the 
beasts 

To  perish  !  .  .  Such  temptations  troubled 
him 

By  day,  and  in  the  visions  of  the  night ; 

And  even  in  sleep  he  struggled  with  the 
thought. 

And    waking    with    the    effort    of    his 
prayers 

The  dream  assail'd  him  still. 

A  wilder  form 

Sometimes  his   poignant  penitence  as- 
sumed, 

Starting  with  force  revived  from  inter- 
vals 


Of  calmer  passion,  or  exhausted  rest ; 
When   floating  back  upon  the  tide  of 

thought  70 

Remembrance  to  a  self-excusing  strain 
Beguiled  him,  and  recall' d  in  long  array 
The  sorrows  and  the  secret  impulses 
Which  to  the  abyss  of  wretchedness  and 

guilt 
Led  their  unwary  victim.     The  evil  hour 
Ret  urn"  d  upon  him,  when  reluctantly 
Yielding  to  worldly  counsel  his  assent, 
In  wedlock  to  an  ill-assorted  mate 
He  gave  his  cold  unwilhng  hand  :    then 

came  79 

The  disappointment  of  the  barren  bed. 
The  hope  deceived,  the  soul  dissatistied. 
Home  without  love,  and  privacy  from 

which 
Delight  was  banish' d  first,  and  peace  too 

soon 
Departed.     Was  it  strange  that  when 

he  met 
A  heart  attuned,  .  .  a  spii'it  like  his  own. 
Of  lofty  pitch,  yet  in  affection  mild. 
And  tender  as  a  youthful  mother's  joy, .  . 
Oh  was  it  strange  if  at  such  sympathy 
The  feelings  which    within   his   breast 

repeird 
And  chill'd  had   shrunk,   should   open 

forth  like  flowers  90 

After  cold  winds  of  night,  when  gentle 

gales 
Restore   the  genial   sun  ?    If   all   were 

known, 
Would  it  indeed  be  not  to  be  forgiven? .  . 
(Thus  would  he  lay  the  unction  to  his 

soul,) 
If  all  were  truly  kno\\Ti,  as  Heaven  knows 

all, 
Heaven  that  is  merciful  as  well  as  just, . . 
A  passion  slow  and  mutual  in  its  growth, 
Pure  as  fraternal   love,   long   self-con- 

ceal'd. 
And    when    confess' d    in    silence,    long 

controll'd ; 


II.    RODERICK   IN   SOLITUDE 


Treacherous   occasion,    human   frailty, 

fear  loo 

Of     endless     separation,     worse     than 

death,  .  . 
The  })urposc  and  the  hope  with  which 

the  Fiend 
Tempted,  deceived,  and  madden'd  him  ; 

.  .  but  then 
As  at  a  new  temptation  would  he  start, 
Shuddering     beneath     the     intolerable 

shame, 
And  clench  in  agony  his  matted  hair ; 
While  in  his  soul  the  perilous  thought 

arose. 
How  easy  'twere  to  plunge  where  yonder 

waves 
Invited  him  to  rest. 

Oh  for  a  voice 
Of  comfort,  .  .  for  a  ray  of  hope  from 

Heaven  !  no 

A  hand  that  from  these  billows  of  despair 
May  reach  and  snatch  him  ere  he  sink 

engulph'd  ! 
At  length,  as  life  when  it  hath  lain  long 

time 
Oppress' d  beneath  some  grievous  mal- 
ady, 
Seems    to    rouse    up    with    re-collected 

strength, 
And  the  sick  man  doth  feel  within  him- 
self 
jA  second  spring;    so  Roderick's  better 
I         mind 

Arose  to  save  him.     Lo !  the  western  sun 
flames  o'er  the  broad  Atlantic  ;   on  the 

verge 
;0f  glowing  ocean  rests  ;   retiring  then 
Draws  with  it  all  its  rays,  and  sudden 

night  121 

Fills  the  whole  cope  of  heaven.     The 

penitent 
j  Knelt  by  Romano's  grave,  and  falling 

prone, 
iClasp'd  with  extended  arms  the  funeral 

mould. 


217 


Father  !    he  cried  ;    Cbmpanion  !    only 

friend. 
When  all  beside  was  lost !    thou  too  art 

gone, 
And  the  poor  siimer  whom  from  utter 

death 
Thy  providential  hand  preserved,  once 

more 
Totters  upon  the  gulph.     I  am  too  weak 
For  solitude,  .  .  too  vile  a  wretch  to  bear 
This  everlasting  commune  with  myself. 
The  Tempter  hath  assail'd  me  ;   my  own 

heart  132 

Is  leagued  with  him  ;    Despair  hath  laid 

the  nets 
To  take  my  soul,  and  Memory  like  a 

ghost, 
Haunts  me,  and  drives  me  to  the  toils. 

O  Saint, 
While  I  was  blest  with  thee,  the  her- 
mitage 
Was  my  sure  haven  !    Look  upon  me 

still. 
For  from  thy  heavenly  mansion  thou 

canst  see 
The  suppliant ;    look  upon  thy  child  in 

Christ, 
Is  there  no  other  way  for  penitence  ?   140 
I  ask  not  martyrdom  ;   for  what  am  I 
That  I  should  pray  for  triumphs,   the 

tit  meed 
Of  a  long  life  of  holy  works  like  thine  ; 
Or  how  should  I  presumptuously  aspire 
To  wear  the  heavenly  crown  resign'd  by 

thee. 
For  my  poor  sinful  sake  ?    Oh  point  me 

thou 
Some    humblest,     painfulest,    ecverest 

path,  .  . 
Some  new  austerity,  unheard  of  yet 
In  Syrian  fields  of  glory,  or  the  sands 
Of    holiest    Egypt.     Let    me    bind    my 

brow  150 

With  thorns,   and   barefoot   seek  Jeru- 
salem, 


218      RODERICK,   THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


Tracking  the  way  with  blood ;    there 

day  by  day 
Inflict  upon  this  guilty  flesh  the  scourge, 
Drink  vinegar  and  gall,  and  for  my  bed 
Hang   with  extended  limbs  upon   the 

Cross, 
A  nightly  crucifixion  !  .  .  any  thing 
Of  action,  difiiculty,  bodily  pain, 
Labour,  and  outward  suffering,  .  .  any 

thing 
But  stillness  and  this  dreadful  solitude  ! 
Romano !     Father !     let   me   hear   thy 

voice  i6o 

In  dreams,  0  sainted  Soul !   or  from  the 

grave 
Speak  to  thy  penitent ;    even  from  the 

grave 
Thine  were  a  voice  of  comfort. 

Thus  he  cried, 
Easing  the  pressure  of  his  burthen' d 

heart 
With  passionate  prayer ;    thus  pour'd 

his  spirit  forth. 
Till  with  the  long  impetuous  effort  spent 
His  spirit  fail'd,  and  laying  on  the  grave 
His  weary  head  as  on  a  pillow,  sleep 
Fell  on  him.     He  had  pray'd  to  hear 

a  voice 
Of  consolation,  and  in  dreams  a  voice 
Of     consolation    came.       Roderick,    it 

said,  .  .  171 

Roderick,    my    poor,    unhappy,    sinful 

child, 
Jesus  have  mercy  on  thee  !  .  .  Not  if 

Heaven 
Had  opened,  and  Romano,  visible 
In    his    beatitude,    had    breathed    that 

prayer ;  .  . 
Not  if  the  grave  had  spoken,   had  it 

pierced 
So  deeply  in  his  soul,  nor  wrung  his  heart 
With  such  compunctious  visitings,  nor 

given 
So  quick,  so  keen  a  pang.     It  was  that 

voice 


Which  sung  his  fretful  infancy  to  sleep 
So  patiently  ;    which  soothed  his  child- 
ish griefs,  181 
Counsel!' d,  with  anguish  and  prophetic 

tears. 
His   headstrong   youth.     And   lo !     his 

Mother  stood 
Before  him  in  the  vision  ;  in  those  weeds 
Which  never  from  the  hour  when  to  the 

grave 
She  follow'd  her  dear  lord  Theodofred 
Rusilla  laid  aside  ;   but  in  her  face 
A  sorrow  that  bespake  a  heavier  load 
At  heart,  and  more  unmitigated  woe,  .  . 
Yea  a  more  mortal  wretchedness  than 

when  190 

Witiza's  ruffians  and  the  red-hot  brass 
Had  done  their  work,  and  in  her  arms 

she  held 
Her  eyeless  husband ;    wiped  away  the 

sweat 
Which   still   liis   tortures   forced   from 

every  pore ; 
Cool'd  his  scorch' d  lids  with  medicinal 

herbs. 
And  pray'd  the  while  for  patience  for 

herself 
And  him,  and  pray'd  for  vengeance  too, 

and  found 
Best   comfort   in    her    curses.     In    his 

dream. 
Groaning  he  knelt  before  her  to  beseech 
Her  blessing,  and  she  raised  her  hands 

to  lay  200 

A  benediction  on  him.     But  those  hands 
Were  chain' d,  and  casting  a  wild  look 

around, 
With  thi'illing  voice  she  cried,  Will  no 

one  break 
These  shameful  fetters  ?    Pedro,  Then- 

demir, 
Athanagild,  where  are  ye  ?    Roderick's 

arm 
Is  wither'd ;  .   .    Chiefs  of  Spain,   but 

where  are  ye  ? 


II.    RODERICK  IN  SOLITUDE 


219 


And  thou,  Pelayo,  thou  our  surest  hope, 
Dost  tliou  too  sleep  ? .  .  Awake,  Pelayo  ! 

.  .  up  !  .  . 
Why  tarriest  thou,  Deliverer  '/  .  .  But 

with  that 
She  broke  her  bouds,  and  lo  !   her  form 

was  changed  !  210 

Badiaut  in  arms  she  st<xxl  !    a  bloo<ly 

Ciosd 
Gleam'd    on    her    breast-plate,    in    her 

shield  display' d 
Erect  a  lion  ramp'd ;   her  helmed  head 
Rose   like    the    Berecynthian    Goddess 

crown' d 
With  towers,  and  in  her  dreadful  hand 

the  sword 
Red  as  a  tire- brand  blazed.     Anon  the 

tramp 
Of  liorsemen,  and  the  din  of  multitudes 
Moving  to  mortal  conflict,  rang  around  ; 
Tlio  battle-song,  the  clang  of  sword  and 

shield, 
War-cries  and  tumult,  strife  and  hate 

and  rage,  220 

Blasphemous  prayers,  confusion,  agony, 
Rout  and  pursuit  and  death ;   and  over 

all 
The  shout   of   victory.    .   .    Spain   and 

Victory  ! 
Roderick,  as  the  strong  vision  master'd 

him, 
Rush'd  to  the  fight  rejoicing  :    starting 

then, 
As  his  own  effort  burst  the  charm  of 

sleep, 
He  found  himself  upon  that  lonely  grave 
In  moonUght  and  in  silence.     But  the 

dream 
Wrought  in  him  still ;    for  still  he  felt 

his  heart 
Pant,  and  his  wither'd  arm  was  trem- 
bling still  ;  230 
And  still  that  voice  was  in  his  ear  which 
I         call'd 
On  Jesus  for  his  sake. 


Oh,  might  he  hear 
That    actual    voice !      and    if    Rusilla 

lived,  .  . 
If  shame  and  anguish  for  his  crimes  not 

yet 
Had  brought  her  to  the  grave,  .  .  sure 

she  would  bless 
Her  penitent  child,  and  pour  into  his 

heart 
Prayers    and    forgiveness,    which,    like 

precious  balm, 
Would  heal  the  wounded  soul.     Nor  to 

herself 
Less  precious,  or  less  healing,  would  the 

voice 
That  spake  forgiveness  flow.     She  wept 

her  son  240 

For  ever  lost,  cut  off  with  all  the  weight 
Of  unrepented  sin  upon  his  head, 
Sin  which  had  weigh'd  a  nation  down  .  . 

what  joy 
To  know  that  righteous  Heaven  had  in 

its  wrath 
Remember'd  mercy,  and  she  yet  might 

meet 
The  child  whom  she  had  borne,  redeem' d, 

in  bliss. 
The  sudden  impulse  of  such  thoughts 

confirmed 
That   unacknowledged   purpose,    which 

till  now 
Vainly  had  sought  its  end.     He  girt  his 

loins, 
Laid  holiest  Mary's  image  in  a  cleft    250 
Of  the  rock,  where,  shelter' d  from  the 

elements. 
It  might  abide  till  happier  days  came  on, 
From  all   defilement  safe;     pour'd   his 

last  prayer 
Upon   Romano's  grave,  and  kiss'd  the 

earth 
Which   cover'd  his  remains,  and    wept 

as  if 
At   long   leave-taking,    then    began    his 

way. 


220      RODERICK,   THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


III.    ADOSINDA 

'TwAS  now  the  earliest  morning ;    soon 

the  Sun, 
Rising  above  Albardos,  pour'd  his  light 
Amid  the  forest,  and  with  ray  aslant 
Entering  its  dej^th,  illumed  the  branch- 
less pine^, 
Brighten'd   their   bark,    tinged   with   a 

redder  hue 
Its  rusty  stains,  and  cast  along  the  floor 
Long  lines  of  shadow,  where  they  rose 

erect 
Like  pillars  of  the  temple.     With  slow 

foot 
Roderick  pursued  his  way ;    for  peni- 
tence, 
Remorse   which   gave  no   respite,   and 

the  long  10 

And  painful  conflict  of  his  troubled  soul. 
Had   worn   him   down.     Now   brighter 

thoughts  arose. 
And  that  triumphant  vision  floated  still 
Before  his  sight  with  all  her  blazonry, 
Her  castled  helm,   and   the  victorious 

sword 
That  flash' d  like  lightning  o'er  the  field 

of  blood. 
Sustain' d  by  thoughts  like  these,  from 

morn  till  eve 
He  journey'd,  and  drew  near  Leyria's 

walls. 
'Twas  even-song  time,  but  not  a  bell  was 

heard  ; 
Instead  thereof,  on  her  polluted  towers. 
Bidding  the  Moors  to  their  unhallow'd 

prayer,  21 

The  cryer  stood,  and  with  his  sonorous 

voice 
Fiird  the  delicious  vale  where  Lena  winds 
Thro'  groves  and  pastoral  meads.     The 

sound,  the  sight 
Of  turban,  girdle,  robe,  and  scymitar, 
And   tawny   skins,   awoke  contending 

thoughts 


Of  anger,  shame,  and  anguish  in  the 
Goth ; 

The  face  of  human-kind  so  long  unseen 

Confused   him   now,    and   tlirough   the 
streets  he  went 

With    hagged    mien,    and    countenance 
like  one  30 

Crazed  or  bewilder' d.     All  who  met  him 
turn'd, 

And  wonder' d  as  he  pass'd.     One  stopt 
him  short, 

Put  alms  into  his  hand,  and  then  desired 

In    broken    Gothic    speech,    the    moon- 
struck man 

To  bless  him.     With  a  look  of  vacancy 

Roderick  received  the  alms ;    his  wan- 
dering eye 

Fell  on  the  money,  and  the  fallen  King,  i 

Seeing  his  own  royal  impress  on  the| 
piece,  ' 

Broke  out  into  a  quick  convulsive  voice, : 

That    seem'd    like    laughter    first,    but 
ended  soon  40 

In  hollow  groans  supprest ;    the  Mussel- 
man 

Shrunk    at    the    ghastly    sound,    and 
magnified 

The  name  of  Allah  as  he  hastened  on. 

A  Christian  woman  spinning  at  her  door 

Beheld    him,    and,    with    sudden    pity 
touch' d, 

She  laid  her  spindle  b}-,  and  running  in 

Took  bread,  and  following  after  call'd 
him  back. 

And  placing  in  his  passive  hands  the 
loaf, 

She  said,  Christ  Jesus  for  his  mother's 
sake 

Have  mercy  on  thee  !   With  a  look  that 
seem'd  50 

Like  idiotcy  he  heard  her,  and  stood 
still. 

Staring  awhile  ;  then  bursting  into  tears 

Wept  like  a  child,  and  thus  relieved  his 
heart, 


III.    ADOSINDA 


221 


Full  even  to  bursting  else  with  swelling 

thoughts. 
So  through  the  streets,  and  through  the 

northern  gate 
Dill    Roderick,    reckless    of    a    resting- 

placi\ 
Witli  feeble  yet  with  hurried  .stop  junsue 
His  agitated  way  ;   and  when  he  reacli'd 
The  open  fields,  and  found  himself  alone 
Beneath  the  starr}'  canopy  of  Heaven, 
The  sense  of  solitude,  so  dreadful  late, 
Was  then  repose  and  comfort.     There 

he  stopt  62 

Beside  a  little  rill,  and  brake  the  loaf ; 
And  shedding  o'er  that  long  untasted 

food 
Painful  but  quiet  tears,  with  grateful  soul 
He  breathed   thanksgiving  forth,   then 

made  his  bed 
On  heath  and  myrtle. 

But  when  he  arose 
At  day-break  and  pursued  his  way,  his 

heart 
Felt  lighten'd  that  the  shock  of  mingling 

first 
Among  his  fellow-kind  was  overpast ;  70 
And  journeying  on,  he  greeted  whom 

he  met 
With  such  short  interchange  of  benison 
As  each  to  other  gentle  travellers  give, 
Recovering   thus   the   power   of   social 

speech 
Which    he    had    long    disused.     When 

hunger  prest 
He  ask'd  for  alms :    slight  supplication 

served  ; 
A  countenance  so  pale  and  woe-begone 
Moved  all  to  pity  ;    and  the  marks  it 

bore 
Of  rigorous  penance  and  austerest  life. 
With  something  too  of  majesty  that  still 
Appear'd  amid   the   wreck,   inspired  a 

sense  8i 

Of    reverence    too.     Tlie   goat-herd   on 

the  hills 


Open'd  his  scrip  for  him  ;    thu  babe  in 

arms, 
AlTrighted  at  his  visage,  turn'd  away, 
And  clinging  to  the  mother's  neck  in 

tears 
Would  yet  again  look  uj),  and  then  u^ain 
Shrink    back,    with   cry    rcnow'd.     The 

bolder  imps 
Sj)orting  beside  the  way,  at  his  approach 
Brake  ofT  their  games  for  wonder,  and 

stood  still 
In  silence  ;   some  among  them  cried,  A 


Saint  ! 


90 


The  village  matron  when  she  gave  him 
food 

Besought    his    prayers ;     and    one    en- 
treated him 

To  lay  his  healing  hands  upon  her  child, 

For  with  a  sore  and  hopeless  malady 

W'asting,  it  long  had  lain,  .  .  and  sure, 
she  said, 

He  was  a  man  of  God. 

Tlius  travelling  on 

He  pass'd  the  vale  where  wild  Arunca 
pours 

Its  wintry  torrents ;    and  the  happier 
site 

Of  old  Conimbrica,  whose  ruin'd  towers 

Bore  record  of  the  fierce  Alani's  wrath. 

Mondego  too    he  cross' d,    not   yet    re- 
nown'd  lOI 

In  poets'  amorous  lay  ;    and  left  behind 

The   walls   at   whose  foundation   pious 
hands 

Of  Priest  and  ^Monk  and  Bishop  meekly 
toil'd,  .  . 

So  had  the  insulting  Arian  given  com- 
mand. 

Those  stately  palaces  and  rich  donmina 

Were  now  the  Moor's,  and  many  a  weary 
age 

Must    Coimbra    wear   the    misbeliever's 
yoke. 

Before  Femando's  banner  through  her 
gate 


222      RODERICK,   THE   LAST   OF  THE   GOTHS 


Shall  pass  triumphant,  and  her  hallow'd 

Mosque  no 

Behold  the  hero  of  Bivar  receive 
The  knighthood  which  he  glorified  so  oft 
In  his  victorious  fields.     Oh,  if  the  j'ears 
To    come    might    then    have   risen    on 

Roderick's  soul, 
How  had  they  kindled  and  consoled  his 

heart !  .  . 
What  joy  might  Douro's  haven  then 

have  given, 
Whence  Portugal,  the  faithful  and  the 

brave. 
Shall  take  her  name  illustrious  !  .  .  what, 

those  walls 
Where  Mumadona  one  day  will  erect 
Convent  and  town  and  towers,  which 

shall  become  120 

The  cradle  of  that  famous  monarchy  ! 
What  joy  might  these  prophetic  scenes 

have  given,  .  . 
"What  ample  vengeance  on  the  Mussel- 
man, 
Driven  out  with  foul  defeat,  and  made 

to  feel 
In   Africa   the   wrongs  he   wrought   to 

Spain ; 
And   still    pursued    by    that    relentless 

sword, 
Even  to  the  farthest  Orient,  where  his 

power 
Received  its  mortal  wound. 

0  years  of  pride  ! 
In  undiscoverable  futurity. 
Yet   unevolved,   your  destined   glories 

lay ;  130 

And  all  that  Roderick  in  these  fated 

scenes 
Beheld,  was  grief  and  wretchedness,  .  . 

the  waste 
Of  recent  war,  and  that  more  mournful 

calm 
Of  joyless,  helpless,  hopeless  servitude. 
*Twas  not  the  ruin'd  walls  of  church  or 

tower. 


Cottage  or  hall  or  convent,  black  with 

smoke ; 
'Twas  not  the  unburied  bones,   which 

where  the  dogs 
And  crows  had  strewn  them,  lay  amid 

the  field 
Bleaching  in  sun  or  shower,  that  wrung 

his  heart 
With  keenest  anguish  :    'twas  when  he 
beheld  140 

The  turban'd  traitor  show  his  shameless 

front 
In   the   open   eye  of   Heaven,   .    .    the 

renegade. 
On  whose  base  brutal  nature  unredeem'd 
Even  black  apostacy  itself  could  stamp 
No  deeper  reprobation,  at  the  hour 
Assign' d  fall  prostrate  ;    and  unite  the 

names 
Of  God  and  the  Blasphemer,  .  .  impious 

prayer,  .  . 
Most  impious,   when  from  unbelieving 

lips 
The    accursed    utterance   came.     Then 

Roderick's  heart 
With  indignation  burnt,   and  then  he 
long'd  150 

To  be  a  King  again,  that  so,  for  Spain 
Betray' d    and   his    Redeemer  thus  re- 
nounced, 
He  might  inflict  due  punishment,  and 

make 
These    wretches   feel    his    wrath.     But 

when  he  saw 
Tlie  daughters  of  the  lan^^^^ho.  as 

they  went  ^^^^** 

With  cheerful  step  to  church,  were  wont 

to  show 
Tlieir  innocent  faces  to  all  passers'  eyes 
Freely,  and  fre«  from  sin  as  when  they 

look'd  g^ 

In  adoration  and  il^-aise  to  Heaven,  . . 

Now  mask'd  in  Moorish  mufflers,  to  the 

Mosque  160 

Holding  uncompanied  their  jealous  way, 


i< 


ill.    ADOSINDA 


223 


His  spirit  seem'd  at  that  unhappy  sight 
To  die  away  within  him,  and  he  too 
Would  fain  have  died,  so  death  could 

bring  witii  it 
Entire  oblivion. 

Rent  with  thoughts  like  these 
He   reftoh'd    that   city,    once   the   seat 

renown' d 
Of  Suevi  kings,  where,  in  contempt  of 

Rome 
Degenerate  long,  the  North's  heroic  race 
Raised  first  a  rival  throne  ;    now  from 

its  state 
Of  proud  regality  debased  and  fallen.  170 
Still  bounteous  nature  o'er  the  lovely 

vale, 
Where  like  a  Queen  rose  Bracara  august, 
Pourd  forth  her  gifts  profuse;  perennial 

springs 
Flow'd  for   her   habitants,   and  genial 

suns, 
With  kindly  showers  to  bless  the  happy 

clime. 
Combined  in  vain  their  gentle  influences; 
For  patient  servitude  was  there,   who 

bow'd 
His  neck  beneath  the  Moor,  and  silent 

grief 
That  eats  into  the  soul.     Tlie  walls  and 

stones 
Seem'd    to    reproach    their    dwellers ; 

stately  piles  180 

Yet  undecayed,  the  mighty  monuments 
Of  Roman  pomp,  Barbaric  palaces, 
And  Gotliic  halls,  where  haughty  Barons 


Gladden' d  their  faithful  vassals  with  the 

feast 
And  flowing  bowl,  alike  the  spoiler's  now. 

Leaving  these  c^^ive  scenes  behind, 

he  crost  W^ 

Cavado's  silver  current,  and  the  banks 
Of  Lima,  through  whose  groves  in  after 

years, 


Mournful  yet  sweet,   Diogo's  amorous 

lute 
Prolong'd  its  tuneful  echoes.     But  when 

now  190 

Beyond  Arnoya's  tributary  tide. 
He  came  where  Minho  roll'd  its  amj)ler 

stream 
By  Auria's  ancient  walls,  fresh  horrors 

met 
His  startled  view ;    for  prostrate  in  the 

dust 
Those  walls  were  laid,  and  towers  and 

temples  stood 
Tottering  in  frightful  ruins,  as  the  flame 
Had  left  them   black   and   bare ;     and 

through  the  streets, 
All    with    the    recent    wreck    of    war 

bestrewn, 
Helmet  and  turban,  scymitar  and  sword. 
Christian    and    Moor    in    death    pro- 
miscuous lay  200 
Each  where  they  fell ;   and  blood-flakes, 

parch'd  and  crack' d 
Like  the  dry  slime  of  some  receding 

flood  ; 
And   half-burnt   bodies,    which  allured 

from  far 
The  wolf  and  raven,  and  to  impious  foo<l 
Tempted  the  houseless  dog. 

A  thrilling  pang, 
A  sweat  like  death,  a  sickness  of  the  soul. 
Came  over  Roderick.     Soon  they  pass'd 

away, 
And  admiration  in  their  stead  arose. 
Stern  joy,  and  inextinguishable  hoj^e, 
With  wrath,  and  hate,  and  sacred  ven- 
geance now  2'o 
Indissolubly  link'd.     O  valiant  race. 
0  people  excellently  brave,  he  cried. 
True  Goths  ye  fell,  and  faithful  to  the 

last ; 
Though  overpower'd,  triumphant,  and 

in  death 
Unconquer'd  !   Holy  be  your  memory  ! 
Bless'd  and  glorious  now  and  evermore 


224      RODERICK,   THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


Be  your  heroic  names  !  .  .  Led  by  the 
sound, 

As  thus  he  cried  aloud,  a  woman  came 

Toward  him  from  the  ruins.     For  the 
love 

Of  Christ,  she  said,  lend  me  a  little  while 

Thy  charitable  help  !  .  .  Her  words,  her 
voice,  221 

Her  look,  more  horror  to  his  heart  con- 
vey'd 

Than  all  the  havoc  round  :   for  though 
she  spake 

With  the  calm  utterance  of  despair,  in 
tones 

Deep- breathed    and    low,    yet    never 
sweeter  voice 

Pour'd  forth  its  hymns  in  ecstasy  to 
Heaven. 

Her  hands  were  bloody,  and  her  gar- 
ments stain' d 

With  blood,  her  face  with  blood  and 
dust  defiled. 

Beauty    and    youth,    and    grace    and 
majesty, 

Had  every  charm  of  form  and  feature 
given ;  230 

But  now  upon  her  rigid  countenance 

Severest  anguish  set  a  fixedness 

Ghastlier  than  death. 

She  led  him  through  the  streets 

A  little  way  along,  where  four  low  walls, 

Heapt   rudely   from   the   ruins   round, 
enclosed 

A  narrow  space :    and  there  upon  the 
ground 

Four  bodies,  decently  composed,  were 
laid, 

Though   horrid   all    with    wounds    and 
clotted  gore ; 

A  venerable  ancient,  by  his  side 

A  comely  matron,  for  whose  middle  age, 

(If    ruthless    slaughter    had  not  inter- 
vened,) 241 

Nature   it    seem'd,    and    gentle   Time, 
might  well 


Have  many  a  calm  declining  year  in  store; 
The  third  an  armed  warrior,  on  his  breast 
An  infant,  over  whom  his  arms  were 

cross' d. 
There,   .   .    with   firm  eye  and   steady 

countenance 
Unfaltering,  she  addrest  him,  .  ,  there 

they  lie. 
Child,  Husband,  Parents,  .  .  Adosinda's 

all! 
I  could  not  break  the  earth  with  these 

poor  hands, 
Nor  other  tomb  provide,  .  .  but  let  that 

pass !  250 

Auria  itself  is  now  but  one  wide  tomb    ) 
For    all    its    habitants  : — What    better ' 

grave  ? 
What  worthier  monument  ?  .  .  Oh  cover 

not 
Their  blood,  thou  Earth  !    and  ye,  ye 

blessed  Souls 
Of  Heroes  and  of  murder'd  Innocents, 
Oh  never  let  your  everlasting  cries 
Cease  round  the  Eternal  Throne,  till  the 

Most  High 
For  all  these  unexampled  wrongs  hath 

given 
Full,  .  .  over-flowing  vengeance ! 

While  she  spake* 
She  raised  her  lofty  hands  to  Heaven, 

as  if  260 

Calling  for  justice  on  the  Judgement- 
seat  ; 
Then  laid  them  on  her  eyes,  and  leaning, 

on 
Bent  o'er  the  open  sepulchre. 

But  soor 
With  quiet  mien  collectedly,  like  one 
Who  from  intense  devotion,  and  the  acl 
Of  ardent  prayer,  arising,  girds  himself 
For  this  world's  daily  business,  .  .  she 


And  said  to  Roderick,  Help  me  now  tc 

raise 
The  covering  of  the  tomb. 


III.    ADOSINDA 


225 


Witli  half- burnt  planks, 
Wliich  she  had  gathor'd  for  thia  funeral 

use,  270 

They    roofd    the    vault,    then,    laying 

stones  above, 
Tliey  closed  it  down  ;   last,  rendering  all 

secure. 
Stones  upon  stones  they  piled,  till  all 

api>eared 
A  huLje  and  shapeless  heap.     Enough, 

she  cried  ; 
And  taking  Roderick's  hands  in  both  her 

own. 
And  wringing  them  with  fervent  thank- 
fulness, 
May    God    shew    mercy    to    thee,    she 

exclaim'd, 
.When  most  thou  needest  mercy  !    Who 

thou  art 
I  know  not ;    not  of  Auria,  .  .  for  of  all 
Her  sons  and  daughters,  save  the  one 

who  stands  280 

Before  thee,  not  a  soul  is  left  alive. 
But  thou  hast  render' d  to  me,  in  my 

hour 
Of  need,  the  only  help  which  man  could 

give. 
WTiat  else  of  consolation  may  be  found 
For  one  so  utterly  bereft,  from  Heaven 
And  from  myself  must  come.     For  deem 

not  thou 
That  I  shall  sink  beneath  calamity  : 
This  visitation,  like  a  lightning-stroke. 
Hath  scathed  the  fruit  and  blossom  of 

my  youth ; 
One    hour    hath    orphan'd    me,     and 

widow' d  me,  290 

And     made     me     childless.     In     this 

sepulchre 
Lie  buried  all  my  earthward  hopes  and 

fears, 
All  human  loves  and  natural  charities; . . 
All    womanly    tenderness,     all    gentle 

thoughts, 
All  female  weakness  too,  I  bury  here, 


Yea,    all    my    former    nature.     There 

remain 
Revenge  and  death  :  .  .  the  bitterness 

of  death 
la    past,    and    Heaven    already    hath 

vouchsafed 
A  foretaste  of  revenge. 

Look  here  !  she  cried, 
And    drawing    back,    held    forth    her 

bloody  hands,  .  .  300 

*Tis  Moorish  !  .  .  In  the  day  of  massacre, 
A    captain    of    Alcahman's    murderous 

host 
Reserved  me  from  the  slaughter.     Not 

because 
My  rank  and  station  tempted  him  with 

thoughts 
Of  ransom,  for  amid  the  general  waste 
Of  ruin  all  was  lost ;  .  ,  Nor  yet,  be  sure. 
That  pity  moved  him,  .  .  they  who  from 

this  race 
Accurst  for  pity  look,  such  pity  find 
As  ravenous  wolves  show  the  defenceless 

flock. 
My  husband  at  my  feet  had  fallen  ;   my 

babe,  .  ,  310 

Spare  me  that  thought,  0  God  !  .  ,  and 

then  .  .  even  then 
Amid  the  maddening  throes  of  agony 
Which  rent  my  soul,  .  .   when  if  thia 

solid  Earth 
Had  open'd  and  let  out  the  central  fire 
Before  whose  all-involving  flames  wide 

Heaven 
Shall  shrivel  like  a  scroll  and  be  con- 
sumed. 
The  universal  wreck  had  been  to  me 
Relief  and  comfort ;  .  .  even  then  this 

Moor 
Turn'd  on  me  his  libidinous  eyes,  and 

bade  319 

His  men  reserve  me  safely  for  an  hour 
Of  dalliance, . ,  me ! , ,  me  in  my  agonies  ! 
But  when  I  found  for  what  this  mis- 
creant cliild 


226       RODERICK,    THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


Of    Hell    had    snatch' d    me    from    the 

butchery, 
The    very    horror    of    that    monstrous 

thought 
Saved  me  from  madness ;    I  was  calm 

at  once,  .  . 
Yea  comforted  and  reconciled  to  life : 
Hatred  became  to  me  the  life  of  life, 
Its  purpose  and  its  power. 

The  glutted  Moors 
At    length    broke    up.      This    hell-dog 

turn'd  aside 
Toward  his  home  ;   we  travell'd  fast  and 

far,  330 

Till  by  a  forest  edge  at  eve  he  pitched 
His   tents.     I    wash'd   and   ate   at   his 

command, 
Forcing  revolted  nature  ;    I  composed 
My  garments  and  bound  up  my  scatter'd 

hair ; 
And  when  he  took  my  hand,  and  to  his 

couch 
Would  fain  have  drawn  me,  gently  I 

retired 
From  that  abominable  touch,  and  said. 
Forbear  to-night  I  pray  thee,  for  this 

day 
A  widow,  as  thou  seest  me,  am  I  made  ; 
Therefore,  according  to  our  law,  must 

watch  340 

And    pray    to-night.     The    loathsome 

villain  paused 
Ere  he  assented,  then  laid  down  to  rest ; 
While  at  the  door  of  the  pavilion,  I 
Knelt  on  the  ground,  and  bowed  my 

face  to  earth ; 
But  when  the  neighbouring  tents  had 

ceased  their  stir, 
The  fires  were  out,  and  all  were  fast 

asleep, 
Then  I  arose.     The  blessed  Moon  from 

Heaven 
Lent  me  her  holy  light.     I  did  not  pray 
For  strength,  for  strength  was  given  me 

&»  I  drew 


The   sc^-mitar,    and   standing    o'er   hi? 

couch,  35c   ( 

Raised  it  in  both  my  hands  with  steadj 

aim 
And  smote  his  neck.     Upward,  as  frorc    I 

a  spring 
When  newly  open'd  by  the  husbandman 
The  villain's  life-blood  spouted.     Twic< 

I  struck, 
So     making    vengeance    sure ;      then 

praising  God, 
Retired  amid  the  wood,  and  measurec 

back 
My  patient  way  to  Auria,  to  perform 
This  duty  which  thou  seest. 

As  thus  she  spake 
Roderick  intently  listening  had  forgot 
His  crown,  his  kingdom,  his  calamitie.-: 
His  crimes,  .  .  so  like  a  spell  upon  thil 

Goth  36 

Her   powerful    words   prevail'd.     Wit! 

open  lips, 
And  eager  ear,  and  eyes  which,  whilj 

they  watch' d  : 

Her  features,  caught  the  spirit  that  sh! 

breathed,  ■ 

Mute  and  enrapt  he  stood,  and  motion.   . 

less ;  ' 

The  vision  rose  before  him ;    and  tha 

shout. 
Which,  like  a  thunder-peal,  victoriou 

Spain 
Sent  through  the  welkin,   rung   withi 

his  soul 
Its  deep  prophetic  echoes.     On  his  bro^ 
The  pride  and  power  of  former  majest 
Dawn'd  once  again,   but  changed  an 

purified :  37 

Duty  and  high  heroic  purposes 
Now  hallow'd  it,  and  as  with  inward  ligh 
Illumed  his  meagre  countenance  austen 

Awhile  in  silence  Adosinda  stood, 
Reading    his    alter'd    visage    and    th 
thoughts 


III.    ADOSINDA 


227 


Which  thus  transfigured  him.     Ay,  she 

cxclaim'd. 
My  tale  hath   moved   thee  !    it   might 

move  the  dead, 
Quicken    captivity's    dead    soul,    and 

rouse 
This  prostrate  country  from  her  mortal 

trance :  380 

Therefore  I  live  to  tell  it ;   and  for  this 
Hath  the  Lord  God  Almighty  given  to 

me 
A  spirit  not  mine  own  and  strength  from 

Heaven  ; 
Dealing  with  me  as  in  the  days  of  old 
With  that  Bethulian  Matron  when  she 

saved 
His    people    from    the    six)iler.     What 

rcraain3 
But  that  the  life  which  he  hath  thus 

preserved 
[  consecrate  to  him  ?    Not  veil'd  and 

vow'd 
To  pass  my  days  in  holiness  and  peace  ; 
N'or     yet     between     sepulchral     walls 

immured,  390 

Alive  to  penitence  alone  ;   my  rule 
He  hath  himself  prescribed,  and  hath 

infused 
K    passion    in    this    woman's    breast, 

wherein 
All  passions  and  all  virtues  are  com- 
bined ; 
iLove,   hatred,    joy,    and   anguish,    and 

despair, 
\nd  hope,  and  natural  piety,  and  faith, 
^lake  up  the  mighty  feeling.     Call  it  not 
.Revenge !     thus    sanctified    and    thus 

sublimed, 
Tis  duty,  'tis  devotion.     Like  the  grace 
,)f  God,  it  came  and  saved  me ;   and  in 

It  400 

>pain  must  have  her  salvation.     In  thy 

hands 
^ere,  on  the  grave  of  all  my  family, 
make  mv  vow. 


8he  said,  and  kneeling  down. 
Placed    within    Roderick's    palms    her 

folded  hands. 
This  life,  she  cried,  I  dedicate  to  God, 
Therewith  to  do  him  service  in  the  way 
Which  he  hath  shown.     To  rouse  the 

land  against 
This  impious,  this  intolerable  yoke,  .  . 
To     offer     up     the    invader's     hateful 

blood,  .  . 
Tliis  shall  be  my  employ,  my  rule  and 

rite,  410 

Observances  and  sacrifice  of  faith  ; 
For  this  I  hold  the  life  which  he  hath 

given, 
A  sacred  trust ;    for  this,  when  it  shall 

suit 
His  service,  joyfully  will  lay  it  down. 
So  deal  with  me  as  I  fulfil  the  pledge, 
0  Lord  my  God,  my  Saviour  and  my 

Judge. 

Tlien  rising  from  the  earth,  she  spread 

her  arms, 
And  looking  round  with  sweeping  eyes 

exclaim'd, 
Auria,  and  Spain,  and  Heaven  receive 

the  vow ! 


IV.    THE  MONASTERY  OF 
ST.  FELIX 

Thus  long  had  RcKlerick  heard  her 
powerful  words 

In  silence,  awed  before  her :  but  his 
heart 

Was  fiU'd  the  while  with  swelling  sym- 
pathy, 

And  now  with  impulse  not  to  be  re- 
st rain'd 

The  feeling  overpower'd  him.  Hear 
me  too, 

Auria,  and  Spain,  and  Heaven  !  he 
cried  ;    and  thou 


228       RODERICK,   THE   LAST   OF  THE   GOTHS 


Who  risest  thus  above  mortality, 
Sufferer  and  patriot,  saint  and  heroine, 
The  servant  and  the  chosen  of  the  Lord, 
For  surely  such  thou  art,  .  .  receive  in 

me  10 

The  first-fruits  of  thy  calling.     Kneeling 

then, 
And  placing  as  he  spake  his  hand  in  hers, 
As   thou   hast  sworn,    the  royal   Goth 

pursued, 
Even  so  I  swear ;  -  my  soul  hath  found 

at  length 
Her  rest  and  refuge ;    in  the  invader's 

blood 
She  must  efface  her  stains  of  mortal  sin, 
And  in  redeeming  this  lost  land,  work  out 
Redemption  for  herself.     Herein  I  place 
My  penance  for  the  past,  my  hope  to 

come. 
My  faith  and  my  good  works  ;  here  offer 

up  20 

All  thoughts  and  passions  of  mine  in- 
most heart, 
My  days  and  night,  .  .  this  flesh,  this 

blood,  this  life. 
Yea  this  whole  being,  do  I  here  devote 
For  Spain.     Receive  the  vow,  all  Saints 

in  Heaven, 
And  prosper  its  good  end  !  .  .  Clap  now 

your  wings, 
The  Goth  with  louder  utterance  as  he 

rose 
Exclaim' d,    .    .    clap   now   your   wings 

exultingly. 
Ye  ravenous  fowl  of  Heaven ;    and  in 

your  dens 
Set  up,  ye  wolves  of  Spain,  a  yell  of  joy; 
For,  lo  !    a  nation  hath  this  day  been 

sworn  30 

To  furnish  forth  your  banquet ;    for  a 

strife 
Hath  been  commenced,  the  which  from 

this  day  forth 
Permits  no  breathing-time,  and  knows 

no  end 


Till  in  this  land  the  last  invader  bow 
His   neck    beneath    the   exterminatin 

sword. 

! 
Said  I  not  rightly  ?   Adosinda  cried 
The  will  which  goads  me  on  is  not  mir 

o^vn, 
'Tis  from  on  high,   .   .   yea,   verily  ( 

Heaven  ! 
But  who  art  thou  who  hast  profess' 

with  me, 
]\Iy  first  sworn  brother  in  the  appointe 

rule  ? 
Tell  me  th^  name. 

Ask  any  thing  but  that 
The  fallen  King  replied.     My  name  wj! 

lost 
When  from  the  Goths  the  sceptre  pass" 

away. 
The  nation  will  arise  regenerate ; 
Strong  in  her  second  youth  and  beautj 

ful,  I 

And  like  a  spirit  which  hath  shaken  oj 
The  clog  of  dull  mortality,  shall  Spaitj 
Arise  in  glory.     But  for  my  good  nani 
No  resurrection  is  appointed  here. 
Let   it   be   blotted   out   on   earth :    ; 

Heaven 
Tliere  shall  be  written  with  it  penitenc 
And  grace,  and  saving  faith,  and  sue 

good  deeds 
Wrought  in  atonement,  as  my  soul  th 

day 
Hath  sworn  to  offer  up. 

Then  be  thy  nam 
She  answer' d,  Maccabee,  from  this  da 

forth  ; 
For  this  day  art  thou  born  again ;   ar 

like 
Those  brethren  of  old  times,  whose  hoi 

names 
Live  in  the  memory  of  all  noble  heart 
For  love  and  admiration,  ever  young,  . 
So    for    our    native    country,    for    h( 

hearths  ^  ( 


IV.    THE  MONASTERY   OF  ST.  FELIX         229 


And   altars,   for   her   cradles   and    her 

graves. 

Hast  tiiou  thyself  devoted.     Let  us  now 
Each  to  our  work.     Among  the  neigh- 
bouring hills, 
I  to  the  vassals  of  my  father's  house  ; 
Thou  to  Visonia.     Tell  the  Abbot  there 
What  thou  hast  seen  at  Auria  ;  and  with 

^^  Take  counsel  who  of  all  our  Baronage 
Is  worthiest  to  lead  on  the  sons  of  Spain, 
And  wear  upon  his  brow  the  Spanish 

crown. 
Now,  brother,  fare  thee  well !    we  part 

in  hope,  70 

And  we  shall  meet  again,  be  sure,  in  joy. 

So  saying,  Adosinda  left  the  King 

Alone  amid  the  ruins.     There  he  stood, 

As  when  Elisha,  on  the  farther  bank 
'■''  iH  Jordan,  saw  that  elder  prophet  mount 

The  fiery  chariot,  and  the  steeds  of  fire, 
■^'-  Trampling  the  whirlwind,  bear  him  up 
f'-  '        the  sky  : 

^^  Thus   gazing    after    her   did    Roderick 
stand ; 

And    as    the    immortal    Tishbite    left 
behind 
tf^  His  mantle  and  prophetic  power,  even 
^ '        80  80 

[Had  her  inspiring  presence  left  infused 
ilt'Orhe  spirit  which  she  breathed.     Gazing 

;        he  stood. 

As  at  a  heavenly  visitation  there 
K  'Vouchsafed  in    mercy   to   himself   and 
•ii.  I        Spain ; 

jAnd  when  the  heroic  mourner  from  his 
;  I  '       sight 

rHad  pass'd  away,  still  reverential  awe 
'k  Held  him  suspended  there  and  motion- 
• '        less. 

eff  Then  turning  from  the  ghastly  scene  of 
%  death 

r :  Up  murmuring  Lona,  he  began  toward 

The  holy  Bicrzo  his  obedient  way.       90 


Sil's    ample    stream    ho    crost,    where 

through  the  vale 
Of  Orras,  from  that  sacred  land  it  bears 
The  whole  collected  waters  ;   northward 

then, 
Skirting    the    heights    of    Aguiar,    ho 

reach' d 
That  consecrated  pile  amid  the  wild. 
Which  sainted  Fructuoso  in  his  zeal 
Rear'd  to  St.  Felix,  on  Visonia's  banks. 

In   commune    with   a   priest   of   ago 

mature. 
Whose  thoughtful  visage  and  majestic 

mien 
Bespake  authority  and  weight  of  care, 
Odoar,  the  venerable  Abbot,  sate,      101 
W^hen  ushering  Roderick  in,  the  Porter 

said, 
A  stranger  came  from  Auria,  and  re- 
quired 
His  private  ear.     From  Auria  ?  said  the 

old  man, 
Comest  thou  from  Auria,  brother  /    I 

can  spare 
Thy  painful  errand  then, .  .  we  know  the 

worst. 

Nay,  answer' d  Roderick,  but  thou  hast 

not  heard 
My  tale.     Where  that  devoted  city  lies 
In  ashes,  'mid  the  ruins  and  the  dead 
I  found  a  woman,  whom  the  Moors  had 

borne  "o 

Captive   away ;     but   she,    by   Heaven 

inspired 
And  her  good  heart,  with  iier  own  arm 

had  wrought 
Her  own  deliverance,  smiting  in  his  tent 
A  lustful  Moorish  miscreant,  as  of  yoro 
By  Judith's  holy  deed  the  As.'^yrian  fell. 
And     that     same     spirit     which     had 

strengthen' d  her 
Work'd  in  her  still.     Four  walls  with 

patient  toil 


230      RODERICK,   THE  LAST  OF  THE   GOTHS 


She  rear'd,  wherein,  as  in  a  sepulchre, 
With  her  own  hands  she  laid  her  mur- 
der'd  babe, 
Her  husband  and  her  parents,  side  by 
side ;  120 

And  when  we  cover' d  in  this  shapeless 

tomb. 
There  on  the  grave  of  all  her  family, 
Did  this  courageous  mourner  dedicate 
All  thoughts  and  actions  of  her  future 

life 
To  her  poor  country.     For  she  said,  that 

Heaven 
Supporting  her,  in  mercy  had  vouch- 
safed 
A  foretaste  of  revenge ;    that,  like  the 

grace 
Of  God,  revenge  had  saved  her ;  that  in  it 
Spain  must  have  her  salvation ;    and 

henceforth 
That  passion,  thus  sublimed  and  sancti- 
fied, 130 
Must  be  to  all  the  loyal  sons  of  Spain 
The  pole-star  of  their  faith,  their  rule 

and  rite. 
Observances  and  worthiest  sacrifice. 
I  took  the  vow,  unworthy  as  I  am, 
Her  first  sworn  follower  in  the  appointed 

rule ; 
And  then  we  parted ;  she  among  the  hills 
To   rouse   the   vassals   of   her  father's 

house : 
I  at  her  bidding  hitherward,  to  ask 
Thy  counsel,  who  of  our  old  Baronage 
Shall  place  upon  his  brow  the  Spanish 
crown.  140 

The  Lady  Adosinda  ?   Odoar  cried. 
Roderick  made  answer.   So  she  call'd 
herself. 

Oh,  none  but  she  !  exclaim'd  the  good 
old  man, 
Clasping  his  hands,  which  trembled  as 
he  spake 


In    act    of    pious    passion    raised    t 

Heaven,  .  . 
Oh,  none  but  Adosinda  !  .  .  none  bui 

she,  .  . 
None  but  that  noble  heart,  which  wa' 

the  heart 
Of  Auria   while  it  stood,   its  life  am, 

strength. 
More  than  her  father's  presence,  or  th. 

arm 
Of  her  brave  husband,  valiant  as  he  was 
Hers  was  the  spirit  which  inspired  ok 
age,  15 

Ambitious  boyhood,  girls  in  timid  youth 
And  virgins  in  the  beauty  of  their  spring'. 
And  youthful  mothers,  doting  like  her 

self 
With  ever-anxious  love  :    She  breathe* 

through  all 
That  zeal  and  that  devoted  faithfulness 
Which   to   the    invader's   threats    an«i 

promises 
Turn'd  a  deaf  ear  alike ;    which  in  th 
head  1 

And  flood  of  prosperous  fortune  check'*! 

his  course, 
Repell'd  him  from  the  walls,  and  whe; 
at  length  16 

His  overpowering  numbers  forced  thei 

way, 
Even  in  that  uttermost  extremity 
Unyielding,  still  from  street  to  street 

from  house 
To  house,  from  floor  to  floor,  maintain'' 

the  fight : 
Till  by  their  altars  falling,  in  their  doon 
And  on  their  household  hearths,  and  b 

their  beds 
And  cradles,  and  their  fathers'  sepu' 

clires. 
This  noble  army,  gloriously  revenged. 
Embraced    their    martyrdom.     Heroi 

souls ! 
Well   have   ye   done,    and   righteousl 
.  discharged  »7 


IV.    THE   MONASTERY   OF   ST.  FELIX         231 


Your  arduous   part !     Your  service   is 

perform' (1, 
Your  earthly  warfare  done  !     Yc  have 

put  on 
The  purple  robe  of  everlasting  peace  ! 
Ve  have  received  your  crown  !    Ye  bear 

the  palm 
Before  the  throne  of  Grace  ! 

With  that  he  paused, 
Checking  the  strong  emotions  of  his  soul. 
Then   with   a   solemn   tone   addressing 

him 
Who  shared  his  secret  thoughts,   thou 

knowest,  he  said, 
I)  Urban,  that  they  have  not  fallen  in 

vain ; 
For    by    this     virtuous    sacrifice  they 

thinu'd  i8o 

Alcahman's  thousands  ;  and  his  broken 

force, 
Exhausted  by  their  dear-bought  victory, 
Turn'd  back  from  Auria,  leaving  us  to 

breathe 
Among  our   mountains  yet.     We  lack 

not  here 
'  iood  hearts,  nor  valiant  hands.     What 

walls  or  towers 
Or  battlements  are  like  these  fastnesses, 
These  rocks  and  glens  and  everlasting 

hills  ? 
•live  but  that  Aurian  spirit,  and   the 

Moors 
^Vill  spend  their  force  as  idly  on  these 

holds. 
As  round  the  rocky  girdle  of  the  land  190 
The  wild  Cautabrian  billows  waste  theii* 

rage. 
Give  but  that  spirit  !  .  .  Heaven  hath 

given  it  us. 
If  Adosinda  thus,  as  from  the  dead. 
Be  granted  to  our  prayers  ! 


^! 


And  those  poor  weeds  bespeak  a  Ufe  ere 

this 
Devoted  to  austere  observances. 

Roderick  replied,  I  am  a  sinful  man, 
One  who  in  solitude  hath  long  deplored 
A  life  mis-spent;    but  never  bound  by 

vows,  201 

Till  Adosinda  taught  me  where  to  find 
Comfort,  and  how  to  work  forgiveness 

out. 
When  that  exalted  woman  took  my  vow. 
She  call'd  me  Maccabcc  ;  from  this  day 

forth 
Be  that  my  earthly  name.     But  tell  me 

now. 
Whom  shall  we  rouse  to  take  upon  his 

head 
The  crown  of  Spain  ?    Where  are  the 

Gothic  Chiefs  ? 
Sacaru,  Theudemir,  Athanagild, 
All    who    survived    that    eight    days' 

obstinate  fight,  210 

When  clogg'd  with  bodies  Chrysus  scarce 

could  force 
Its  bloody  stream  along  '!   Witiza's  sons, 
Bad  offspring  of  a  stock  accurst,  I  know. 
Have  put  the  turban  on  their  recreant 

heads. 
Where  are  your  own  Cantabrian  Lords  ? 

I  ween, 
Eudon,  and  Pedro,  and  Pelayo  now 
Have  ceased  their  rivalry.     If  Pelayo 

live, 
His  were  the  worthy  heart  and  rightful 

hand 
To  wield  the  sceptre  and  the  sword  of 

Spain. 

Odoar  and  Urban  eyed  him  while  he 
spake,  '^ 

And  who  art  thou.    As  if  they  wonder'd  whose  the  tongue 
Said  Urban,  who  hast  taken  on  thyself   j  might  be 

This  rule  of  warlike  faith  ?    Thy  coim-  '  Familiar  thus  with  Chiefs  and  thoughts 
tenauce  of  fctate. 


232      RODERICK,    THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


They  scann'd  his  countenance,  but  not 

a  trace 
Betray' d  the  Royal  Goth  :    sunk  was 

that  eye 
Of  sovereignty,   and   on   the  emaciate 

cheek 
Had    penitence    and    anguish    deeply 

drawn 
Their  furrows  premature,  .  .  forestalling 

time, 
And  shedding  upon  thirty's  brow  more 

snows 
Than  threescore  winters  in  their  natural 

course 
Might   else    have   sprinkled    there.     It 

seems  indeed  230 

That    thou    hast    pass'd    thy    days    in 

solitude, 
Replied  the  Abbot,  or  thou  would' st  not 

ask 
Of  things  80  long  gone  by.     Athanagild 
And   Tlieudemir  have  taken   on   their 

necks 
The  yoke.    Sacaru  play'd  a  nobler  part. 
Long  within  Merida  did  he  withstand 
The  invader's  hot  assault ;    and  when 

at  length, 
Hopeless  of  all  relief,  he  yielded  up 
The  gates,  disdaining  in  his  father's  land 
To  breathe  the  air  of  bondage,  >vdth  a 

few  240 

Found  faithful  till  the  last,  indignantly 
Did  he  toward  the  ocean  bend  his  way, 
And  shaking  from  his  feet  the  dust  of 

Spain, 
Took  ship,  and  hoisted  sail  through  seas 

unknown 
To  seek  for  freedom.     Our  Cantabrian 

Chiefs 
All  have  submitted,  but  the  wary  Moor 
Trusteth  not  all  alike  :  At  his  o\mi  Court 
He  holds  Pelayo,  as  suspecting  most 
That  calm  and  manly  spirit ;    Pedro's 

son 
There  too  is  held  as  hostage,  and  secures 


Count   Eudon 


IS 

251 
When   he 


His   father's   faith ; 

despised, 
And    so   lives    unmolested 

pays 
His  tribute,  an  uncomfortable  thought 
May  then  perhaps  disturb  him  :  .  .  or 

more  like 
He  meditates  how  profitable  'twere 
To  be  a  Moor ;   and  if  apostacy 
Were  all,  and  to  be  unbaptized  might 

serve,  .  . 
But  I  waste  breath  upon  a  \^Tetch  like 

this ; 
Pelayo  is  the  only  hope  of  Spain, 
Only  Pelayo. 

If,  as  we  believe,  260 

Said  Urban  then,  the  hand  of  Heaven  is 

here, 
And  dreadful  though  they  be,  yet  for 

wise  end 
Of  good,  these  visitations  do  its  work  ; 
And  dimly  as  our  mortal  sight  may  scan 
The    future,    yet    methinks    my    soul 

descries 
How  in  Pelayo  should  the  purposes 
Of  Heaven  be  best  accomplished.     All 

too  long. 
Here  in  their  own  inheritance,  the  sons 
Of  Spain  have  groan' d  beneath  a  foreign 

yoke. 
Punic  and  Roman,  Kelt,  and  Goth,  and 

Greek :  270 

This   latter    tempest   comes    to   sweep 

away 
All     proud    distinctions     which     com- 
mingling blood 
And  time's  long  course  have  fail'd  to 

efface ;  and  now 
Perchance  it  is  the  will  of  Fate  to  rear 
Upon  the  soil  of  Spain  a  Spanish  throne, 
Restoring  in  Pelayo' s  native  line 
Tlie  sceptre  to  the  Spaniard. 

Go  thou,  then, 
And   seek    Pelayo   at   the   Conqueror's 

court. 


IV.    THE   MONASTERY   OF   ST.  FELIX 


233 


TcU  him  the  mountaineers  arc  unsub- 
dued ; 

The  precious  time  they  needed  hath 
been  gain'd  280 

By  Auria's  sacrifice,  and  all  they  ask 


Move  them   with  silent  impulse  ;    but 

they  look 
For  help,  and  finding  none  to  succour 

them, 
The  irrevocable  moment  passcth  by. 


f 


Is  him  to  guide  them  on.     In  Odoar's  1  Therefore,  my  brother,  in  the  name  of 

name  |  Clirist 

And  Urban's,  tell  him  that  the  hour  is    Thus  I  lay  hands  on  tliee,  that  in  His 

name 
Thou  with  His  gracious  promises  may'st 
Then  pausing  for  a  moment,  ho  pur-  raise 

sued,  j  The  fallen,  and  comfort  those  that  arc  in 

Tlie  rule  which  thou  hast  taken  on  thy-  '  need,  310 

self  {  And  bring  salvation  to  the  penitent. 

Toledo  rat  ill  cs:  'tis  meet  for  Spain,         j  Now,  brother,  go  thy  way:    the  peace 
And  as  the  will  divine,  to  be  received,  of  God 


Observed,    and   spread   abroad.     Come 

hither  thou, 
Who  for  thyself  hast  chosen  the  good 

l)art ; 
Let  me  lay  hands  on  thee,  and  conse- 
crate 290 
Thy  life  unto  the  Lord. 

Me  !  Roderick  cried  ; 
Me !   sinner  that  I  am  !  .  .  and  while  he 

spake 
His  withered  cheek  grew  paler,  and  his 

limbs 
Shook.     As     thou     goest    among     the 

infidels, 
Pursued  the  Primate,  many  thou  wilt 

find 
Fallen   from   the  faith ;     by    weakness 

some  betrav'd. 


Be  with  thee,  and  his  blessing  prosper  us ! 

V.    RODERICK  AND   SIVERIAN 

Between  St.  Felix  and  the  regal  seat 
Of  Abdalazis,  ancient  Cordoba, 
Lay  many  a  long  day's  journey  inter- 
posed ; 
And    many    a    mountain    range    hath 

Roderick  crost. 
And  many  a  lovely  vale,  ere  he  beheld 
Where  Betis,  winding  through  the  un- 
bounded plain, 
RoH'd  his  majestic  waters.    There  at  eve, 
Entering  an  inn,  he  took  his  humble  seat 
With  other  travellers  round  the  crack- 
ling hearth. 
Where    heath    and    cist  us    gave    their 


Some  led  astray  by  baser  hope  of  gain,  flagrant  flame 


And  haply  too  by  ill  example  led 

Of  those  in  whom  they  trusted.     Yet 

have  these 
Their  lonely  hours,  when  sorrow,  or  the 

touch  300 

Of    sickness,    and    that    aweful    power 

divine 
Which  hath  its  dwelling  in  the  heart  of 

man, 
Life  of  hia  sool,  his  monitor  and  judge, 


That  flame  no  longer,  as  in  other  times. 
Lit  up  the  countenance  of  easy  rairtli 
And   light   discourse  :     the   talk    which 

now  went  round 
W^as  of  the  grief  that  press'd  on  every 

heart ; 
Of  Spain  subdued  ;    the  sceptre  of  the 

Goths 
Broken  ;    their  nation  and  their  name 

eflaced  ; 


i3 


234      RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


Slaughter    and    mourning,    which    had 

left  no  house 
Unvisitcd ;    and  shame,   which  set  its 

mark 
On   every   Spaniard's  face.     One  who 

had  seen 
His    sons    fall    bravely    at    his    side, 

bewail' d  20 

The  unhappy  chance   which,   rescuing 

him  from  death, 
Left  him  the  last  of  all  his  famil}^ ; 
Yet  he  rejoiced  to  think  that  none  who 

drew 
Their  blood  from  him  remain' d  to  wear 

the  yoke, 
Be  at  the  miscreant's  beck,  and  propa- 
gate 
A  breed  of  slaves  to  serve  them.     Here 

sate  one 
Who  told  of  fair  possessions  lost,  and 

babes 
To  goodly  fortunes  born,  of  all  bereft. 
Another  for  a  virgin  daughter  mourn' d, 
The  lewd  barbarian's  spoil.     A  fourth 

had  seen  30 

His  only  child  forsake  him  in  his  age, 
And  for  a  Moor  renounce  her  hope  in 

Christ. 
His  was  the  heaviest  grief  of  all,  he  said  ; 
And  clenching  as  he  spake  his  hoary 

locks, 
He  cursed  King  Roderick's  soul. 

Oh  curse  him  not ! 
Roderick  exclaim' d,  all  shuddering  as 

he  spake. 
Oh,  for  the  love  of  Jesus,  curse  him  not ! 
Sufficient  is  the  dreadful  load  of  guilt 
That  lies  upon  his  miserable  soul  ! 
0  brother,  do  not  curse  that  sinful  soul. 
Which  Jesus  suffer' d  on  the  cross  to 

save !  41 

But  then  an  old  man,  who  had  sate 
thus  long 
A  silent  listener,  from  his  seat  arose, 


And  moving  round  to  Roderick  took  his 

hand  ; 
Christ    bless    thee,    brother,    for    that 

Christian  speech. 
He  said  ;    and  shame  on  me  that  any 

tongue 
Readier  than  mine  was  found  to  utter  it ! 
His  own  emotion   fill'd   him   while  he 

spake. 
So  that  he  did  not  feel  how  Roderick's 

hand 
Shook  like  a  palsied  limb ;    and  none 

could  see  50 

How,    at    his    well-known    voice,    the 

countenance 
Of    that   poor   traveller   suddenly    was  | 

changed,  . 

And  sunk  with  deadlier  paleness ;    f or  1 

the  flame  j 

Was  spent,  and  from  behind  him,  on  the  j 

wall 
High  hung,  the  lamp  with  feeble  glim- 
mering play'd. 

Oh   it   is   ever   thus !     the   old   man 

pursued. 
The  crimes  and  woes  of  universal  Spain 
Are  charged  on  him  ;    and  curses  which 

should  aim 
At  living  heads,  pursue  beyond  the  grave 
His  poor  unhappy  soul !  As  if  his  sin  60 
Had    \\Tought    the    fall    of    our    old 

monarchy  ! 
As  if  the  Mussclmen  in  their  career 
Would  ne'er  have  overleapt  the  gulph 

which  parts 
Iberia  from  the  Mauritanian  shore. 
If  Julian  had  not  beckon'd  them  !  .  . 

Alas! 
The  evils  which  drew  on  our  overthrow, 
Would    soon    by    other    means    have 

wrought  their  end, 
Though  Julian's  daughter  should  have 

lived  and  died 
A  virgin  vow'd  and  veil'd. 


V.    RODERICK  AND  SIVERIAN 


236 


Toucli  not  on  that, 
Shrinking  witli  inward  shivcrings  at  the 

thouglit,  70 

The  penitent   exclaim'd.     Oh,   if   thou 

lovcst 
The  soul  of  Roderick,  touch  not  on  that 

deed  ! 
'  "'d  in  his  mercy  may  forgive  it  him, 
But  human  tongue  must  never  speak  his 

name 
Without  reproach  and  utter  infamj', 
For  that  abhorred  act.     Even  thou  .  . 

But  here 
Siverian  taking  up  the  word,  brake  oti 
Unwittingly     tho     incautious     speech. 

Even  I, 
Quoth  he,  who  nursed  him  in  his  father's 

hall,  .  . 
Even  I  can  only  for  that  deed  of  shame 
Offer  in  agony  my  secret  prayers.        8i 
But  Spain  hath  witness'd  other  crimes 

as  foul : 
Have  we  not  seen  Favila's  shameless 

wife, 
Throned  in  Witiza's  ivory  car,  parade 
Our  towns  with  regal  pageantry,  and  bid 
The  murderous  tyrant  in  her  husband's 

blood 
Dip  liis  adulterous  hand  ?    Did  we  not 

see 
Pclayo,  by  that  bloody  king's  pursuit, 
And  that  unnatural  mother,  from  the 

land 
With    open    outcry,    like   an    outlaw'd 

thief,  90 

Hunted  '!   And  saw  ye  not,  Theodofred, 
As  through  the  streets  I  guided  his  dark 

steps, 
Koll  mournfully  toward  tho  noon-day 

sun 
His    blank    and    senseless    eye- balls  ? 

Spain  saw  this. 
And  suffer'd  it !  .  .  I  seek  not  to  excuse 
The  sin  of  Roderick.     Jcsu,  who  beholds 
The  burning  tears  I  shed  in  solitude, 


Knows  how  I  plead  for  him  in  midnight 

prayer. 
But  if,  when  he  victoriously  revenged 
The  wrongs  of  Chindasuintho's  house, 

his  sword  100 

Had  not  for  mercy  turn'd  aside  its  edge. 
Oh  what  a  day  of  glory  had  there  been 
Upon  the  banks  of  Chrysus  !   Curse  not 

him, 
Who  in  that  fatal  conflict  to  the  last 
So  valiantly   maintain'd  his  country's 

cause ; 
But  if  your  sorrow  needs  must  have  its 

vent 
In  curses,  let  your  imprecations  strike 
The    caitiffs,     who,     when    Roderick's 

horned  helm 
Rose  eminent  amid  the  thickest  fight. 
Betraying  him  who  spared  and  trusted 

them,  no 

Forsook  their  King,  their  Country,  and 

their  God, 
And  gave  the  Moor  his  conquest. 

Ay  !  they  said, 
These  were  Witiza's  hateful  progeny ; 
And  in  an  evil  hour  the  unhappy  King 
Had  spared  the  viperous  brood.     With 

that  they  talk'd 
How  Sisibert  and  Ebba  through  the  land 
Guided  the  foe :    and  Orpas,  who  had 

cast 
The  mitre  from  his  renegado  brow. 
Went  with  the  armies  of  the  infidels ; 
And  how  in  Hispalis,  even  where  his 

hands  120 

Had  minister'd  so  oft  the  bread  of  life, 
The  circumcised  apostate  did  not  sliamo 
To  shew  in  open  day  his  turban'd  head. 
The  Queen  too,  Egilona,  one  exclaim'd  ; 
Was  she  not  married  to  the  enemy, 
The  Moor,   the  Misbeliever  ?    What  a 

heart 
Were  hers,   that  she  could   i)rido  and 

plume  herself 
To  rank  among  his  herd  of  concubines, 


236       RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


Having  been  what  she  had  been  !  And 
who  could  say 

How  far  domestic  wrongs  and  discon- 
tent 130 

Had  wrought  upon  the  King  !  .  .  Hereat 
the  old  man, 

Raising  beneath  the  knit  and  curly  brow 

His  mournful  eyes,  replied,  This  I  can 
tell, 

That  that  unquiet  spirit  and  unblest, 

Though  Roderick  never  told  his  sorrows, 
drove 

Rusilla  from  the  palace  of  her  son. 

She  could  not  bear  to  see  his  generous 
mind 

Wither  beneath  the  unwholesome  in- 
fluence, 

And  cankering  at  the  core.  And  I  know 
well, 

That  oft  when  she  deplored  his  barren 
bed,  140 

The  thought  of  Egilona's  qualities 

Came  like  a  bitter  medicine  for  her  grief. 

And  to  the  extinction  of  her  husband's 
line, 

Sad  consolation,  reconciled  her  heart. 

But  Roderick,  while  they  communed 

thus,  had  ceased 
To  hear,  such  painfulest  anxiety 
The  sight  of  that  old  venerable  man 
Awoke.     A   sickening  fear   came   over 

him : 
The  hope  which  led  him  from  his  her- 
mitage 
Now  seem'd  for  ever  gone,  for  well  he 

knew  150 

Nothing  but  death  could  break  the  ties 

which  bound 
That   faithful   servant   to   his   father's 

house. 
She  then  for  whose  forgiveness  he  had 

yearn' d, 
]     Who  in  her  blessing  would  have  given 

and  found 


The  peace  of  Heaven,  .  .  she  then  wa 

to  the  grave 
Gone  down  disconsolate  at  last ;   in  thi 
Of  all  the  woes  of  her  unhappy  life 
Unhappiest,  that  she  did  not  live  to  se( 
God  had  vouchsafed  repentance  to  he 

child. 
But  then  a  hope  arose  that  yet  she  lived 
The  weighty  cause  which  led  Siveriai 

here  16 

Might  draw  him  from  her  side ;    bette 

to  know 
The  worst  than  fear  it.     And  with  tha 

he  bent 
Over  the  embers,  and  with  head  hal 

raised 
Aslant,  and  shadow' d  by  his  hand,  h' 

said, 
Where    is    King    Roderick's    mother 

lives  she  still  ? 

God  hath  upheld  her,   the  old  mai 

replied ; 
She  bears  this  last  and  heaviest  of  he] 

griefs, 
Not  as  she  bore  her  husband's  wrongs] 

when  hope 
And  her  indignant  heart  sui^ported  her 
But  patiently,  like  one  who  finds  fron! 

Heaven  x? 

A  comfort  which  the  world  can  neithe 

give 
Nor  take  away.  .  .  Roderick  inquired  n< 

more ; 
He  breathed  a  silent  prayer  in  gratitude 
Then  wrapt  his  cloak  around  him,  anc 

lay  down 
Where  he  might  weep  unseen. 

When  morning  came 
Earliest   of  all  the  travellers  he  wen 

forth, 
And  linger'd  for  Siverian  by  the  way. 
Beside  a  fountain,  where  the  constan 

fall  17' 

Of  water  its  perpetual  gurgling  made, 


V.    RODERICK   AND   SIVERIAN 


237 


^\ 


To  the  wayfaring  or  the  musing  man 
Sweetest    of    all    sweet    sounds.     The 

Christian  hand. 
Whoso    general    charity    for    man    and 

beast 
Built  it  in  better  times,  had  with  a  cross 
Of   well-hewn   stone  crested   the   jmous 

work, 
Which  now  the  misbelievers  had  cast 

down, 
And  broken  in  the  dust  it  lay  defiled. 
Roderick  beheld  it  lying  at  his  feet. 
And  gathering  reverently  the  fragments 

up. 
Placed   them    within    the   cistern,   and 

restored  190 

With  careful  collocation  its  dear  form, .  . 
So    might    the  waters,  like    a    crystal  I 

shrine. 
Preserve  it   from   pollution.     Kneeling 

then. 
O'er  the  memorial  of  redeeming  love 
Ho  bent,  and  mingled  with  the  fount  his 

tears. 
And  pour'd  his  spirit  to  the  Crucified. 

A  Moor  came  by,   and  seeing  him, 

exclaim'd, 
Ah,  Kaffer  !    worshipper  of  wood  and 

stone, 
God's  curse   confound   thee !     And   as 

Roderick  turn'd 
His  face,  the  miscreant  spurn'd  him  with 

his  foot  200 

Between  the  eyes.     Tlie  indignant  King 

arose. 
And  fell'd  him  to  the  ground.     But  then 

the  Moor 
Drew  forth  his  dagger,  rising  as  he  cried. 
What,  darest  thou,  thou  infidel  and  .slave, 
Strike  a  believer  ?   and  he  aim'd  a  blow 
At   Roderick's   breast.     But    Roderick 

caught  his  arm, 
And  closed,  and   wrenoh'd  the  dagger 

from  his  hold,  .  . 


Such  timely  strength  did  those  emaciate 

limbs 
From  indignation  draw,  .  .  and  in  hi.s 

neck 
With     mortal     stroke     ho     drove     tho 

avenging  steel  210 

Hilt  deep.     Tlien,  as  the  thirsty  sand 

drank  in 
The    expiring    miscreant's     blood,     ho 

look'd  around 
In  sudden  apprehension,  lest  the  Moors 
Had  seen  them  ;    but  Siverian  was  in 

sight, 
Tlie  only  traveller,  and  ho  smote  his 

mule 
And  hasten'd  up.     Ah,  brother !    said 

the  old  man, 
Thine  is  a  spirit  of  the  ancient  mould  ! 
And  would  to  God  a  thousand  men  like 

thee 
Had  fought  at  Roderick's  side  on  that 

last  day 
When  treason  overpower'd  him  !    Now, 

alas !  220 

A  manly  Gothic  heart  doth  ill  accord 
With  these  unhappy  times.     Come,  let 

us  hide 
This  carrion,  while  the  favouring  hour 

permits. 

80   saying   he   alighted.     Soon    they 

scoop' d 
Amid  loose-lying  sand  a  hasty  grave. 
And  levell'd  over  it  the  easy  soil. 
Father,  said  Roderick,  as  they  journey'd 

on, 
Let  this  thing  be  a  seal  and  sacrament 
Of  truth  between  us  :   Wherefore  should 

there  be 
Concealment  between  two  right  Gothic 

hearts  230 

In  evil  days  like  ours  ?   What  thou  hast 

seen 
Is  but  the  first  fruit  of  the  sacrifice, 
Whi(;h  on  this  injured  and  polluted  soil, 


238      RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


As  on  a  bloody  altar,  I  have  sworn 
To  offer  to  insulted  Heaven  for  Spain, 
Her  vengeance  and  her  expiation.     This 
Was  but  a  hasty  act,  by  sudden  wrong 
Provoked  :  but  I  am  bound  for  Cordoba, 
On  weighty  mission  from  Visonia  sent, 
To  breathe  into  Pelayo's  ear  a  voice  240 
Of  spirit-stirring  power,  which,  like  the 

trump 
Of   the  Arch-angel,    shall  awake  dead 

Spain. 
The  northern  mountaineers  are  unsub- 
dued ; 
They  call  upon  Pelayo  for  their  chief  ; 
Odoar  and  Urban  tell  him  that  the  hour 
Is  come.     Thou  too,  I  ween,  old  man, 

art  charged 
With  no  light  errand,  or  thou  wouldst 

not  now 
Have  left  the  ruins  of  thy  master's  house. 

Who  art  thou  ?   cried  Siverian,  as  he 

search' d 
The  wan  and  wither' d  features  of  the 

King.  250 

The  face  is  of  a  stranger,  but  thy  voice 
Disturbs  me  like  a  dream. 

Roderick  replied, 
Tliou  seest  me  as  I  am,  .  .  a  stranger ; 

one 
Whose  fortunes  in  the  general   wreck 

were  lost, 
His  name  and  lineage  utterly  extinct. 
Himself  in  mercy  spared,  surviving  all ; . . 
In  mercy,  that  the  bitter  cup  might  heal 
A  soul  diseased.     Now,  having  cast  the 

slough 
Of  old  offences,  thou  beholdest  me 
A  man  new  born  ;    in  second  baptism 

named,  260 

Like  those  who  in  Judea  bravely  raised 
Against  the  Heathen's  impious  tyranny 
The  banner  of  Jehovah,  Maccabee ; 
So  call  me.     In  that  name  hath  Urban 

laid 


His  consecrating  hands  upon  my  head ; 
And  in  that  name  have  I  myself  for  Spain 
Devoted.     Tell  me  now  why  thou  art 

sent 
To  Cordoba  ;   for  sure  thou  goest  not 
An  idle  gazer  to  the  Conqueror's  court. 

Thou  judgest  well,  the  old  man  replied. 

I  too  270 

Seek  the  Cantabrian  Prince,  the  hope  of     1 

Spain,  I 

With  other  tidings  charged,  for  other     1 

end  I 

Design' d,  yet  such  as  well  may  work 

with  thine. 
My  noble  Mistress  sends  me  to  avert 
The  shame  that  threats  his  house.     The 

renegade 
Numacian,  he  who  for  the  infidels 
Oppresses  Gegio,  insolently  woos 
His  sister.     Moulded  in  a  wicked  womb, 
The  unworthy  Guisla  hath  inherited 
Her  Mother's  leprous  taint ;    and  will- 
ingly 280 
She    to    the    circumcised    and    upstart 

slave. 
Disdaining  all  admonishment,  gives  ear. 
Tiie  Lady  Gaudiosa  sees  in  this, 
With  the  quick  foresight  of  maternal 

care. 
The  impending  danger  to  her  husband's 

house. 
Knowing  his  generous  spirit  ne'er  will 

brook 
The  base  alliance.     Guisla  lewdly  sets 
His  will  at  nought ;   but  that  vile  rene- 
gade. 
From   hatred,   and  from   avarice,   and 
from  fear,  289 

Will  seek  the  extinction  of  Pelayo's  line. 
This  too  my  venerable  Mistress  sees  ; 
Wherefore    these    valiant    and    high- 
minded  dames 
Send  me  to  Cordoba  ;  that  if  the  Prince 
Cannot  by  timely  interdiction  stop     . 


V.    RODERICK   AND  SIVERIAN 


239 


The  irrevocable  act  of  infamy, 

He  may  at  least  to  his  own  safety  look, 

Being  timely  warnM. 

Thy  ^listrcss  sojourns  then 
With  Oaudiosa,  in  Pelayo's  hall  ? 
Said  Roderick.     'Tis  her  natural  home, 

rejoin'd 
Sivcrian  :    Chindasuintho's  royal  race 
Have  ever  shared  one  lot  of  weal  or  woe  : 
Ami  she  who  hath  beheld  her  own  fair 

shoot,  301 

Tlie  goodly  summit  of  that  ancient  tree, 
Struck  by  Heaven's  bolt,  seeks  shelter 

now  beneath 
The  only  branch  of  its  majestic  stem 
That  still  survives  the  storm. 

Thus  they  pursued 
Their  journey,  each  from  other  gathering 

store 
For  thought,  with  many  a  silent  interval 
Of  mournful  meditation,  till  they  saw 
Tlie  temples  and  the  towers  of  Cordoba 
Shining  majestic  in  the  light  of  eve.  310 
Before  them  Betis  roll'd  his  glittering 

stream. 
In  many  a  silvery  winding  traced  afar 
Amid    the    ample    plain.     Behind    the 

walla 
And    stately    piles    which    crown'd    its 

margin,  rich 
With  olives,  and  with  sunny  slope  of 

vines, 
And  many  a  lovely  hamlet  interspersed, 
Whose   citron   bowers    were    once    the 

abode  of  peace. 
Height  above  height,  receding  hills  were 

seen 
Imbued  with  evening  hues  ;  and  over  all 
Tlie  summits  of  the  dark  sierra  rose,  320 
Lifting  their  heads  amid  the  silent  sky. 
The  traveller  who  with  a  heart  at  ease 
Had  seen  the  goodly  vision,  would  have 

loved 
To  linger,  seeking  with  insatiate  sight 
To  treasure  up  its  image,  deep  impress'd. 


A  joy  for  years  to  come.     0  Cordoba, 
Exelaim'd  the  old  man,  how  princely  nro 

thy  towers, 
How  fair  thy  vales,  thy  hills  how  beauti- 
ful ! 
The  sun  who  sheds  on  thee  his  partin^j 

smiles  329 

Sees  not  in  all  his  wide  career  a  scene 
Lovelier,  nor  more  exuberantly  blest 
By  bounteous  earth  and  heaven.     The 

very  gales 
Of  Eden  waft  not  from  the  immortal 

bowers 
Odours  to  sense  more  exquisite,   than 

these 
Which,  breathing  from  thy  groves  and 

gardens,  now 
Recall  in  me  such  thoughts  of  bitterness. 
The  time   has   been   when   happy   was 

their  lot 
Who    had    their   birthright   here ;     but 

happy  now 
Are  they  who  to  thy  bosom  are  gone 

home, 
Because  they  feel  not  in  their  graves 

the  feet  340 

That   trample   upon   Spain.     'Tis    well 

that  age 
Hath  made  me  like  a  cliild,  that  I  can 

weep  : 
My  heart  would  else  have  broken,  over- 
charged. 
And  I,  false  servant,  should  lie  doN\-n  to 

rest 
Before  my  work  is  done. 

Hard  by  their  path, 
A  little  way  without  the  walls,  there 

stood 
An  edifice,  whereto,  as  by  a  spell, 
Siverian's  heart  was  drawn.     Brother, 

quoth  he, 
'Tis  like  the  urgency  of  our  return 
Will  brook  of  no  retardment ;    and  this 

spot  350 

It  were  a  sin  if  I  ahoukl  pasn,  and  leave 


240       RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OP   THE   GOTHS 


Unvisited.     Beseech  you  turn  with  me, 
The  while  I  oflfer  up  one  duteous  prayer. 

Roderick  made  no  reply.     He  had  not 

dared 
To  turn  his  face  toward  those  walls  ;  but 

now 
He  follow'd  where  the  old  man  led  the 

way. 
Lord  !    in  his  heart  the  silent  sufferer 

said, 
Forgive  my  feeble  soul,   which   would 

have  shrunk 
From  this, . .  for  what  am  I  that  I  should 

put  359 

The  bitter  cup  aside  !    0  let  my  shame 
And  anguish  be  accepted  in  thy  sight ! 


VI.    RODERICK  IN  TIMES  PAST 

The  mansion  whitherward  they  went, 

was  one 
Which   in   his   youth   Theodofred   had 

built : 
Thither  had  he  brought  home  in  happy 

hour 
His  blooming  bride ;    there  fondled  on 

his  knee 
The  lovely  boy  she   bore  him.     Close 

beside, 
A  temple  to  that  Saint  he  rear'd,  who 

first. 
As    old    tradition    tells,    proclaim' d    to 

Spain 
The  gospel-tidings ;    and  in  health  and 

youth, 
There  mindful  of  mortality,  he  saw 
His  sepulchre  prepared.   AVitiza  took    lo 
For  his  adulterous  leman  and  himself 
The  stately  pile  :   but  to  that  sepulchre, 
When    from    captivity    and    darkness 

death 
Enlarged    him,    was    Theodofred    con- 
sign'd  ; 


For  that  unhappy  woman,  wasting  then 
Beneath  a  mortal  malady,  at  heart 
Was  smitten,   and  the  Tyrant  at  her 

prayer 
This  poor  and  tardy  restitution  made. 
Soon  the  repentant  sinner  follow'd  him ; 
And  calling  on  Pelayo  ere  she  died,      20 
For  his  own  wrongs,  and  for  his  father's 

death. 
Implored    forgiveness    of    her    absent 

child,  .  . 
If  it  were  possible  he  could  forgive 
Crimes  black  as  hers,  she  said.     And  by 

the  pangs 
Of  her  remorse,  .  .  by  her  last  agonies,  .  . 
The  unutterable  horrors  of  her  death,  .  . 
And  by  the  blood  of  Jesus  on  the  cross 
For  sinners  given,  did  she  beseech  his 

prayers 
In  aid  of  her  most  miserable  soul. 
Thus    mingling    sudden    shrieks    with 

hopeless  vows,  30 

And  uttering  franticly  Pelayo's  name, 
And  crying  out  for  mercy  in  despair. 
Here  had  she  made  her  dreadful  end, 

and  here 
Her  wretched  body  was  deposited. 
That  presence  seem'd  to  desecrate  the 

place  : 
Thenceforth  the  usurper  shunn'd  it  with 

the  heart 
Of  conscious  guilt ;  nor  could  Rusilla  bear 
These  groves  and  bowers,   which,  like 

funereal  shades, 
Oppress' d  her  with  their  monumental 

forms  : 
One  day  of  bitter  and  severe  delight,   40 
When  Roderick  came  for  vengeance,  she 

endured, 
And  then  for  ever  left  her  bridal  halls. 

Oh  when  I  last  beheld  yon  princely 
pile, 
Exclaim'd   Siverian,    with    what    other 
thoughts 


VI.    RODERICK    IX    LIMES   PAST 


241 


I'ull,  and  elato  of  spirit,  did  I  pass 

Its  joyous  gates  !    The  weedery  which 

through 
Tlie  interstices  of  those  neglected  courts 
Uncheck'd    had    flourish' d    long,    and 

seeded  there, 
Was  trampled  then  and  bruised  beneath 

the  feet 
Of  thronging  crowds.     Here  drawn  in 

fair  arraj',  50 

The    faithful    vassals    of    my    master's 

house. 
Their  javelins  sparkling  to  the  morning 

sun. 
Spread  their  triumphant  banners  ;  high- 
plumed  helms 
Rose  o'er  the  martial  ranks,  and  pran- 
cing steeds 
Made  answer  to  the  trumpet's  stirring 

voice  ; 
While   yonder   towers   shook   the   dull 

silence  off 
Which  long  to  their  deserted  walls  had 

clung, 
And  with  redoubling  echoes  swell' d  the 

shout 
Tliat  hail'd  victorious  Roderick.  Louder 

rose 
Tlie  acclamation,   when  the  dust   was 

seen  60 

Rising  beneath  his  chariot- wheels  far  off ; 
But  nearer  as  the  youthful  hero  came, 
All  sounds  of  all   the  multitude   were 

hush'd. 
And    from    the    thousands    and    ten 

thousands  here, 
Whom     Cordoba    and     Hispalis     sent 

forth,  . . 
Yea  whom  all  Baetica,  all  Spain  pour'd 

out 
To  greet  his  triumph,  .  .  not  a  whisper 

rose 
To   Heaven,   such   awe   and   reverence 

master'd  them, 
Such  expectation  held  them  motionless. 


Conqueror  and  King  he  came  ;   but  with 

no  joy  70 

Of  conquest,  and  no  pride  of  sovereignty 
That  day  display'd  ;    for  at  his  father's 

grave 
Did  Roderick  come  to  offer  up  his  vow 
Of    vengeance    well    perform'd.     Three 

coal-black  steeds 
Drew  on  his  ivory  chariot :    by  his  side, 
Still  wrapt  in   mourning  for  the  long- 
deceased, 
Rusilla  sate  ;  a  deeper  paleness  blanch' d 
Her  faded  countenance,  but  in  her  eye 
The  light  of  her  majestic  nature  shone. 
Bound,   and  expecting  at  their  hands 

the  death  80 

So  well  deserved,  Witiza  follow' d  them  ; 
Aghast  and   trembling,   first   he  gazed 

around, 
Wildly  from  side  to  side  ;  then  from  the 

face 
Of  universal  execration  shrunk, 
Hanging    his    wretched    head    abased ; 

and  poor 
Of  spirit,  with  unmanly  tears  deplored 
His    fortune,    not    liis    crimes.     With 

bolder  front, 
Confiding  in  his  priestly  character, 
Came  Orpas  next ;  and  then  the  spurious 

race 
Whom  in  unhappy  hour  Favila's  wife  90 
Brought  forth  for  Spain.     0  mercy  ill 

bestow'd. 
When  Roderick,  in  compassion  for  their 

youth. 
And  for  Pelayo's  sake,  forbore  to  crush 
The  brood  of  vipers  ! 

Err  perchance  he  might. 
Replied   the   Goth,    suppressing   as   he 

spake 
All  outward  signs  of  pain,  though  every 

word 
Went   like    a   dagger    to    his    bleeding 

heart ;  .  . 
But  sure,  I  ween,  that  error  is  not  placed 


242      RODERICK,   THE   LAST   OF   THE    GOTHS 


Among  his  sins.     Old  man,  thou  mayest 

regret 
The    mercy    ill    deserved,    and    worse 

return' d,  loo 

But  not  for  this  wouldst  thou  reproach 

the  King ! 

Reproach  him  !    cried  Siverian ;  .  .  I 

reproach 
My  child,  .  .  my  noble  boy,  .  .  whom 

every  tongue 
Bless'd  at  that  hour,  .  .  whose  love  fiU'd 

every  heart 
With  joy,   and  every  eye   with  joyful 

tears  ! 
My  brave,  my  beautiful,  my  generous 

boy! 
Brave,  beautiful,  and  generous  as  he  was. 
Never  so  brave,  so  beautiful,  so  great 
As  then, . .  not  even  on  that  glorious  day. 
When  on  the  field  of  victory,  elevate  no 
Amid  the  thousands  who  acclaim' d  him 

King, 
Firm  on  the  shield  above  their  heads 

upraised. 
Erect  he  stood,  and  waved  his  bloody 

sword.  .  . 
Why  dost  thou  shake  thy  head  as  if  in 

doubt  ? 
I  do  not  dream,  nor  fable  !    Ten  short 

years 
Have  scarcely   pass'd  away,   since   all 

within 
The  Pyrenean  hills,  and  the  three  seas 
Which    girdle    Spain,    echoed    in    one 

response 
The    acclamation    from    that    field    of 

fight.  .  . 
Or  doth  aught  ail  thee,  that  thy  body 

quakes  120 

And  shudders  thus  ? 

'Tis  but  a  chill,  replied 
The  King,  in  passing  from  the  open  air 
Under    the    shadow    of    this    thick-set 

grove. 


Oh  !    if  this  scene  awoke  in  thee  such 

thoughts 
As  swell  my  bosom  here,  the  old  man 

pursued. 
Sunshine,  or  shade,  and  all  things  from 

without, 
Would   be   alike   indifferent.     Gracious 

God, 
Only  but  ten  short  years,  .  .  and  all  so 

changed  ! 
Ten  little  years  since  in  yon  court  he 

check'd 
His  fiery  steeds.     The  steeds  obey'd  his 

hand,  130 

The    whirling    wheels   stood    still,    and 

when  he  leapt 
Upon  the  pavement,  the  whole  people 

heard. 
In  their  deep  silence,   open-ear'd,   the 

sound. 
With  slower  movement  from  the  ivory 

seat 
Rusilla  rose,  her  arm,  as  do\Mi  she  stept. 
Extended  to  her  son's  supporting  hand  ; 
Not  for  default  of  firm  or  agile  strength, 
But  that  the  feeling  of  that  solemn  hour 
Subdued  her  then,  and  tears  bedimm'd 

her  sight. 
Howbeit  when  to  her  husband's  grave 

she  came,  140 

On  the  sepulchral  stone  she  bow'd  her^ 

head 
Awhile  ;  then  rose  collectedly,  and  fix'd 
Upon  the  scene  her  calm  and  steady  eye. 
Roderick,  .  .  oh  when  did  valour  wear  a 

form 
So  beautiful,  so  noble,  so  august  ? 
Or  vengeance,  when  did  it  put  on  before 
A  character  so  aweful,  so  divine  ? 
Roderick  stood  up,  and  reaching  to  the 

tomb 
His  hands,  my  hero  cried,  Theodofred  ! 
Father  !   I  stand  before  thee  once  again, 
According  to  thy  prayer,  when  kneeling 

down  151 


I 


VI.    RODERICK   IN  TIMES   PAST 


243 


tcaf 


Between  thy  knees  I  took  my  last  fare- 
well ; 
And  vow'd  by  all  thy  suflferings,  all  thy 

wrongs, 
And  by  my  mother's  days  and  nights  of 

woe. 
Her  silent  anguish,  and  the  grief  which 

then 
I^ven  from  thee  she  did  not  seek  to  iiide, 
That  if  our  cruel  parting  should  avail 
To  save  me  from  the  Tyrant's  jealous 

guilt. 
Surely  should  my  avenging  sword  fulfil 
Whate'er  he   omen'd.     Oh   that   time, 

I  cried,  i6o 

Would  give  the  strength  of  manhood  to 

this  arm, 
Already  would  it  find  a  manly  heart 
To  guide  it  to  its  purpose  !   And  I  swore 
Never  again  to  see  my  father's  face. 
Nor  ask   my   mother's   blessing,   till   I 

brought. 
Dead  or  in  chains,  the  Tyrant  to  thy  feet. 
Boy    as   I    was,    before   all    Saints   in 

Heaven, 
And  highest  God,  wiiose  justice  slum- 

bereth  not, 
I   made   the   vow.     According   to   thy 

prayer, 
In  all  things,  0  my  father,  is  that  vow 
Perform' d,  alas  too  well !  for  thou  didst 

pray,  171 

While  looking  up  I  felt  the  burning  tears 
Which     from     thy     sightless     sockets 

stream' d,  drop  down,  .  . 
That  to  thy  grave,  and  not  thy  living 

feet, 
The  oppressor  might   be  led.     Behold 

him  there,  .  . 
Father  !    Theodofred  !    no  longer  now 
In   darkness,    from    thy   heavenly   seat 

look  down, 
And  see  before  thy  grave  thine  enemy 
In  bonds,  awaiting  judgement  at   my 

hand  ! 


Thus  while  the  hero  spake,   Witiza 

stood  180 

Listening  in  agony,  with  open  mouth, 
And  head  half-raised,   toward   hi.s  k-u- 

tence  turn'd  ; 
His  eye-lids  stiflen'd  and  pursed  up,  .  . 

his  eyes 
Rigid,  and  wild,  and  wide  ;    and  when 

the  King 
Had    ceased,    amid    the    silence    which 

ensued, 
The  dastard's  chains  were  heard,  link 

against  link 
Clinking.     At  length  upon  his  knees  he 

fell. 
And   lifting   up    his    trembling    hands, 

outstretch' d 
In    supplication,    .    .    Mercy !     he    ex- 

claim'd,  .  .  '^ 

Chains,    dungeons,    darkness,    .    .    any 

thing  but  death  !  .  .  190 

I  did  not  touch  his  life. 

Roderick  replied, 
His  hour,  whenever  it  had  come,  had 

found 
A  soul  prepared  :   he  lived  in  peace  with 

Heaven, 
And  life  prolong' d  for  him,   was  bliss 

delay' d. 
But  life,  in  pain  and  darkness  and  de- 
spair. 
For  thee,  all  leprous  as  thou  art  with 

crimes, 
Is  mercy. . .  Take  him  hence,  and  let  liim 

see 
The  light  of  day  no  more  !  ^- 

Such  Roderick  was 
When  last  I  saw  these  courts,  .  .   his 

theatre 
Of  glory  ;  .  .  such  when  last  I  visited  200 
My   master's  grave  !     Ten   years   have 

hardly  held 
Tlieir  course,  .  .  ten  little  years  .  .  break, 

break,  old  heart  .  . 
Oh,  why  art  thou  so  tough  ! 


244      RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


As  thus  he  spake 
They   reach' d    the    church.     The    door 

before  his  hand 
Gave   way ;     both   blinded    with   their 

tears,  they  went 
Straight    to    the    tomb ;      and    there 

Siverian  knelt, 
And  bow'd  his  face  upon  the  sepulchre, 
Weeping  aloud  ;    while  Roderick,  over- 
power'd, 
And  calling  upon  earth  to  cover  him, 
Threw  himself  prostrate  on  his  father's 
grave.  210 

Thus  as  they  lay,  an  aweful  voice  in 

tones 
Severe  address' d  them.     Who  are  ye,  it 

said. 
That  with  your  passion  thus,  and  on 

this  night, 
Disturb    my    prayers  ?     Starting    they 

rose  ;    there  stood 
A  man  before  them  of  majestic  form 
And  stature,  clad  in  sackcloth,  bare  of 

foot, 
Pale,  and  in  tears,  with  ashes  on  his 

head. 


VH.    RODERICK   AND   PELAYO 

'TwAS  not  in  vain  that  on  her  absent 

son, 
Pela3''o's  mother  from  the  bed  of  death 
Call'd  for  forgiveness,  and  in  agony 
Besought  his  prayers ;    all  guilty  as  she 

was. 
Sure  he  had  not  been  human,  if  that  cry 
Had   fail'd   to   pierce   him.     When   he 

heard  the  tale 
He  bless' d  the  messenger,  even  while  his 

speech 
Was  faltering,  .  .   while  from  head  to 

foot  he  shook 
With  icy  feelings  from  his  inmost  heart 


Effused.     It  changed  the  nature  of  his 

woe,  10 

Making  the  burthen  more  endurable : 
The    life-long    sorrow    that    remain' d, 

became 
A  healing  and  a  chastening  grief,  and 

brought 
His  soul,   in  close  communion,  nearer 

Heaven. 
For  he  had  been  her  first-born,  and  the 

love 
Which  at  her  breast  he  drew,  and  from 

her  smiles. 
And    from    her    voice    of    tenderness 

imbibed. 
Gave    such    unnatural    horror    to    her 

crimes. 
That  when  the  thought  came  over  him, 

it  seem'd 
As  if  the  milk  which  with  his  infant  life 
Had     blended,     thrill' d     like     poison 

through  his  frame.  ^i 

It  was  a  woe  beyond  all  reach  of  hope. 
Till  with  the  dreadful  tale  of  her  remorse 
Faith  touch' d  his  heart ;   and  ever  from 

that  day 
Did  he  for  her  who  bore  him,  night  and 

morn, 
Pour  out  the  anguish  of  his  soul  in 

prayer : 
But  chiefly  as  the  night  return'd,  which 

heard 
I  Her  last  expiring  groans  of  penitence. 
Then    through    the    long    and    painful 

hours,  before 
The  altar,  like  a  penitent  himself,        30 
He  kept  his  vigils  ;  and  when  Roderick's 

sword 
Subdued  Witiza,  and  the  land  was  free, 
Duly  upon  her  grave  he  offer'd  up 
His  yearly  sacrifice  of  agony 
And  prayer.     This  was  the  night,  and 

he  it  was 
Who  now  before  Siverian  and  the  Kingj 
Stood  up  in  sackcloth. 


VII.    RODERICK   AND   PELAYO 


246 


The  old  man,  from  fear 
Recovering    and    from    wonder,    knew 

him  tirst. 
It  is  the  Prince  !    he  cried,  and  bending 

down 
Embraced  his  knees.     The  action  and 

the  word  40 

Awaken'd  Roderick  ;    he  shook  oil  the 

load 
( >f  struggling  thoughts,  which  pressing 

on  his  heart. 
Held  him  like  one  entranced  ;    yet,  all 

untaught 
To  bend  before  the  face  of  man,  confused 
Awhile  he  stood,  forgetful  of  his  part. 
But  when  Siverian  cried,  My  Lord,  my 

Lord, 
Now  God  be  praised  that  I  have  found 

thee  thus, 
My  Lord  and  Prince,  Spain's  only  hope 

and  mine  I 
Then  Roderick,  echoing  him,  exclaim' d, 

.My  Lord 
And  Prince,  Pelayo  ! . .  and  approaching 

near,  50 

He  bent  his  knee  obeisant :  but  his  head 
Earthward  inclined  ;   while  the  old  man, 

looking  up 
From  his  low  gestme  to  Pelayo's  face. 


And  Spain  were  Spain  once  more.     A 

tale  of  ill 
I  bear,   but  one  that   touches  not   the 

heart 
Like    what    thy    fears    forbode.     The 

renegade 
Xumacian  woos  thy  sister,  and  she  lends 
To  the  vile  slave,  unworthily,  her  ear  : 
The  Lady  Gaudiosa  hatii  in  vain 
Warn'd  her  of  all  the  evils  which  await 
A    union    thus    accurst :     she    seta    at 

nought 
Her  faith,  her  lineage,  and  thy  certain 

wrath.  70 

Pelayo  hearing  him,  rcmain'd  awhile 

Silent ;  then  turning  to  his  mother's 
grave,  .  . 

0  thou  poor  dust,  hath  then  the  infec- 
tious taint 

Survived  thy  dread  remorse,  that  it 
should  run 

In  Guisla's  veins  ?  he  cried  ;  .  .  I  should 
have  heard 

This  shameful  sorrow  any  where  but 
here  !  .  . 

Humble  thyself,  proud  heart ;  thou, 
gracious  Heaven, 

Be  merciful  !  .  .  it  is  the  original  Haw, .  . 


Wept  at  beholding  him  for  grief  and  joy.  j  And  what  are  we  ?  .  .  a  weak  unhappy 

race, 


Siverian  I  cried  the  chief,  .  .  of  whom 
hath  Death 

Bereaved  me,  that  thou  comest  to 
Cordoba  ?  .  . 

Children,  or  wife  '.'  .  .  Or  hath  the  merci- 
less scythe 

Of  this  abhorr'd  and  jealous  tyranny 

Made  my  house  desolate  at  one  wide 
sweep  ? 

Tliey  are  as  thou  couldst  wish,  the 
old  man  replied,  60 

Wert  thou  but  lord  of  thine  own  house 
again, 


Born  to  our  sad  inheritance  of  sin         80 
And  death  !  .  .  He  smote  his  forehead  as 

he  spake. 
And  from  his  head  the  ashes  fell,  like 

snow 
Shaken    from    some    dry    beech-leaves, 

when  a  bird 
Lights  on  the  bending  spray.     A  little 

while 
In  silence,  rather  than  in  thought,  he 

stood 
Passive  beneath  the  sorrow  :     turning 

then, 
And  what  doth  Gaudiosa  counsel  me  7 


246       RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


He  ask'd  the  old  man ;    for  she  hath 

ever  been 
My  wise  and  faithful  counsellor.  .  .  He 

replied, 
The  Lady  Gaudiosa  bade  me  say         90 
She  sees  the  danger  which  on  every  part 
Besets  her  husband's  house  .  .  Here  she 

had  ceased  ; 
But  when  my  noble  ^Mistress  gave  in 

charge, 
How  I  should  tell  thee  that  in  evil  times 
The  bravest  counsels  ever  are  the  best ; 
Then  that  high-minded  Lady  thus  re- 
join'd. 
Whatever    be    my    Lord's    resolve,    he 

knows 
I  bear  a  mind  prepared. 

Brave  spirits  !   cried 
Pelaj^o,  worthy  to  remove  all  stain 
Of  weakness  from  their  sex  !    I  should 

be  less  100 

Than  man,  if,  drawing  strength  where 

others  find 
Their  hearts  most  open  to  assault  of  fear, 
I  quail' d  at  danger.     Xever  be  it  said 
Of  Spain,  that  in  the  hour  of  her  distress 
Her  women  were  as  heroes,  but  her  men 
Perform' d  the  woman's  part. 

Roderick  at  that 
Look'd  up,   and  taking  up  the   word, 

exclaim' d, 
O  Prince,  in  better  days  the  pride  of 

Spain, 
And  prostrate  as   she  lies,   her  surest 

hope. 
Hear   now    my    tale.     The    fire    which 

seem'd  extinct  no 

Hath  risen  revigorate  :    a  living  spark 
From  Auria's  ashes,  by  a  woman's  hand 
Preserved   and   quicken' d,    kindles   far 

and  wide 
The  beacon-flame  o'er  all  the  Asturian 

hills. 
There    hath    a    vow    been    offer' d    up, 

which  binds 


Us  and  our  children's  children  to  the 

work 
Of  holy  hatred.     In  the  name  of  Spain 
That  vow  hath   been   pronounced  and 

register' d 
I  Above,    to   be   the   bond    whereby   we 
I  stand 

:  For      condemnation      or      acceptance. 

I  Heaven  120 

Received  the  irrevocable  vow,  and  Earth 

Must  witness  its  fulfilment,  Earth  and 

Heaven 
j  Call  upon  thee,  Pelayo  !    L'pon  thee 
j  The  spirits  of  thy  royal  ancestors 
i  Look  down  expectant ;   unto  thee,  from 

fields 
Laid    waste,    and   hamlets    burnt,    and 

cities  sack'd, 
The  blood  of  infancy  and  helpless  age 
Cries  out  ;    thy  native  mountains  call 

for  thee, 
Echoing  from  all  their  armed  sons  thy 

name. 
And  deem  not  thou  that  hot  impatience 
j  goads  130 

Th}'  countrymen  to  counsels  immature. 
;  Odoar  and  Urban  from  Visonia's  banks 
Send  me,  their  sworn  and  trusted  mes- 
senger. 
To  summon  thee,  and  tell  thee  in  then: 

name 
Tliat  now  the  hour  is  come :    For  sure 

it  seems. 
Thus  saith  the  Primate,  Heaven's  high 

will  to  rear 
Upon  the  soil  of  Spain  a  Spanish  throne, 
Restoring  in  thy  native  line,  0  Prince, 
The  sceptre  to  the  Spaniard.     Worthy 

son 
Of  that  most  ancient  and  heroic  race,  140 
Which  with  unweariable  endurance  still 
Hath     striven     against     its     mightier 

enemies, 
Roman  or  Carthaginian,  Greek  or  Goth  ; 
So  often  by  superior  arms  oppress'd, 


VII.    RODERICK   AND    PELAYO 


247 


More  often  by  sui)erior  arts  beguiled  ; 
Yet  amid  all  its  sulTerings,  all  the  waste 
Of  sword  and  tire  remorselessly  employ'd, 
Unconcjuer'd  and  uncon(iucrable  still  ;  .  . 
Son  of  that  injured  and  illustrious  stock, 
Stand    forward    thou,    draw   forth    the 

sword  of  Spain,  .  150 

Restore  them  to  their  rights,  too  long 

withheld. 
And  plaee  ujion  thy  brow  the  Spanish 

crown. 

When  Roderick  ceased,  the  princely 

Mountaineer 
Gazed  on  the  passionate  orator  awhile. 
With  eyes  intently  fix'd,  and  thoughtful 

brow  ; 
Then  turning  to  the  altar,  he  let  fall 
The   sackcloth   robe,    which   late    with 

folded  arms 
Against    his    heart    was    prest ;     and 

stretching  forth 
His    hands    toward    the    crucifix,    ex- 

claim'd. 
My  God  and  my  Redeemer  !   where  but 

here,  160 

Before  thy  aweful  presence,  in  this  garb, 
With  penitential  ashes  thus  bestrewn, 
Could  I  so  fitly  answer  to  the  call 
Of  Spain  ;   and  for  her  sake,  and  in  thy 

name, 
Accept  the  Crown  of  Thorns  she  profiFers 


And  where  but  here,  said  Roderick  in 
his  heart, 

Could  I  60  properly,  with  humbled  knee 

And  willing  soul,  confirm  my  for- 
feiture ?  .  . 

The  action  followed  on  that  secret 
thought : 

He  knelt,  and  took  Pelayo's  hand,  and 
cried,  170 

First  of  the  Spaniards,  let  me  with  this 
kiss 


Do  homage  to  thee  here,  my  Lord  and 

King  !  .  . 

With  voice  unchanged  and  steady  coun- 
tenance 

He  spake  ;  but  when  Siverian  followed 
him. 

The  old  man  trembled  as  his  lii)s  pro- 
nounced 

The  faltering  vow  ;  and  rising  he  ex- 
claimed, 

God  grant  thee,  0  my  Prince,  a  better  fate 

Than  thy  poor  kinsman's,  who  in  hap- 
pier days 

Received  thy  homage  here !  Grief 
ehoak'd  his  speech. 

And,  bursting  into  tears,  he  sobb'd 
aloud.  180 

Tears  too  adown  Pelayo's  manly  cheek 

Roll'd  silently.  Roderick  alone  ap- 
pear'd 

Unmoved  and  calm  ;  for  now  the  royal 
Goth 

Had  oller'd  his  accepted  sacrifice, 

And  therefore  in  his  soul  he  felt  that 
peace 

Which  follows  painful  duty  well  per- 
formed, .  . 

Perfect  and  heavenly  peace, .  .  the  peace 
of  God. 


VIII.    ALPHONSO 

Fain    would    Pelayo    have    that    hour 

obey'd 
The  call,  commencing  his  adventurous 

flight. 
As  one  whose  soul  impatiently'  endured 
His  country's  thraldom,   and  in  daily 

prayer 
Imploring    her    deliverance,    cried    to 

Heaven, 
How  long,  0  Lord,  how  long  !  .  .  But 

other  thoughts 
Curbing  his  spirit,  made  him  yet  awhile 


248       RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF  THE   GOTHS 


Sustain  the  weight  of  bondage.     Him 

alone, 
Of  all  the  Gothic  baronage,  the  Moors 
Watch' d  with  regard  of  wary  policy,  .  . 
Knowing  his  powerful  name,  his  noble 

mind,  n 

And  how  in  him  the  old  Iberian  blood. 
Of  royal  and  remotest  ancestry, 
From  undisputed  source  flow'd  unde- 

filed; 
His  mother's  after-guilt  attainting  not 
The  claim  legitimate  he  derived  from 

her, 
Her  first-born  in  her  time  of  innocen-ce. 
He  too  of  Chindasuintho's  regal  line 
Sole  remnant  now,  drew  after  him  the 

love 
Of  all  true  Goths,  uniting  in  himself    20 
Thus  by  this  double  right,  the  general 

heart 
Of  Spain.     For  this  the  renegado  crew. 
Wretches  in  whom  their  conscious  guilt 

and  fear 
Engender'd   cruellest   hatred,   still   ad- 
vised 
The  extinction  of  Pelayo's  house ;    but 

most 
The  apostate  Prelate,  in  iniquity 
Witiza's  genuine  brother  as  in  blood, 
Orpas,    pursued    his    life.     He    never 

ceased 
With  busy  zeal,  true  traitor,  to  infuse 
His  deadly  rancour  in  the  Moorish  chief  ; 
Their  only  danger,  ever  he  observed,  31 
Was  from  Pelayo  ;   root  his  lineage  out. 
The    Caliph's    empire    then    would    be 

secure. 
And  universal  Spain,  all  hope  of  change 
Being  lost,  receive  the  Prophet's  con- 
quering law. 
Then  did  the  Arch- villain  urge  the  Moor 

at  once  '~ 

To  cut  off  future  peril,  telling  him 
Death  was  a  trusty  keeper,  and  that 

none 


E'er  broke  the  prison  of  the  grave.     But 

here 
Keen  malice  overshot  its  mark  :    the 

Moor,  40 

Who  from  the  plunder  of  their  native 

land 
Had    bought   the  recreant   crew    that 

join'd  his  arms. 
Or  cheaplier  with  their  own  possessions 

bribed 
Their   sordid   souls,    saw   through   the 

flimsy  show 
Of  policy  wherewith  they  sought  to  cloak 
Old  enmity,  and  selfish  aims  :  he  scorn'd 
To  let  their  private  purposes  incline 
His  counsels,  and  believing  Spain  sub- 
dued. 
Smiled,    in    the    pride    of    power    and 

victory, 
Disdainful   at   the   thought   of  farther 

strife.  50 

Howbeit  he  held  Pelayo  at  his  court, 
And  told  him  that  until  his  countrymen 
Submissively  should  lay  their  weapons 

down. 
He    from    his    children    and    paternal 

hearth 
Apart  must  dwell ;  nor  hope  to  see  again 
His  native  mountains  and  their  vales 

beloved, 
Till   all   the  Asturian  and   Cantabrian 

hills 
Had  bow'd  before  the  Caliph  ;   Cordoba 
Must  be  his  nightly  prison  till  that  hour. 
This  night,  by  special  favour  from  the 

Moor  60 

Ask'd  and  vouchsafed,  he  pass'd  without 

the  walls. 
Keeping  his  yearly  vigil ;   on  this  night 
Therefore  the  princely  Spaniard  could 

not  fly. 
Being  thus  in  strongest  bonds  by  honour 

held ; 
Nor  would  he  by  his  own  escape  expose 
To  stricter  bondage,  or  belike  to  death, 


4 


VIII.    ALPHONSO 


249 


Count  Pedro's  son.     The  ancient  enmity 
Of  rival  houses  from  Pelayo's  heart 
Had,  like  a  tiling  forgotten,  pass'd  away; 
He  pitied  child  and  parent,  separated   70 
By    the    stern    mandate    of    unfeeling 

power, 

And  almost  with  a  father's  eyes  beheld 
The  boy,  his  fellow  in  captivity. 
For  youn^  Alphonsp  was  in  truth  an  heir 
Of  nature's  largest  patrimony  ;  rich 
[n  form  and  feature,  growing  strength 

of  limb, 

A.  gentle  heart,  a  soul  affectionate, 
A   joyous    spirit    fill'd    with    generous 

thoughts. 
And  genius  heightening  and  ennobling 

all; 

rhe  blossom  of  all  manly  virtues  made 
His  boyhood  beautiful.    Shield,  gracious 

Heaven,  81 

[n  this  ungenial  season  perilous,  .  . 
Chus  would  Pelayo  sometimes  breathe 

in  prayer 
rhe  aspirations  of  prophetic  hope,  .  . 
Jhield,  gracious  Heaven,  the  blooming 

tree  !  and  let 
rhis  goodly  promise,  for  thy  people's 

sake, 
STield  its  abundant  fruitage. 

When  the  Prince, 
^ith  hope  and  fear  and  grief  and  shame 

disturb' d, 
ind  sad  remembrance,  and  the  shadowy 

light 
yi  days  before  him,    thronging  as  in 

dreams,  90 

^ose  quick  succession  fill'd  and  over- 
power'd 
l^while  the  unresisting  faculty, 
3ould  in  the  calm  of  troubled  thoughts 

subdued 
Jeek  in  his  heart  for  counsel,  his  first 


m 
care 


^aa  for  the  boy  ;   how  best  they  might 
evade 


The  Moor,  and  renegade's  more  watchful 
eye  ; 

And  leaving  in  some  unsuspicious  guise 

The  city,  through  what  uiifretiuentcd 
track 

Safeliest  pursue  with  speed  their  dan- 
gerous way. 

Consumed  in  cares  like  these,  the  fleet- 
ing hours  100 

Went  by.  The  lamps  and  tapers  now 
grew  pale, 

And  through  the  eastern  window  slant- 
ing fell 

The  roseate  ray  of  morn.  Within  those 
walls 

Returning  day  restored  no  cheerful 
sounds 

Or  joyous  motions  of  awakening  life; 

But  in  the  stream  of  light  the  speckled 
motes, 

As  if  in  mimickry  of  insect  play, 

Floated  with  mazy  movement.  Sloping 
down 

Over  the  altar  pass'd  the  pillar'd  beam. 

And  rested  on  the  sinful  woman's  grave 

As  if  it  enter'd  there,  a  light  from 
Heaven.  m 

So  be  it  !   cried  Pelayo,  even  so  ! 

As  in  a  momentary  interval. 

When  thought  expelling  thought,  had 
left  his  mind 

Open  and  passive  to  the  influxes 

Of  outward  sense,  his  vacant  eye  was 
there,  .  . 

So  be  it.  Heavenly  Father,  even  so  ! 

Thus  may  thy  vivifying  goodness  shed 

Forgiveness  there  ;  for  let  not  thou  the 
groans 

Of  dying  penitence,  nor  my  bitter 
prayers  120 

Before  thy  mercy-seat,  be  heard  in  vain  ! 

And  thou,  poor  soul,  who  from  the 
dolorous  house 

Of  weeping  and  of  pain,  dost  look  to  mc 

To  shorten  and  assuage  thy  penal  term, 


250      RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


Pardon  me  that  these  hours  in  other 

thoughts 
And  other  duties  than  this  garb,  this 

night 
Enjoin,  should  thus  have  pass'd  !    Our 

mother-land 
Exacted  of  my  heart  the  sacrifice  ; 
And  many  a  vigil  must  thy  son  perform 
Henceforth    in    woods    and    mountain 

fastnesses,  130 

And  tented  fields,  out  watching  for  her 

sake 
The  starry  host,  and  ready  for  the  work 
Of  day,  before  the  sun  begins  his  coui"se. 

The  noble  Mountaineer,  concluding 
then 

With  silent  prayer  the  service  of  the 
night, 

Went  forth.  Without  the  porch  await- 
ing him 

He  saw  Alphonso,  pacing  to  and  fro 

With  patient  step  and  eye  reverted  oft. 

He,  springing  forward  when  he  heard 
the  door 

Move  on  its  heavy  hinges,  ran  to  him, 

And  welcomed  him  with  smiles  of  youth- 
ful love.  141 

I  have  been  watching  yonder  moon, 
quoth  he, 

How  it  grew  pale  and  paler  as  the  sun 

Scatter' d  the  flying  shades  ;  but  woe  is 
me, 

For  on  the  towers  of  Cordoba  the  while 

That  baleful  crescent  glitterd  in  the 
morn, 

And  with  its  insolent  triumph  seem'd 
to  mock 

The  omen  I  had  found.  .  .  Last  night 
I  dreamt 

That  thou  wert  in  the  field  in  arms  for 
Spain, 

And  I  was  at  thy  side  :   the  infidels     150 

Beset  us  round,  but  wc  with  our  good 
swords 


Hew'd  out  a  way.     Methought  I  stabb'd 

a  Moor 
Who  would  have  slain  thee ;    but  with 

that  I  woke 
For  joy,  and  wept  to  find  it  but  a  dream. 

Thus  as  he  spake  a  livelier  glow  o'er- 

spread 
His    cheek,    and    starting    tears    again 

suffused 
The  brightening  lustre  of  his  eyes.     The       i 

Prince 
Regarded  him  a  moment  steadfastly, 
As  if  in  quick  resolve ;    then  looking 

round 
On    every    side    with   keen    and    rapid       > 

glance,  160 

Drew  him  within  the  church.   Alphonso's 

heart  v 

Throbb'd  with  a  joyful   boding  as  he 

mark'd 
The  calmness  of  Pelayo's  countenance 
Kindle  with  solemn  thoughts,  expressing 

now  ; 

High   purposes   of    resolute  hope.     He 

gazed 
All  eagerly  to  hear  what  most  he  wish'd. 
If,    said   the   Prince,    thy   dream   were 

verified, 
And  I  indeed  were  in  the  field  in  arms 
For    Spain,    .    .    wouldst    thou    be    at 

Pelayo's  side  ?  .  . 
If  I  should  break  these  bonds,  and  fiy 

to  rear  170 

Our  country's  banner  on  our  native  hills, 
Wouldst     thou,    Alphonso,    share    my 

dangerous  flight, 
Dear  boy,  .  .  and  wilt  thou  take  thy  lot 

with  me 
For  death,  or  for  deliverance  ? 

Shall  I  swear  ? 
Replied  the  impatient  boy  ;    and  laying 

hand 
Upon  the  altar,  on  his  knee  he  bent, 
Looking  towards  Pelayo  with  such  joy 


VIII.    ALPHONSO 


251 


Of  reverential  love,  as  if  a  God 

Were  present  to  receive  the  eager  vow. 

Nay,  quoth  Pelayo  :  what  hast  thou  to 

do  i8o 

With  oaths  ?  .  .   Bright  emanation  as  : 

thou  art,  \ 

It  were  a  wrong  to  thy  unsullied  soul,     j 
A  sin  to  nature,  were  I  to  require  ] 

*  Promise  or  vow  from  thee  !   Enough  for 

me 
That  thy  heart  answers  to  the  stirring 

call. 
Alphonso,  follow  thou  in  happy  faith 
Alway  the  indwelling  voice  that  counsels 

thee  ; 
And  then,  let  fall  the  issue  as  it  may, 
Shall  all  thy  paths  be  in  the  light  of 

Heaven, 
The  peace  of  Heaven  be  with  thee  in  all 

hours.  190 

How  then,  exclaim'd  the  boy,  shall  I 
discharge 
The  burthen  of  this  happiness, . .  how  ease 
My  overflowing  soul  !  .  .   Oh,  gracious 

God, 
Shall  I  behold  my  mother's  face  again, .  . 
My  father's  hall,  .  .  my  native  hills  and 

vales. 
And  hear  the  voices  of  their  streams 

again,  .  . 
And  free  as  I  was  born  amid  those  scenes 
Beloved,  maintain   my  country's  free- 
dom there,  .  . 
Or,  failing  in  the  sacred  enterprise. 
Die  as  becomes  a  Spaniard  ?  .  .  Saying 
thus,  200 

He  lifted  up  his  hands  and  e^^cs  toward 
The  image  of  the  Crucified,  and  cried, 
U  Thou  who  didst  with  thy  most  pre- 
cious blood 
Redeem  us,  Jesu  !   help  us  while  we  seek 
Earthly  redemption  from  this  yoke  of 

shame 
And  misbelief  and  death. 


The  noble  boy 
Then  rose,  and  would  have  knelt  again 

to  clasp 
Pelayo's  knees,  and  kiss  his  hand  in  act 
Of  homage  ;   but  the  Prince,  preventing 

this, 
Bent  over  him  in  fatherly  embrace,    210 
And  breathed  a  fervent  blessing  on  his 

head. 


IX.    FLORINDA 

There  sate  a  woman  like  a  supplicant, 
Muffled    and    cloak' d,   before    Pelayo's 

gate. 
Awaiting  when  he  should  return  that 

morn. 
She  rose  at  his  approach,  and  bow'd  her 

head, 
And,  with  a  low  and  trembling  utterance. 
Besought  him  to  vouchsafe  her  speech 

within 
In  privacy.     And  when  they  were  alone, 
And   the  doors  closed,   she  knelt   and 

claspt  his  knees. 
Saying,  a  boon  !    a  boon  !    This  night, 

0  Prince, 
Hast  thou  kept  vigil  for  thy  mother's 

soul :  10 

For  her  soul's  sake,  and  for  the  soul  of 

him 
Whom  once,  in  happier  da3's,  of  all  man- 
kind 
Thou    heldest    for    thy    chosen    bosom 

friend, 
Oh  for  the  sake  of  his  poor  suifering  soul. 
Refuse  me  not  ! 

How  should  1  dare  refuse. 
Being  thus  adjured  ?  he  answer'd.   Thy 

request 
Is  granted,  woman,  .  .  be  it  what  it  may 
So  it  be  lawful,  and  within  the  bounds 
Of  possible  achievement  :  .  .  aught  unlit 
Thou  wouldst  not  with  these  adjurations 

seek.  20 


252      RODERICK,   THE  LAST   OF  THE   GOTHS 


But  who  thou  art,  I  marvel,  that  dost 

touch 
Upon  that  string,  and  ask  in  Roderick's 

name  !  .  . 
She  bared  her  face,   and,  looking  up, 

replied, 
Florinda  !  .  .  Shrinking  then,  with  both 

her  hands 
She  hid  herself,   and   bow'd  her  head 

abased 
Upon  her  knee,  .  .  as  one  who,  if  the 

grave 
Had    oped    beneath    her,    would    have 

throwTi  herself. 
Even  like  a  lover,  in  the  arms  of  Death. 

Pelayo  stood  confused  :    he  had  not 
seen 
Count     Julian's     daughter     since     in 
Roderick's  court,  30 

Guttering  in  beauty  and  in  innocence, 
A  radiant  vision,  in  her  joy  she  moved  ; 
More  like  a  poet's  dream,  or  form  divine. 
Heaven's  prototype  of  perfect  woman- 
hood. 
So  lovely  was  the  presence,  .  .  than  a 

thing 
Of  earth  and  perishable  elements. 
Now  had  he  seen  her  in  her  winding- 
sheet, 
Less  painful  would  that  spectacle  have 

proved ; 
For  peace  is  with  the  dead,  and  piety 
Bringeth  a  patient  hope  to  those  who 
mourn  40 

O'er  the  departed  ;  but  this  alter'd  face, 
Bearing  its  deadly  sorrow  character' d. 
Came  to  him  like  a  ghost,  which  in  the 

grave 
Could  find  no  rest.     He,  taking  her  cold 

hand. 
Raised  her,   and  would  have  spoken  ; 

but  his  tongue 
Fail'd  in  its  office,  and  could  only  speak 
In  under  tones  compassionate  her  name. 


The  voice  of  pity  soothed  and  melted 

her ; 
And  when  the  Prince  bade  her  be  com- 
forted. 
Proffering  his  zealous  aid  in  whatsoe'er 
Might  please  her  to  appoint,  a  feeble 

smile  SI 

Pass'd  slowly  over  her  pale  countenance. 
Like    moonlight    on    a    marble   statue. 

Heaven 
Requite   thee,    Prince  !     she   answer' d. 

All  I  ask 
Is  but  a  quiet  resting-place,  wherein 
A  broken  heart,  in  prayer  and  humble 

hope. 
May  wait  for  its  deliverance.     Even  this 
My  most  unhappy  fate  denies  me  here. 
Griefs  which  are  kno\^Ti  too  widely  and 

too  well 
I   need   not  now   remember.     I   could 

bear  60 

Privation  of  all  Cliristian  ordinances. 
The  woe  which  kills  hath  saved  me  too, 

and  made 
A  temple  of  this  ruin'd  tabernacle. 
Wherein  redeeming  God  doth  not  dis- 
dain 
To  let  his  presence  shine.     And  I  could 

bear 
To  see  the  turban  on  my  father's  brow, . . 
Sorrow  beyond  all  sorrows,  .  .  shame  of 

shames,  .  . 
Yet  to  be  borne,  while  I  with  tears  of 

blood. 
And  throes  of  agony,  in  his  behalf 
Implore    and    wrestle    with    offended 

Heaven.  70 

This  I  have  borne  resign' d :  but  other  ills 
And  worse  assail  me  now ;    the  which 

to  bear. 
If  to  avoid  be  possible,  would  draw 
Damnation  down.     Orpas,  the  perjured 

Priest, 
The  apostate  Orpas,  claims  me  for  his 

bride. 


IX.    FLORINDA 


253 


Obdurate  as  he  is,  the  wretch  profanes 
My  sacred  woo,  and  woos  me  to  his  bed, 
The  thing  I  am,  .  .  the  living  death  thou 
seest  ! 

Miscreant !  exclaim'd  Pelayo.    Might 

I  meet 
Tliat  renegado,  sword  to  scj-mitar,       80 
In  open  field,  never  did  man  approach 
The  altar  for  the  sacrilico  in  faith 
More  sure,  than  I  should  hew  tlio  villain 

down  ! 
But    how    should    Julian    favour    his 

demand  ?  .  . 
Julian,  who  hath  so  passionately  loved 
His  cliild,  so  dreadfully  revenged  her 

wrongs ! 

Count  Julian,  she  replied,  hath  none 

but  me. 
And  it  hath,  therefore,  been  his  heart's 

desire 

To  see  his  ancient  line  by  me  preserved. 
This  was  their  covenant  when  in  fatal 

hour  90 

For  Spain,  and  for  themselves,  in  traitor- 
ous bond 
Of  union  they  combined.     My  father, 

stung 
To  madness,  only  thought  of  how  to 

make 
Etis  vengeance  sure ;    the  Prelate,  calm 

and  cool. 
When  he  renounced  his  outward  faith  in 

Christ, 

Indulged  at  once  his  hatred  of  the  King, 
His  inbred  wickedness,  and  a  haughty 

hope, 

Versed  as  he  was  in  treasons,  to  direct 
The  invaders  by  his  secret  policy. 
And  at  their  head,  aided  by  Julian's 

power,  100 

Eteign  as  a  Moor  upon  that  throne  to 
^        which 
rhe  priestly  order  else  had  barrd  his  way. 


The  African  hath  conquer'd  for  himself  ; 
But    Orpas    coveteth    Count    Julian's 

lands, 
And  claims  to  have  the  covenant  pcr- 

form'd. 
Friendless,  and  worse  than  fatherless, 

I  come 
To  thee  for  succour.  Send  me  secretly, . . 
For  well  I  know  all  faithful  hearts  must 

be 
At  thy  devotion,  .  .  with  a  trusty  guide 
To  guard  mo  on  the  way,  that  I  may 

reach  no 

Some   Christian  land,   where  Christian 

rites  are  free. 
And  there  discharge  a  vow,  alas  !    too 

long. 
Too  fatally  delay'd.     Aid  me  in  this 
For  Roderick's  sake,  Pelayo  !    and  thy 

name 
Shall  be  remember'd  in  my  latest  prayer. 

Be  comforted  !    the  Prince  replied  ; 

but  whwi 
He  spake  of  comfort,  twice  did  he  break 

off 
The  idle  words,  feeling  that  earth  had 

none 
For  grief  so  irremediable  as  hers. 
At  length  he  took  her  hand,  and  pressing 

it,  120 

And  forcing  through  involuntary  tears 
A  mournful  smile  affectionate,  ho  said. 
Say  not  that  thou  art  friendless  while 

I  hve  ! 
Thou  couldst  not  to  a  readier  car  have 

told 
Thy  sorrows,  nor  have  ask'd  in  fitter  hour 
What  for  my  country's  honour,  for  my 

rank, 
My  faith,  and  sacred  knighthood,  I  am 

bound 
In  duty  to  perform  ;   which  not  to  do 
Would    show    me    undeserving    of    the 

names 


254       RODERICK.   THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


Of  Goth,  Prince,  Christian,  even  of  Man. 

This  day,  130 

Lady,  prepare  to  take  thy  lot  with  me, 
And  soon  as  evening  closes  meet  me  here. 
Duties  bring  blessings  with- them,  and 

I  hold 
Thy  coming  for  a  happy  augury. 
In  this  most  aweful  crisis  of  my  fate. 


X.  RODERICK  AND  FLORINDA 

With   sword   and   breast- pi  ate,    under 

rustic  weeds 
Conceal' d,   at  dusk   Pelayo  pass'd  the 

gate, 
Florinda  following  near,  disguised  alike. 
Two    peasants    on    their    mules    they 

seem'd,  at  eve 
Returning  from  the  town.     Not  distant 

far, 
Alphonso    by    the    appointed    orange- 
grove. 
With  anxious  eye  and  agitated  heart, 
Wateh'd     for     the     Prince's     coming. 

Eagerly 
At  every  foot-fall  through  the  gloom  he 

strain' d 
His  sight,  nor  did  he  recognize  him  when 
The  Chieftain  thus  accompanied  drew 

nigh;  11 

And   when  the  expected  signal  called 

him  on. 
Doubting  this  female  presence,  half  in 

fear 
Obey'd  the  call.     Pelayo  too  perceived 
The  boy  was  not  alone  ;   he  not  for  that 
Delay' d   the   summons,    but   lest   need 

should  be, 
Laying  hand  upon  his  sword,   toward 

him  bent 
In  act  soliciting  speech,  and  low  of  voice 
Enquired  if  friend  or  foe.     Forgive  me, 

cried 
Alphonso,  that  I  did  not  tell  thee  this.  20 


Full  as  I  was  of  happiness,  before. 
'Tis  Hoya,  servant  of  my  father's  house, 
Unto  whose  dutiful  care  and  love,  when 

sent 
To  this  vile  bondage,  I  was  gi%'en  in 

charge. 
How  could  I  look  upon  my  father's  face 
If  I  had  in  my  joy  deserted  him, 
Who  was  to  me  found  faitlif ul  ? . .  Right ! 

replied 
The    Prince ;     and    viewing   him    with 

silent  joy. 
Blessed  the  Mother,  in  his  heart  he  said, 
Who    gave    thee    birth !     but    sure    of 

womankind  30 

Most  blessed  she  whose  hand  her  happy 

stars 
Shall  Hnk  with  thine  !    and  with  that 

thought  the  form 
1  Of  Hermesind,  his  daughter,  to  his  soul 
:  Came  in  her  beauty. 

Soon  by  devious  tracks 
I  They  turn'd  aside.  The  favouring 
I  moon  arose. 

To  guide  them  on  theii-  flight  through 
I  upland  paths 

!  Remote   from   frequentage,    and    dales 

retired, 
Forest  and  mountain  glen.     Before  their 

feet 
The  fire- flies,  swarming  in  the  woodland 

shade, 
Sprung  up  like  sparks,   and   twinkled 

round  their  way  ;  40 

The  timorous  blackbird,  starting  at  their 

step, 
Fled  from  the  thicket  with  shrill  note  of 

fear  ; 
And  far  below  them  in  the  peopled  dell, 
When  all  the  soothing  sounds  of  eve  had 

ceased, 
The  distant  watch-dog's  voice  at  times 

was  heard. 
Answering  the  nearer  wolf.     All  through 

the  nisht 


X.     RODERICK   AND   FLORINDA 


Among  the  hills  they  travell'd  silently  ; 
Till  when  the  stars  were  setting,  at  what 

hour 
The  breAth  of  Heaven  is  coldest,  they 

beheld 
Within  a  lonely  grove  the  expected  fire, 
Where     Roderick     and     his     comrade 

anxiously  5^ 

Look'd    for    the    appointed    meeting. 

Halting  there. 
They    from    the    burthen  and   the  bit 

relieved 
Their  patient  bearers,  and  around  the 

fire 
Partook  of  needful  food  and  grateful 

rest. 

Briglit  rose  the  flame  replenished  ;   it 

illumed 
The  cork-tree's  furrowed  rind,  its  rifts 

and  swells 
And  redder  scars,  .  .  and  where  its  aged 

boughs 
O'erbower'd   the   travellers,   cast  upon 

the  leaves 
floating,  grey,  unreal izing  gleam.      60 
Alphonso,  light  of  heart,  upon  the  heath 
Lay     carelessly     dispread,     in     happy 

dreams 

Of  home  ;  his  faithful  Hoya  slept  beside. 
Years    and    fatigue    to    old    Siverian 

brought 
Easy  oblivion  ;   and  the  Prince  himself, 
Yielding  to  weary  nature's  gentle  will, 
Forgot  his  cares  awhile.     Florinda  sate 
Beholding  Roderick  with  fix'd  eyes  in- 
tent, 
Yet  unregardant  of  the  countenance 
Whereon  they  dwelt ;  in  other  thoughts 

absorb' d,  70 

Collecting  fortitude  for  what  she  yearn'd, 
Yet  trembled  to  perform.     Her  steady 

look 
Disturb' d    the    Goth,    albeit    ho    little 
ween'd 


What  agony  awaited  him  that  hour. 
Her  face,  well  nigh  as  changed  as  his. 

was  now 
Half  hidden,  and  the  lustre  of  her  eye 
Extinct ;  nor  did  her  voice  awaken  in 

him 
One  startling  recollection  when  shespake, 
So  altered  were  its  tones. 

Father,  she  said. 
All  thankful  as  I  am  to  leave  behind    80 
The  unhappy  walls  of  Cordoba,  not  less 
Of  consolation  doth  my  heart  receive 
At  sight  of  one  to  whom  I  may  disclose 
The  sins  which  trouble  me,  and  at  his 

feet 
Lay  down  repentantly,  in  Jesu's  name. 
The  burthen  of  my  spirit.  In  his  name 
Hear  me,  and  pour  into  a  wounded  soul 
The  balm  of  pious  counsel. . .  Saying  thus. 
She  drew  toward  the  minister  ordain' d. 
And  kneeling  by  him.  Father,  dost  thou 

know  90 

The   wretch   who  kneels  beside   thee  ? 

she  enquired. 
He  answered.  Surely  we  are  each  to  each 
Equally  unknown. 

Then  said  she.  Here  thou  seest 
One  who  is  known  too  fatally  for  all, . . 
The  daughter  of  Count  Julian.  .  .  Well  it 

was 
For  Roderick  that  no  eye  beheld  him 

now ; 
From  head  to  foot  a  sharper  pang  than 

death 
Thrill'd  him  ;    his  heart,  as  at  a  mortal 

stroke. 
Ceased  from  its  functions  :    his  breath 

fail'd,  and  when 
The   power   of   life   recovering   set    its 

springs  *oo 

Again  in  action,  cold  and  clammy  sweat 
Starting    at    every    pore    sullused    hia 

frame. 
Their   presence   help'd    liim    to   subdue 

himst'if  ; 


256      RODERICK,  THE  LAST   OE   THE   GOTHS 


For  else,  had  none  been  nigh,  he  would 

have  fallen 
Before  Florinda  prostrate  on  the  earth, 
And  in  that  mutual  agony  beHke 
Both  souls  had  taken  flight.  She  mark' d 

him  not ; 
For  having  told  her  name,  she  bow'd  her 

head. 
Breathing  a  short  and  silent  prayer  to 

Heaven,  109 

While,  as  a  penitent,  she  wrought  herself 
To  open  to  liis  eye  her  hidden  wounds. 

Father,  at  length  she  said,  all  tongues 

amid 
This  general  ruin  shed  their  bitterness 
On   Roderick,   load   his   memory   with 

reproach, 
And    with    their    curses    persecute    his 

soul.  .  . 
Why  shouldst  thou  tell  me  this  ?    ex- 
claim'd  the  Goth, 
From  his  cold  forehead  wiping  as  he  spake 
The  death-like  moisture :   .   .   Why  of 

Roderick's  guilt 
Tell  me  ?    Or  thinkest  thou  I  know  it 

not  ? 
Alas  !    who  hath  not  heard  the  hideous 

tale  120 

Of  Roderick's  shame  !    Babes  learn  it 

from  their  nurses, 
And  children,  by  their  mothers  unre- 

proved. 
Link  their  first  execrations  to  his  name. 
Oh,  it  hath  caught  a  taint  of  infamy, 
Th-at,  like  Iscariot's,  through  all  time 

shall  last, 
Reeking  and  fresh  for  ever  ! 

There  !  she  cried, 
Drawing  her  body  backward  where  she 

knelt. 
And  stretching  forth  her  arms  with  head 

upraised,  . 
There  !  it  pursues  me  still  !  .  .  I  came  to 

thee. 


i 


Father,  for  comfort,  and  thou  heapest 
fire  130 

Upon  my  head.  But  hear  me  patiently, 
And  let  me  undeceive  thee  ;  self- abased, 
Not  to  arraign  another,  do  I  come ;  .  . 
I  come  a  self-accuser,  self -condemn' d 
To  take  upon  myself  the  pain  deserved ; 
For  I  have  drunk  the  cup  of  bitterness. 
And  having  drunk  therein  of  heavenly 

grace,  ftk 

I  must  not  put  away  the  cup  of  shame. 


Thus  as  she  spake  she  falter' d  at  the  I  ie! 
close, 

And  in  that  dying  fall  her  voice  sent  forth 

Somewhat    of    its    original    sweetness.   Iij, 
Thou  !  .  .  141 

Thou   self -abased  !     exclaim' d   the   as- 
tonish'd  King  ;  .  . 

Thou  self-condemn'd  !  .  .   The  cup  of  fefu 
shame  for  thee  !  fitli 

Thee  .  .  thee,  Florinda  !  .  .  But  the  very    lode 
excess 

Of  passion  check' d  his  speech,  restrain-   ^ 
ing  thus 

From    farther    transport,    which    had 
haply  else 

blaster' d  him ;     and  he  sate  like  one  fjjft 
entranced. 

Gazing  upon  that  countenance  so  fallen, 

So  changed :    her  face,  raised  from  its 
muffler  now. 

Was  turn'd  toward  him,  and  the  fire- 
light shone  150 

Full  on  its  mortal  paleness;  but  the  shade 

Conceal' d  the  King. 

She  roused  him  from  the  spell 

Which  held  him  like  a  statue  motionless. 

Thou    too,    quoth   she,    dost   join    the 
general  curse, 

Like  one  who  when  he  sees  a  felon's 
grave. 

Casting  a  stone  there  as  he  passes  by, 

Adds  to  the  heap  of  shame.     Oh  what 


4 


X.    RODERICK   AND  FLORINDA 


•Vail  creatures  as  we  are,  that  we  should 
sit 

n  judgement  man  on  man  !    and  what 
were  we, 

f  the  All- merciful  should  mete  to  us  i6o 

Vith  the  same  rigorous  measure  where- 
withal 

inner  to  sinner  metes  !    But  God  be- 
holds 

"he  secrets  of  the  heart,  .  .  therefore  his 
name 
Merciful.     Servant  of  God,  see  thou 

'he  hidden  things  of  mine,  and  judge 
thou  then 

1  charity  thy  brother  who  hath  fallen. .  . 

ay,  hear  me  to  the  end  !    I  loved  the 
King,  .  . 

rderly,    passionately,    madly    loved 
him. 
nful  it  was  to  love  a  child  of  earth 
^ith  such  entire  devotion  as  I  loved  170 
oderick,  the  heroic  Prince,  the  glorious 

Goth  ! 
ad  yet  methought  this  was  its  only 

crime, 
le    imaginative    passion    seem'd    so 
pure  : 
iet  and  calm  like  duty,  hope  nor  fear 
turb'd  the  deep  contentment  of  that 
love  ; 

!e  was  the  sunshine  of  ray  soul,  and 
like 
flower,  I  lived  and  flourish' d  in  his 

light. 

\i  bear  not  with  me  thus  impatiently  ! 

if)  tale  of  weakness  this,  that  in  the  act 

penitence,  indulgent  to  itself,         180 

ith  garrulous  palliation  half  repeats 

le  sin  it  ill  repents.     I  will  be  brief, 

id  shrink  not  from  confessing  how  the 

love 

hich  thus  began  in  innocence,  betray'd 
r  unsuspecting  heart ;  nor  me  alone, 
t  him,  before  whom,  shining  as  he 
shone 


With  whatsoe'er  is  noble,  whatsoe'er 
Is  lovely,  whatsoever  good  and  great, 
I  was  as  dust  and  ashes,  .  .  him,  alas  ! 
This  glorious  being,  this  exalted  Prince, 
Even  him,  with  all  his  royalty  of  soul, 
Did  this  ill-omen'd,  this  accursed  love. 
To  his  most  lamentable  fall  betray      193 
And   utter   ruin.      Thus   it   was :     The 

King, 
By   counsels   of   cold   statesmen   ill-ad- 
vised, 
To  an  unworthy  mate  had  bound  him- 
self 
In  politic  wedlock.     Wherefore  should 

I  tell 
How  Nature  upon  Egilona's  form, 
Profuse  of  beauty,  lavishing  her  gifts, 
Left,   like  a  statue  from   the  graver's 
hands,  200 

Deformity  and  hollowness  beneath 
The  rich   external  ?     For   the  love   of 

pomp 
And  emptiest  vanity,  hath  she  not  in- 

curr'd 
The  grief  and  wonder  of  good  men,  the 

gibes 
Of  vulgar  ribaldry,  the  reproach  of  all ; 
Profaning  the  most  holy  sacrament 
Of   marriage,    to   become   chief   of   the 

wives 
Of  Abdalaziz,  of  the  Infidel, 
The  Moor,  the  tyrant-enemy  of  Spain  ! 
All  know  her  now  ;    but  they  alone  who 
knew  210 

What     Roderick    was    can    judge    his 

wretchedness. 
To  that  light  spirit  and  unfeeling  heart 
In  hopeless  bondage  bound.     No  chil- 
dren rose 
From    this    unhappy    union,    towards 

whom 
Tlie  springs  of  love  within  his  soul  con- 
fined 
Might  flow  in  joy  and  fulness ;  nor  was  he 
One,  like  Witiza,  of  the  vulgar  crew, 


258       RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


Who  in  promiscuous  appetite  can  find 
All  their  vile  nature  seeks.     Alas  for 

man  ! 
Exuberant    health    diseases   him,    frail 

worm !  220 

And  the  slight  bias  of  untoward  chance 
Makes  his  best  virtue  from  the  even  line, 
With  fatal  declination,  swerve  aside. 
Ay,  thou  mayest  groan  for  poor  mor- 
tality, .  . 
Well,  Father,  mayest  thou  groan  ! 

My  evil  fate 
Made  me  an  inmate  of  the  royal  house, 
And  Roderick  found  in  me,  if  not  a  heart 
Like  his,  .  .  for  who  was  like  the  heroic 

Goth  ?  .  . 
One  which  at  least  felt  his  surpassing 

worth. 
And  loved  him  for  himself.  .  .  A  little  yet 
Bear  with  me,  reverend  Father,  for  I 

touch  231 

Upon  the  point,  and  this  long  prologue 

goes, 
As  justice  bids,  to  palliate  his  offence. 
Not  mine.     The  passion,  which  I  fondly 

thought 
Such  as  fond  sisters  for  a  brother  feel, 
Grew  day  by  day,  and  strengthen'd  in 

its  growth. 
Till  the  beloved  presence  had  become 
Needful  as  food  or  necessary  sleep. 
My  hope,  light,  sunshine,  life,  and  every 

thing. 
Thus  lapt  in  dreams  of  bliss,  I  might 

have  lived  240 

Contented  with  this  pure  idolatry, 
Had  he  been   happy :     but  I  saw  and 

knew 
The  inward  discontent  and  household 

griefs 
Which  he  subdued  in  silence;-  and  alas  ! 
Pity  with  admiration  mingling  then, 
Alloy'd  and  lower'd  and  humanized  my 

love. 
Till  to  the  level  of  my  lowliness 


It    brought   him    down ;     and   in   this  '^^ 
treacherous  heart 

Too  often  the  repining  thought  arose, 

That  if  Florinda  had  been  Roderick's 
Queen,  250 

Then  might  domestic  peace  and  happi- 
ness 

Have  bless'd  his  home  and  crown'd  our 
wedded  loves. 

Too  often  did  that  sinful  thought  recur, 

Too  feebly  the  temptation  was  repell'd, 


See,  Father,  I  have  probed  my  inmost 
soul ; 
Have  search' d  to  its  remotest  source  the 

sin ; 
And  tracing  it  through  all  its  specious 

forms 
Of  fair  disguisement,  I  present  it  now, 
Even  as  it  lies  before  the  eye  of  God, 
Bare  and  exposed,  convicted  and  con- 
demn'd.  260 
One  eve,  as  in  the  bowers  which  over- 
hang 
The  glen  where  Tagus  rolls  between  his 

rocks 
I  roam'd  alone,  alone  I  met  the  King. 
His  countenance  was  troubled,  and  his 

speech 
Like  that  of  one  whose  tongue  to  light 

discourse 
At    fits    constrain' d,    betrays    a   heart 

disturb' d  : 
I  too,  albeit  unconscious  of  his  thoughts. 
With     anxious     looks     reveal' d     what 

wandering  words 
In  vain  essay'd  to  hide.  A  little  while 
Did  this  oppressive  intercourse  endure, 
Till  our  eyes  met  in  silence,  each  to  each 
Telling  their  mutual  tale,  then  con- 
sciously 272 
Together  fell  abash' d.  He  took  my  hand 
And  said,   Florinda,   would   that  thou 

and  I 
Earlier  had  met !   oh  what  a  blissful  lot 


X.    RODERICK   AND  FLORINDA 


259 


^ad  then  been  mine,  who  might  have 
found  in  tlioe 

lie  sweet   companion   and    the   friend 
endear' d, 

fruitful  wife  and  crown  of  earthly  joys ! 

Iiou  too  shouldst  then  have  been  of 
womankinil 

appiest,  as  now  the  loveliest.  .  .  And 
with  that.  280 

irst  giving  waj'  to  passion   first  dis- 
closed, 

e  press'd  upon  my  lips  a  guilty  kiss.  .  . 

las  !  more  guiltil}'  received  than  given. 

issive    and    yielding,    and    yet    self- 
reproach' d, 

•embling  I  stood,  upheld  in  his  em- 
brace ; 

hen   coming  steps   were   heard,    and 
Roderick  said, 
t  me  to-morrow,  I  beseech  thee,  here, 

leen  of  my  heart  !    Oh  meet  me  here 
again, 
own  Florinda,  meet  me  here  again  ! .  . 

»ngue,  eye,  and  pressure  of  the  impas- 
sion'd  hand  290 

licited  and  urged  the  ardent  suit, 

kd  from  my  hesitating  hurried  lips 
word  of  promise  fatally  was  drawTi. 

Roderick,  Roderick  !   hadst  thou  told 
me  all 

ly  purpose  at  that  hour,  from  what 

a  world 
woe  had  thou  and  I.  .  .  The  bitterness 
that  reflection  overcame  her  then, 

m1  choak'd  her  speech.     But  Roderick 
sate  the  while 

•vering  his  face  with  both  his  hands 

close-prest, 
i  head  bow'd  down,  his  spirit  to  such 
point  300 

aufferance  knit,  as  one  who  patiently 

raits  the  uplifted  sword. 

Till  now,  said  she, 

Muming  her  confession,  I  had  lived, 
not  in  innocence,  yet  self-deceived, 


And  of  my  perilous  and  sinful  stato 
r^'nconseious.     But    this  fatal   hour  re- 

veal'd 
To  my  awakening  soul  her  guilt  and 

shame ; 
And  in  tho.se  agonies  with  which  remorse, 
Wrestling     with     weakness     and     with 

cherish'd  sin, 
Doth  triumph  o'er  the  lacerated  heart, 
That  night  .  .  that  miserable  night  .  . 

I  vow'd,  311 

A  virgin  dedicate,  to  pa.ss  my  life 
Immured ;  and,  like  redeemed  Magdalen, 
Or  that  Egyptian  penitent ',  who.se  tears 
Fretted  the  rock,  and  moisten'd  ro\md 

her  cave 
Tlie  thirsty  desert,  so  to  mourn  my  fall. 
The  struggle  ending  thus,  the  victory 
Thus,  as  I  thought,  accomplish'd,  I  be- 
lieved 
My  soul  was  calm,  and  that  the  peace  of 

Heaven 
Descended  to  accept  and  ble.ss  my  vow  ; 
And  in  this  faith,  prepared  to  consum- 
mate 321 
The  sacrifice,  I  went  to  meet  the  King. 
See,  Father,  what  a  snare  had  Satan  laid  ! 
For  Roderick  came  to  tell  me  that  the 

Church 
From  his  unfruitful  bed  would  set  him 

free. 
And  I  should  be  his  Queen. 

0  let  me  close 
The  dreadful  tale  !    I  told  him  of  my 

vow ; 
And  from  sincere  and  scrupulous  piet}', 
But  more,  I  fear  mo,  in  that  desperate 

mood 
Of  obstinate  will  perver.se,   the  which, 

witli  pride  330 

And    shame    and    self-reproach,    doth 

sometimes  make 
A  woman's  tongue,  her  own  worst  enemy, 

1  St.  Mary  the  Egyptian  (fi.). 


260      RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE    GOTHS 


Run    counter    to    her    dearest    heart's 

desire,  .  . 
In  that  unhappy  mood  did  I  resist 
All  his  most  earnest  prayers  to  let  the 

power 
Of  holy  Church,  never  more  rightfully 
Invoked,  he  said,  than  now  in  our  behalf. 
Release  us  from  our  fatal  bonds.     He 

urged 
With  kindling  warmth  his  suit,  like  one 

whose  life 
Hung  on  the  issue ;  I  dissembled  not  340 
My  cruel  self-reproaches,  nor  my  grief. 
Yet   desperately    maintain' d    the   rash 

resolve ; 
Till  in  the  passionate  argument  he  grew 
Incensed,   inflamed,   and   madden' d   or 

possess' d,  .  . 
For  Hell  too  surely  at  that  hour  pre- 

vail'd, 
And  with  such  subtile  toils  enveloped  him. 
That  even  in  the  extremity  of  guilt 
No  guilt  he  purported,  but  rather  meant 
An  amplest  recorapence  of  life-long  love 
For  transitory  wrong,  which  fate  per- 
verse, 350 
Thus  madly  he  deceived  himself,  com- 

pell'd. 
And  therefore  stern  necessity  excused. 
Here  then,  0  Father,  at  thy  feet  I  own 
Myself  the  guiltier  ;   for  full  well  I  knew 
These  were  his  thoughts,  but  vengeance 

master' d  me, 
And  in  my  agony  I  cursed  the  man 
Whom  I  loved  best. 

Dost  thou  recall  that  curse? 
Cried  Roderick,  in  a  deep  and  inward 

voice, 
Still    with    his    head    depresa'd,    and 

covering  still 
His  countenance.     Recall  it !    she  ex- 
claim'd;  360 
Father,  I  come  to  thee  because  I  gave 
The  reins  to  wrath  too  long,  .  .  because 

I  wrought 


His  ruin,  death,  and  infamy.  .  .  0  Goc 
Forgive  the  wicked  vengeance  thus  ir 

dulged, 
As  I  forgive  the  King  !  .  .  But  teach  m 

now 
What  reparation  more  than  tears  an 

prayers 
May  now  be  made  ;  .  .  how  shall  I  vind 

cate 
His  injured  name,  and  take  upon  ra^ 

self 

Daughter  of  Julian,  firmly  he  replied. 
Speak  not  of  that,  I  charge  thee  !    0 

his  fame  3: 

The  Ethiop  dye,  fixed  ineffaceable'. 
For  ever  will  abide ;  so  it  must  be. 
So  should  be:    'tis  his  rightful  punisl 

ment ; 
And  if  to  the  full  measure  of  his  sin 
The  punishment  hath  fallen,  the  mo: 

our  hope 
Tliat  through  the  blood  of  Jesus  he  ma 

find 
That  sin  forgiven  him. 

Pausing  then,  he  raii 
His  hand,  and  pointed  where  Siverian  la 
Stretch' d  on  the  heath.     To  that  o) 

man,  said  he. 
And  to  the  mother  of  the  unhappy  Got) 
Tell,  if  it  please  thee,  .  .  not  what  the 

hast  pour'd  3 

Into  my  secret  ear,  but  that  the  child 
For   whom   they   mourn   with   anguif 

unallay'd, 
Sinn'd  not  from  vicious  will,  or  hea 

corrupt. 
But  fell  by  fatal  circumstance  betray' 
And  if  in  charity  to  them  thou  sayest 
Something    to    palliate,    something 

excuse 
An  act  of  sudden  frenzy  when  the  Fier 
O'ercame  him.  thou  wilt  do  for  Roderi( 
All  he  could  ask  thee,  all  that  can  1 

done  3 

On  earth,  and  all  his  spirit  could  endui 


X.    RODERR'K   AND   FLORINDA 


2G1 


I    Venturing  towards  her  au  imploring 

f        look, 

JWilt  thou  join  with  mo  for  hia  soul  in 

prayer  '/ 
H'.>   said,    and    trembled    as    ho   spake. 

That  voice 
()f  sympathy  waslikcHcaven'sinllucncc, 
W'oiuulitig  at  once  and  comforting  tiic 

soul. 
I  >  Father,  Christ  requite  thee  !    she  ex- 
claim" d  ; 
Thou  hast  set  free  the  springs  which 

withering  griefs 
Have  closed  too  long.     Forgive  me,  for 

I  thought  399 

riiou  wert  a  rigid  and  unpitying  judge  ; 
One  whose  stern  virtue,  feeling  in  itself 
N'o  Haw  of  frailty,  heard  impatiently 
I  >f  weakness  and  of  guilt.     I  wrong'd 

thee.  Father  !  .  . 
With  that  she  took  his  hand,  and  kissing 

it, 
Bathed  it  with  tears.     Then  in  a  firmer 

speech, 
I'ur   Roderick,    for    Count  Julian    and 

myself, 
Three  wretchedest  of  all  the  human  race, 
Alio   have  destroyed   each   other   and 

ourselves, 
Mutually  wrong'd  and  \ATonging,  let  us 

pray  ! 


XI.    COUNT  PEDRO'S  CASTLE 

Twelve  weary  days  with  unremitting 
speed, 

-Shunning  frequented  tracks,  the  tra- 
vellers 

I'ursued  their  way  ;  the  mountain  path 
they  chose, 

I  lie  forest  or  the  lonely  heath  wide- 
spread, 

A  here  cist  us  shrubs  sole-seen  exhaled 
at  noon 


Their  fine  balsamic  odour  all  around  ; 
Strew'd    with   their   blossoms,   frail   as 

beautiful, 
The  thirsty  soil  at  eve  ;    and  when  tho 

sun 
Relumed  the  glad<len'd  ear(h,  oi)ening 

anew 
Tlieir  stores  exuberant,  prodigal  as  frail, 
Whiten'd  again   the  wilderness.     They 

left  II 

The   dark   Sierra's   skirts   behind,    anil 

cross' d 
Tho  wilds  where  Ana  in  her  native  hills 
Collects  her  sister  springs,  and  hurries  on 
Her    course    melodious    amid    loveliest 

glens, 
With    forest    and    with    fruitage    over- 
bower' d. 
These  scenes  profusely  blest  by  Heaven 

they  left. 
Where  o'er  the  hazel  and  the  quince  the 

vine 
Wide-mantling    spreads ;    and  clinging 

round  the  cork 
And  ilex,  hangs  amid  their  dusky  leaves 
Garlands  of  brightest  hue,  with  redden- 
ing fruit  21 
Pendant,  or  clusters  cool  of  glassy  green. 
80  holding  on  o'er  mountain  and  o'er 

vale, 
Tagus  they  cross' d  where  midland  on 

his  way 
The   King   of   Rivers   rolls   his  stately 

stream  ; 
And  rude  Alverches  wide  and  stony  bed, 
And    Duero   distant   far,    and    many   a 

stream 
And  many  a  field  obscure,  in  future  war 
For  bIoo(ly  theatre  of  famous  deeds 
Foredoom' d ;      and    deserts    where    in 

years  to  come  30 

Shall  populous  towns  arise,  and  crested 

towers 
And  stately  temples  rear  their  heads  on 

hi;ih.  ' 


262      RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


Cautious  with  course  circuitous  they 

shunn'd 
The  embattled  city,  which  in  eldest  time 
Thrice-greatest  Hermes  built,  so  fables 

say, 
Now  subjugate,  but  fated  to  behold 
Ere  long  the  heroic  Prince  (who  jmssiug 

now 
Unknown   and  silently   the  dangerous 

track, 
Turns  thither  his  regardant  eye)  come 

down 
Victorious  from  the  heights,  and  bear 

abroad  40 

Her  banner' d  Lion,  symbol  to  the  Moor 
Of  rout  and  death  through  many  an  age 

of  blood. 
Lo,  there  the  Asturian  hills  !   Far  in  the 

west, 
Huge  Rabanal  and  Foncebadon  huge, 
Pre-eminent,  their  giant  bulk  display, 
Darkening  with  earliest  shade  the  dis- 
tant vales 
Of  Leon,  and  with  evening  premature. 
Far  in  Cantabria  eastward,  the  long  line 
Extends  beyond  the  reach  of  eagle's  eye, 
When  buoyant  in  mid-heaven  the  bird 

of  Jove  50 

(Soars  at  his  loftiest  pitch.     In  the  north, 

before 
The  travellers  the  Erbasian  mountains 

rise. 
Bounding  the  land  beloved,  their  native 

land. 

How  then,  Alphonso,  did  thy  eager 

soul 
Chide  the  slow  hours  and  painful  way, 

which  seem'd 
Lengthening  to  grow  before  their  lagging 

pace ! 
Youth  of  heroic  thought  and  high  desire, 
'Tis  not  the  spur  of  lofty  enterprize 
That   with   unequal   throbbing  hurries 


The  unquiet  heart,  now  makes  it  sink 

dismay' d ;  6c 

'Tis  not  impatient  joy  which  thus  dis- 
turbs 
In    that    young    breast    the    healthful 

spring  of  life ; 
Joy  and  ambition  have  forsaken  him, 
His  soul  is  sick  with  hope.     So  near  his 

home. 
So  near  his  mother's  arms ;  .  .   alas ! 

perchance 
The  long'd-for  meeting  may  be  yet  far 

off 
As  earth  from  heaven.     Sorrow  in  these 

long  months 
Of  separation  may  have  laid  her  low ; 
Or  what  if  at  his  flight  the  bloody  Moor 
Hath   sent   his   ministers   of   slaughter 

forth,  70 

And  he  himself  should  thus  have  brought 

the  sword 
Upon  his  father's  head  ?  .  .  Sure  Hoya 

too 
The  same  dark  presage  feels,  the  fearful 

boy 
Said  in  himself ;    or  wherefore  is  his 

brow 
Thus  overcast  with  heaviness,  and  why 
Looks  he  thus  anxiously  in  silence  round  ? 

Just  then  that  faithful  servant  raised 

his  hand. 
And  turning  to  Alphonso  with  a  smile, 
He  pointed  where  Count  Pedro's  towers 

far  off 
Peer'd  in  the  dell  below ;  faint  was  the 

smile,  80 

And  while  it  sate  upon  his  lips,  his  eye 
Retain'd  its  troubled  speculation  still. 
For  long  had  he  look'd  wistfully  in  vain,    , 
Seeking  where  far  or  near  he  might  espy   I 
From  whom  to  learn  if  time  or  chance    ' 

had  wrought 
Change  in  his  master's  house :    but  on 

the  hills 


J 


XI.    COUNT   PEDRO'S   CASTLE 


263 


Xoi  goat -herd  could  he  sco,  nor  travollcr, 
Xor  hunl:imaii  early  at  his  sports  atield, 
Xor  angler  following  up  the  mountain 

glen 
His  lonely  pastime  ;    neither  could  ho 

hear  90 

Carol,  or  pipe,  or  shout  of  ehepherd's  boy. 
Nor  woodman's  axe,  for  not  a  human 

sound 
Disturbed  the  silence  of  the  solitude. 

Is  it  the  siwilcr's  work  ".'    At  yonder 

door 
Behold  the  favourite  kidling  bleats  un- 
heard ; 
The  next  stands  open,  and  the  sparro^^s 

there 
Boldly   pass  in   and   out.     Thither   he 

turn'd 
To  seek  what  indication«  were  within  ; 
The  chesnut- bread  was  on    the   shelf, 

the  churn. 
As  if  in  haste  forsaken,  full  and  fresh  ; 
The  recent  fire  had  moulder' d  on  the 

hearth ;  101 

And  broken  cobwebs  mark'd  the  whiter 

space 
Where  from  the  wall  the  buckler  and 

the  sword 
Had  late  been  taken  down.     Wonder  at 

tirst 
Had  mitigated  fear,  but  Hoy  a  now 
Returned  to  tell  the  symbols  of  good 

hope, 
And  they  prick'd  forward  joyfully.    Ere 

long, 
Perceptible  above  the  ceaseless  sound 
Of  yonder  stream,  a  voice  of  multitudes. 
As  if  in  loud  acclaim,  was  heard  far  off ; 
And   nearer   as    they    drew,    distincter 

shouts  "I 

Came  from  the  dell,  and  at  Count  Pedro's 

gate 
The  human  swarm  were  seen, . .  a  motley 

group, 


Maids,  mothers,  helpless  infancy,  weak 

age. 
And  wondering  children  and  tumultuous 

boys. 
Hot     youth     and     resolute     manhood 

gather' d  there. 
In  uproar  all.     Anon  the  moving  mass 
Falls  in  half  circle  back,  a  general  cry 
Bursts  forth,  exultant  arms  are  lifted  up. 
And  caps  are  thro\ni  aloft,  as  through 

the  gate  120 

Count  Pedro's  banner  came.     Alphonso 

shriek' d 
For  joy,  and  smote  his  steed  and  gallop' d 

on. 

Fronting  the  gate  tlie  standard-bearer 

holds 
His  precious  charge.     Behind  the  men 

divide 
In  order' d  files  ;   green  boyhood  presses 

there, 
And   waning  eld,   pleading  a  youthful 

soul, 
Intreats  admission.     All  is  ardour  here, 
Hope  and  brave  purposes  and  minds 

resolved. 
Nor  where  the  weaker  sex  is  left  apart 
Doth    aught    of    fear    find    utterance, 

though  perchance  130 

.Some  paler  cheeks  might  there  be  seen, 

some  eyes 
Big  with  sad  bodings,  and  some  natural 

tears. 
Count  Pedro's  war-horse  in  the  vacant 

space 
Strikes  with  impatient  hoof  the  trodden 

turf, 
And  gazing  round  upon  the  martial  show, 
Proud  of  his  stately  trapphigs,  flings  his 

head, 
And  snorts  and  champs   the   bit,   and 

neighuig  shrill 
Wakes  the  near  echo  with  his  voice  of 

joy. 


264      RODERICK,  THE  LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


I 


The  page  beside  him  holds  his  master's 

spear 
And  shield  and  helmet.     In  the  castle- 
gate  140 
Count   Pedro   stands,    his  countenance 

resolved 
But  mournful,  for  Favinia  on  his  arm 
Hung,  passionate  with  her  fears,  and  held 

him  back. 
Go  not,   she  cried,   with  this  deluded 

crew  ! 
>She  hath  not,  Pedro,  with  her  frantic 

words 
Bereft  thy  faculty,  .  .  she  is  crazed  with 

grief, 
And  her  delirium  hath  infected  these  : 
But,  Pedro,  thou  art  calm ;    thou  dost 

not  share  » 

The  madness  of  the  crowd ;    thy  sober 

mind 
Surveys  the  danger  in  its  whole  extent. 
And  sees  the  certain  ruin,  .  .  for  thou 

know'st  151 

I  know  thou  hast  no  hope.     Unhappy 

man. 
Why  then  for  this  most  desperate  enter- 
prize 
"Wilt  thou  devote  thy  son,  thine  only 

child  ? 
Not  for  myself  I  plead,  nor  even  for 

thee; 
Thou  art  a  soldier,  and  thou  canst  not 

fear 
The  face  of  death ;    and  I  should  wel- 
come it 
As  the  best  visitant  whom  Heaven  could 

send. 
Not  for  our  lives  I  speak  then,  .  .  were 

they  worth 
The  thought  of  preservation  ;  .  .  Nature 

soon  160 

Must  call  for  them;     the  sword  that 

should  cut  short 
Sorrow's   slow   work  were  merciful   to 

US. 


But  spare  Alphonso  !   there  is  time  and' 

hope 
In  store  for  him.     O  thou  who  gavest 

him  life. 
Seal  not  his  death,  his  death  and  mine  at 

once ! 

Peace !     he   replied :     thou   know'st 

there  is  no  choice, 
I  did  not  raise  the  storm  ;  I  cannot  turn 
Its  course  aside  !   but  where  yon  banner 

goes 
Thy  Lord  must  not  be  absent !    Spare 

me  then, 
Favinia,  lest  I  hear  thy  honour' d  name 
Now  first  attainted  with  deserved  re- 
proach. 171 
The  boy  is  in  God's  hands.     He  who  of 

yore 
Walk'd  with  the  sons  of  Judah  in  the 

fire. 
And  from  the  lion's  den  drew  Daniel 

forth 
Unhurt,  can  save  him,  .  .  if  it  be  his 

will. 

Even    as    he    spake,    the    astonish'd 

troop  set  up 
A  shout  of  joy  which  rung  through  all 

the  hills. 
Alphonso   heeds   not   how   they   break 

their  ranks 
And  gather  round  to  greet  him ;    from 

his  horse 
Precipitate  and  panting  oflf  he  springs. 
Pedro  grew  pale,  and  trembled  at  his 

sight;  181 

Favinia  claspt  her  hands,  and  looking 

up 
To  Heaven  as  she  embraced  the  boy, 

exclaim' d. 
Lord   God,   forgive   me   for  my   sinful 

fears ; 
Unworthy  that  I  am,  .  .  my  son,  my 

sou! 


XII.    THE   VOW 


265 


XII.    THE  VOW 

Always  I  knew  thee  for  a  generous  foe. 
Pelayo  !    mid  the  Count;    and  in  our 

timo 
Of  enmity,  tliou  too,  I  know,  didst  feci 
The  feud  bet  ween  us  was  but  of  the  house. 
Not   of   the   heart.     Brethren   in   arms 

henceforth 
We  stand  or  fall  together :   nor  will  I 
Look  to  the  event  with  ono  misgiving 

thought,  .  . 
That  wero  to  provo  myself  unworthy 

now 
Of  Heaven's  benignant  providence,  this 

hour, 

Scarcely  by  less  than  miracle,  vouch- 
safed. 10 
I  will  believe  that  we  have  da3's  in  store 
Of  hope,  now  risen  again  as  from  the 

dead,  .  . 
Uf  vengeance, .  .  of  portentous  victory, . . 
Yea,  maugre  all   unlikelihoods,   .   .   of 

peace. 
Let  us  then  here  indissolubly  knit 
Our  ancient  houses,  that  those  happy 

days, 
When  they  arrive,   may  tind  us  more 

than  friends. 
And  bound  by  closer  than  fraternal  ties, 
riiou  hast  a  daughter.  Prince,  to  whom 

my  heart 
Yearns  now,  as  if  in  wiimiug  infancy  20 
Her  smiles  had  been  its  daily  food  of 

love. 
I  need  not  tell  thee  what  Alphouso  is,  .  . 
iliou  know'st  the  boy  ! 

Already  had  that  hope, 
Replied  Pelayo,  risen  within  my  soul. 
0  Thou,   who  in  thy  mercy  from  the 

houfio 
Of  Moorish  bondage  hast  deliver'd  us, 
FulHl  the  pious  purposes  for  which 
Here,  in  thy  presence,  thus  we  pledge 

our  hands  ! 

K 


•Strange    hour    to    plight    espousals ! 

yielding  half 
To  superstitious  thoughts,  Paviuia  cried. 
And   those  strange   witnesses  I  ,   ,   Tho 

times  are  strange,  31 

With  thoughtful  speech  composed  her 

Lord  replies, 
And  what  thou  sccst  accords  with  them. 

Tliis  day 
Is    wonderful ;     nor    could    auspicious 

Heaven 
With  fairer  or  with  titter  omen  gild 
Our  cnterprize,    when  strong  in  heart 

and  hope 
We  take  the  tield,  preparing  thus  for 

works 
Of  piety  and  love.     Unwillingly 
I  yielded  to  my  people's  general  voice. 
Thinking  that  she  who  with  her  power- 
ful words  40 
To  this  excess  had  roused  and  kindled 

them. 
Spake  from  the  spirit  of  her  griefs  alone, 
Not  with  prophetic  impulse.     Be  that 

sin 
Forgiven  mc  !    and  the  calm  and  quiet 

faith 
\Vhich,  in  the  place  of  incredulity. 
Hath  tili'd  me,  now  that  seeing  I  believe, 
Doth  give  of  happy  end  to  righteous 

cause 
A    presage,     not    presumptuous,     but 

a.ssured. 

Then   Pedro  told   Pelayo  how  from 

vale 
To  vale  the  exalted  Adosinda  went,     50 
Exciting  sire  and  son,  in  holy  war 
Conquering  or  dying,   to  secure   their 

place 
In  Paradise  :   and  how  reluctantly, 
And  mourning  for  his  child  by  his  own 

act 
Thus  doom'd  to  death,   he  bade  with 

heavy  heart 
3 


266      RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


His  banner  he  brought  forth.  Devoid 
alike 

Oi  purpose  and  of  hope  himself,  he 
.   meant 

To  march  toward  the  western  Moun- 
taineers, 

Where  Odoar  by  his  counsel  might 
direct 

Their  force  conjoin' d.  Now,  said  he, 
.     .we  must  haste  60 

To  Cangas,  there,  Pelayo,  to  secure, 

With  timely  speed,  I  trust  in  God,  thy 
house. 

Then  looking  to  his  men,  he  cried, 

Bring  forth 
The  armour  which  in  Wamba's  wars  I 

wore.  .  . 
Alphonso's  heart  leapt  at  the  auspicious 

words. 
Count  Pedro  mark'd  the  rising  glow  of 

joy, .  . 
Doubly  to  thee,  Alphonso,  he  pursued. 
This  day  above  all  other  days  is  blest. 
From  whence  as  from  a  birth-day  thou 

wilt  date 
Thy  life  in  arms  ! 

Rejoicing  in  their  task,     70 
The  servants  of  the  house  with  emulous 

love 
Dispute   the   charge.     One   brings   the 

cuirass,  one 
The  buckler  ;   this  exultingly  displays 
The  sword,  his  comrade  lifts  the  helm  on 

high  : 
The  greaves,  the  gauntlets  they  divide  ; 

a  spur 
Seems  now  to  dignify  the  officious  hand 
Which  for  such  service  bears  it  to  his 

Lord. 
Greek  artists  in  the  imiDcrial  city  forged 
That  splendid  armour,  perfect  in  their 

craft ; 
With    curious    skill   they   wrought    it, 

framed  alike  80 


To  shine  amid  the  pageantry  of  war, 
And  for  the  proof  of  battle.     Many  a 

time 
Aljihonso    from    his    nurse's    lap    had 

stretch' d 
His  infant  hands  toward  it  eagerly, 
Where  gleaming  to  the  central  tire  it 

hung 
High  in  the  hall ;  and  many  a  time  had 

wish'd 
With  boyish  ardour,  that  the  day  were 

come 
When  Pedro  to  his  prayers  would  grant 

the  boon. 
His  dearest  heart's  desire.     Count  Pedro 

then 
Would  smile,  and  in  his  heart  rejoice  to 

see  90 

The  noble  instinct  manifest  itself. 
Then  too  Favinia  with  maternal  pride 
Would  turn  her  eyes  exulting  to  her 

Lord, 
And  in  that  silent  language  bid  him  mark 
His  spirit  in  his  boy  ;   all  danger  then 
Was  distant,  and  if  secret  forethought 

faint 
Of  manhood's  perils,  and  the  chance  of 

war. 
Hateful  to  mothers,  pass'd  across  her 

mind, 
The  ill  remote  gave  to  the  present  hour 
A  heighten  d  feeling  of  secure  delight. 

No  season  this  for  old  solemnities,   loi 
For  wassailry  and  sport ;  .  .  the  bath, 

the  bed. 
The  vigil,  .  .  all  preparatory  rites 
Omitted  now,  .   .   here  in  the  face  of 

Heaven, 
Before  the  vassals  of  his  father's  house, 
With  them  in  instant  peril  to  partake 
The  chance  of  life  or  death,  the  heroic 

boy 
Dons  his  first  arms  ;  the  coated  scales  of. 

steel 


mil 


Xll.    THE    VOW 


267 


Which  o'er  the  tiiuic  to  hia  kueea  depeud. 
The   hose,   the  blee\es  of  mail  ;    bare- 
headed then  no 
lie  stood.     But  when  Couut  Fedro  tooli 

the  spurs 
And  beiit  his  kiiee  in  service  to  his  sou, 
Alphoubo  from  that  gesture  half  drew 

back, 
starting  in  reverence,  and  a  deeper  hue 
Spread  o'er  the  glow  of  joy  which  llush'd 

his  cheeks. 
Do   thou   the  rest,    Pclayo !     said   the 

Count ; 
iSo  shall  the  ceremony  of  this  hour 
Exceed  in  honour  what  in  form  it  lacks. 
The  Prince  from  Hoya's  faithful  hand 

received 
The  sword  ;   he  girt  it  round  the  youth, 

and  drew  120 

And  placed  it  in  his  hand  ;  unsheathing 

then 
His  o^^^l  good  falchion,  with  its  burnish'd 

blade 
He  touch'd  Alphonso's  neck,  and  with 

a  kiss 
Gave  him  his  rank  in  arms. 

Thus  long  the  crowd 
Had    look'd    intently    on,    in    silence 

hush'd  ; 
Loud   and   continuous   now    with    one 

accord, 
^hout  following  shout,  their  acclamations 

rose ; 
Blessings    were    breathed    from    every 

heart,  and  joy, 
Powerful  alike  in  all,  which  as  with  force 
Of  an  inebriating  cup  inspired  130 

The  youthful,  from  the  eye  of  age  drew 

tears. 
The  uproar  died  away,  when  standing 

forth, 
Roderick  with  Ufted  hand  besought  a 

pause 
For   speech,    and    moved    towards   the 

youth.     I  too, 


Young  Baron,  ho  began,  must  do  my 

part  ; 
Not  with  prerogative  of  earthly  [xjwcr. 
But  as  the  servant  of  the  living  (.iod, 
The    Cod    of    Hosts.     This    day    thou 

promisest 
To  die  when  honour  calls  thee  for  thy 

faith. 
For  thy  liege  Lord,  and  for  thy  native 

land ;  140 

The  duties  which  at  birth  wo  all  con- 
tract. 
Are  by  the  high  profession  of  this  hour 
Made     thine     especially.      Thy     noble 

blood. 
The  thoughts  with  which  thy  childhood 

hath  been  fed, 
And  thine  own  noble  nature  more  than 

all, 
Are  sureties  for  thee.     But  these  dread- 
ful times 
Demand  a  farther  pledge ;    for  it  hath 

pleased 
The  Highest,  as  he  tried  his  Saints  of  old, 
80  in  the  fiery  furnace  of  his  wrath 
To  prove  and  purify  the  sons  of  Spain  ; 
And  they  must  knit  their  spirits  to  the 

proof,  X5X 

Or  sink,  for  ever  lost.     Hold  forth  thy 

sword. 
Young  Baron,   and   before  thy  people 

take 
The  vow  which,  in  Toledo's  sacred  name, 
Poor  as  these  weeds  bespeak  me,  I  am 

hero 
To  minister  with  delegated  power. 

With  reverential  awe  was  Roderick 

heard 
By  all,  so  well  authority  became 
That  mien  and  voice  and  countenance 

austere. 
Pelayo  with  complacent  eye  beheld    160 
The    unlook'd-for   interposal,    and    the 

Count 


268 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


Bends  toward  Alphouso  his  approving 

head. 
The  youth  obedient  loosen'd  from  his 

belt 
The  sword,  and  looking,  while  his  heart 

beat  fast, 
To  Roderick,  reverently  expectant  stood. 

U  noble  youth,  the  Koyal  Goth  pur- 
sued, 

Thy  country  is  in  bonds  ;  an  impious  foe 

Oppresses  her ;  he  brings  with  him 
strange  laws, 

ytrange  language,  evil  customs,  and 
false  faith, 

And  forces  them  on  Spain.  JSwear  that 
thy  soul  170 

Will  make  no  covenant  with  these 
accursed. 

But  that  the  sword  shall  be  from  this 
day  forth 

Thy  children's  portion,   to  be  handed 

dOA^Tl 

From  sire  to  son,  a  sacred  heritage. 
Through  ever}'  generation,  till  the  work 
Be  done,  and  this  insulted  land  hath 

drunk 
In  sacrifice,  the  last  invader's  blood  ! 

Bear    witness,    ancient    Mountains  1 

cried  the  youth, 
And  ye,  my  native  Streams,  who  hold 

your  course 
For  ever;  .  .  this  dear  Earth,  and  yonder 

Skj',  180 

Be  witness  !  for  myself  I  make  the  vow. 
And  for  my  children's  children.     Here 

I  stand 
Their  spcmsor,  biixling  them  in  sight  of 

Heaven, 
As  by  a  new  baptismal  sacrament. 
To  wage  hereditary  holy  war, 
Perpetual,  patient,  persevering  war. 
Till  not  one  living  enemy  pollute 
The  sacred  soil  of  Spain. 


So  as  he  ceased. 

While  yet  toward  the  clear  blue  firma- 
ment 

His  eyes  were  raised,  he  lifted  to  his  lips 

The  sword,  with  reverent  gesture  bending 
then  191 

Devoutly  kiss'd  its  cross. 

And  ye  !  exclaimed 

Roderick,  as  turning  to  the  assembled 
troop 

He  motion'd  with  authoritative  hand,  .  . 

Ye  children  of  the  hills  and  sons  of  Spain! 

Through  every  heart  the  rapid  feeling 

ran, .  . 
For   us  !     they   answer" d   all   with   one 

accord. 
And  at  the  word  they  knelt  :    People 

and  Prince, 
The  young  and  old,  the  father  and  the 

son. 
At  once  they  knelt ;    with  one  accord 

they  cried,  200 

For  us,  and  for  our  seed  !  with  one  accord 
They  cross'd   their  fervent   arms,   and 

with  bent  head 
Inclined  toward  that  aweful  voice  from 

whence 
The  inspiring  impulse  came.    The  Royal 

Goth 
Made  answer,   I  receive  your  vow  for 

Spain 
And  for  the  Lord  of  Hosts  :  your  cause 

is  good. 
Go  forward  in  his  spirit  and  his  strength. 

Ne'er  in  his  happiest  hours  had 
Roderick 

With  such  commanding  majesty  dis- 
pensed 

His  princely  gifts,  as  dignified  him  now, 

When  with  slow  movement,  solemnly 
upraised,  211 

Toward  the  kneeling  troop  he  spread 
his  arms, 


XII.    THE   VOW 


269 


As  if  the  expanded  soul  diftiiscd  itsolf. 
And  carried  to  all  spirits  with  the  act 
Its  effluent  inspiration.     Silently 
The  people  knelt,  and  when  they  rose, 

such  awe 
Held  them  in  silence,  that  the  eagle's 

cry. 
Who  far  above  them,   at   her  highest 

flight 
A  speck  scarce  visible,  gyred  roiuid  and 

round. 
Was  heard  distinctly';    and  the  moun- 
tain stream.  220 
Which  from  the  distant  glen  sent  forth 

its  sounds 
Wafted  upon  the  wind,  grew  audible 
In  that  deep  hush  of  feeling,  like  the 

voice 
Of  waters  in  the  stillness  of  the  night. 


XITI.    COUNT  EUDON 

That  aweful  silence  still  endured,  when 
one. 

Who  to  the  northern  entrance  of  the 
vale 

Had  turn'd  his  casual  eye,  exclaim'd, 
The  floors  !  .  . 

For  from  the  forest  verge  a  troop  were 
seen 

Ha.stening  toward  Pedro's  hall.  Their 
forward  speed 

Was  check'd  wlien  they  beheld  his  ban- 
ner spread. 

And  saw  his  order'd  spears  in  prompt 
array 

Marshaird  to  meet  their  coming.  But 
the  pride 

Of  power  and  insolence  of  long  com- 
mand 

Prick' d  on  their  Chief  presumptuous : 
We  are  come  10 

Late  for  prevention,  cried  the  haughty 
Moor, 


But  never  time  more  tit  for  punishment  ! 
These  unbelieving  slaves  must  feel  and 

know 
Their   master's   arm!    .    .    On,    fiiithful 

Musselmen, 
On  . .  on, .  .  and  hew  do\ni  the  rebellious 

dogs !  .  . 
Then  as  he  spurr'd  his  steed,  Allah  is 

great  ! 
^[ahommed  is  liis  Prophet !  he  exclaim'd. 
And  led  the  charge. 

Count  Pedro  met  the  Cliief 
In  full  career  ;    he  bore  him  from  his 

horse 
A  full   spear's  length   upon   the  lance 

transfix' d  :  20 

Then  leaving  in  his  breast   the  mortal 

shaft, 
Pa.ss'd  on,   and   breaking  through   the 

turban' d  files 
Open'd  a  path.     Pelayo.  who  that  day 
Fought  in  the  ranks  afoot,  for  other  war 
Yet  unequipp'd,  pursued  and  smote  the 

foe. 
But  ever  on  Alphonso  at  his  side 
Retain'd  a  watchful  eye.   The  gallant  boy 
Gave    his    good    sword    that    hour    its 

earliest  taste 
Of  Moorish  blood,  .  .  that  sword  whose 

hungry  edge. 
Through  the  fair  course  of  all  his  glorious 

life  30 

From  that  auspicious  day,  was  fed  so 

well. 
Cheap  was  the  victory  now  for  Spain 

achieved  ; 
For    the    first    fervour    of    their    zeal 

inspired 
The  Mountaineers,  .  .   the  presence  of 

their  Chiefs, 
Tlie  sight  of  all  dear  objects,  all  dear  ties, 
Tlie  air  they  l)reathed.  the  soil  whereon 

they  tro<l. 
Duty,  devotion,  faith,  and  hope  and  joy. 
And  little  had  the  mi.sbfiievers  ween'd 


270       RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF  THE   GOTHS 


In  such  impetuous  onset  to  receive 

A  greeting  deadly  as  their  gwti  intent ; 

Victims  they  thought  to  find,  not  men 
prepared  41 

And  eager  for  the  fight ;  their  confidence 

Therefore  gave  way  to  wonder,  and  dis- 
may 

Effected  what  astonishment  began. 

Scatter'd  before  the  impetuous  Moun- 
taineers, 

Buckler  and  spear  and  scymitar  they 
dropt. 

As  in  precipitate  route  they  fled  before 

The  Asturian  sword  :  the  vales  and  hills 
and  rocks 

Received  their  blood,  and  where  they 
fell  the  wolves 

At  evening  found  them. 

From  the  fight  apart    50 

Two  Africans  had  stood,  who  held  in 
charge 

Count  Eudon.     When  they  saw  their 
countrymen 

Falter,  give  way,  and  fly  before  the  foe, 

One  turn'd  toward  him  with  malignant 
rage, 

And  saying.  Infidel  !  thou  shalt  not  live 

To  join  their  triumph  !  aim'd  against  his 
neck 

The  moony  falchion's  point.     His  com- 
rade raised 

A  hasty  hand  and  turn'd  its  edge  aside. 

Yet  so  that  o'er  the  shoulder  glancing 
down 

It  scarr'd  him  as  it  pass'd.     Tlie  mur- 
derous Moor,  60 

Not  tarrying  to  secure  his  vengeance, 
fled; 

While  he  of  milder  mood,  at  Eudon's  feet 

Fell    and    embraced    his    knees.     The 
mountaineer 

Who    found    them    thus,    withheld    at 
Eudon's  voice 

His  wrathful  hand,  and  led  them  to  his 
Lord, 


Count  Pedro  and  Alphonso  and  the 

Prince 
Stood  on  a  little  rocky  eminence 
Which  overlook' d  the  vale.     Pedro  had      i 

put 
His  helmet  off,  and  with  sonorous  horn 
Blew  the  recall ;  for  well  he  knew  what 

thoughts,  70 

Calm  as  the  Prince  appear'd  and  undis- 

turb'd, 
Lay  underneath  his  silent  fortitude  ; 
And  how  at  this  eventful  juncture  speed 
Imported  more  than  vengeance.     Thrice 

he  sent 
The  long-resounding  signal  forth,  which 

rung 
From   hill   to   hill,   re-echoing  far  and 

wide. 
Slow  and  unwillingly  his  men  obey'd 
The  swelling  horn's  reiterated  call ; 
Repining  that  a  single  foe  escaped 
The  retribution  of  that  righteous  hour. 
With  lingering  step  reluctant  from  the 

chase  81 

They  turn'd,  .  .  their  veins  full-swoln, 

their  sinews  strung 
For  battle  still,  their  hearts  unsatisfied  ; 
Their  swords  were  dropping  still  with 

Moorish  blood, 
And   where   they   wiped   their  reeking 

brows,  the  stain 
Of  Moorish  gore  was  left.     But  when 

they  came 
Where  Pedro,  with  Alphonso  at  his  side. 
Stood  to  behold  their  coming,  then  they 

press' d 
All  emulous,  with  gratulation  round. 
Extolling  for  his  deeds  that  day  dis- 
play'd  90 
The  noble  boy.   Oh !  when  had  Heaven, 

they  said. 
With  such  especial  favour  manifest 
Illustrated  a  first  essay  in  arms  ! 
Tliey  bless'd  the  father  from  whose  loin^ 

he  sprung. 


XIII.    COUNT   EUDON 


271 


The  mother  at  whoso  happy  breast  he 

fed; 
And  pray'd  that  tlieir  young  lioro's  fields 

might  bo 
Many,  and  all  like  this. 

Thus  they  indulged 
Tlie  honest  heart,  exuberant  of  love, 
When  that  loquacious  joy  at  once  was 

check' d. 
For  Eudon  and  the  ^foor  were  brought 

before  loo 

Count  Pedro.     Botii  came  fearfully  and 

pale. 
But  with  a  diflferent  fear  :   the  African 
Felt  at  thi3  crisis  of  his  destiny 
Such  apprehension  as  without  reproach 
Might  blanch  a  soldier's  cheek,  when  life 

and  death 
Hang  on  another's  will,  and  helplessly 
He    must    abide    the    issue.     But    the 

thoughts 
Which  quail' d  Count  Eudon' s  heart,  and 

made  his  limbs 
Quiver,  were  of  his  own  unworthiness, 
Old  enmit}'.  and  that  he  stood  in  power 
Of  hated  and  hereditary  foes.  in 

I  came  not  with  them   willingly  !    he 

cried. 
Addressing  Pedro  and  the  Prince  at  once, 
Rolling  from  each  to  each  his  restless 

eyes 
Aghast,  .  .  the  ]\roor  can  tell  I  had  no 

choice  ; 
They  forced  me  from  my  castle :  .  .  in 

the  fight 
They  would  have  slain  me :  .  .  see  I 

bleed  !     Tlie  Moor 
Can  witness  that  a  Moorish  scymitar 
Inflicted  this  :  .  .  he  saved  me  from  worse 

hurt :  .  . 
I  did  not  come  in  arms  :  .  .  he  knows  it 

all ;  .  .  120 

Speak,  man,  and  let  the  truth  be  known 

to  clear 
My  innocence  ! 


Thus  as  he  ceased,  with  fear 
And    rapid    utterance    panting    open- 

mouth'd. 
Count   Pedro   half   represt   a   mournful 

smile. 
Wherein  compassion  seem'd  to  mitigate 
His  deep  contempt.     Methinks,  said  he, 

the  Moor 
Might  with  more  reason  look  himself  to 

find 
An  intercessor,  than  be  call'd  upon 
To  play  the  pleader's  part.     Didst  thou 

then  save  129 

The  Baron  from  thy  comrades  ? 

Let  my  Lord 
Show  mercy  to  me,  said  the  Mussulman, 
As  I  am  free  from  falsehood.     We  were 

left, 
I  and  another,  holding  him  in  charge ; 
;My  fellow  would  have  slain  him  when  he 

saw 
How   the    fight   fared :     I   turn'd    the 

scymitar 
Aside,   and  trust  that  lifo  will   be  the 

meed 
For  life  by  me  preserved. 

Nor  shall  thy  trust, 
Rejoin'd    the     Count,     be    vain.     Say 

farther  now. 
From  whence  ye  came  ?  .  .  your  orders 

what  ?  ,  .  what  force  139 

In  Gegio  ?   and  if  others  like  yourselves 
Are  in  the  field  ? 

Tlie  African  replied. 
We  came  from  Gegio,  order' d  to  secure 
This  Baron  on  the  way,  and  seek  thee 

here 
To  bear  thee  hence  in  bonds.     A  mes- 
senger 
From    Cordoba,    whose   speed    denoted 

well 
He  came  with  urgent  tidings,  was  the 

cause 
Of    this    our    sudden    movement.     We 

went  forth 


272      RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


Three  hundred   men ;     an   equal  force 
was  sent  148 

For  Cangas,  on  like  errand  as  I  ween. 

Four  hundred  in  the  city  then  were  left. 

If  other  force  be  moving  from  the  south, 

I  know  not,  save  that  all  appearances 

Denote  alarm  and  vigilance. 

The  Prince 

Fix'd  upon  Eudon  then  his  eye  severe  ; 

Baron,  he  said,  the  die  of  war  is  cast ; 

"WTiat  part  art  thou  prepared  to  take  ? 
against. 

Or  with  the  oppressor  ? 

Not  against  my  friends,  .  . 

Not  against  you  !  .  .  the  irresolute  wretch 
replied. 

Hasty,  yet  faltering  in  his  fearful  speech : 

But  .  .  have  ye  weigh'd  it  well  ?  .  .  It  is 
not  yet  160 

Too  late,  .  .  their  numbers,  .  .  their  vic- 
torious force. 

Which  hath  already  trodden  in  the  dust 

The  sceptre  of  the  Goths  :  .  .  the  throne 
destroy' d,  .  . 

Our  towns  subdued,   .   .    our  country 
overrun,  .  . 

The  people  to  the  yoke  of  their  new 
Lords 

Resign' d   in  peace.  . .  Can    I   not  me- 
diate ?  .  . 

Were  it  not  better  through  my  agency 

To  gain  such  terms,  .  .  such  honourable 
terms.  .  . 

Terms  !  cried  Pelayo,  cutting  short  at 

once 
That  dastard  speech,  and  checking,  ere 

it  grew  170 

Too  powerful  for  restraint,  the  incipient 

wrath 
Which  in  indignant  murmurs  breathing 

round. 
Rose  like  a  gathering  storm,  learn  thou 

what  terms 
Asturias,  this  day  speaking  by  my  voice. 


Doth  constitute  to  be  the  law  between 
Thee  and  thy  Country,     Our  portentous 

age, 
As  with  an  earthquake's  desolating  force, 
Hath  loosen'd  and  disjointed  the  whole 

frame 
Of  social  order,  and  she  calls  not  now 
For  service  with  the  force  of  sovereign 

will.  180 

Tliat  which  was  common  duty  in  old 

times, 
Becomes  an  arduous,  glorious  virtue  now; 
And  every  one,   as  between  Hell  and 

Heaven, 
In  free  election  must  be  left  to  chuse. 
Asturias  asks  not  of  thee  to  partake 
Tlie  cup  which  we  have  pledged  ;    she 

claims  from  none 
The     dauntless     fortitude,     the     mind 

resolved, 
Which  only  God  can  give ;  .  .  therefore 

such  peace 
As  thou  canst  find  where  all  around  is 

war. 
She  leaves  thee  to  enjoy.     But  think 

not,  Count,  190 

That  because  thou  art  weak,  one  valiant 

arm, 
One  generous  spirit  must  be  lost  to  SpainI 
The  vassal  owes  no  service  to  the  Lord 
Who  to  his  Country  doth  acknowledge 

none. 
The  summons  which  thou  hast  not  heart 

to  give, 
I  and  Count  Pedro  over  thy  domains 
Will  send  abroad  ;  the  vassals  who  were 

thine 
Will  fight  beneath  our  banners,  and  our 

wants 
Shall  from  thy  lands,  as  from  a  patri- 
mony 
Which  hath  reverted   to  the  common 

stock,  200 

Be  fed  :     such  tribute,   too.   as  to  the 

Moors 


XIII.    COUNT   EUDON 


273 


Thou  renderest,  we  will  take :    it  is  the 

jiiice 
Which  in  this  land  for  weakness  must 

be  paid 
While  evil  stars  prevail.     And  mark  me, 

Chief  ! 
rv;      Fear  is  a  treacherous  counsellor  !  I  know 
Thou  thinkest  that  beneath  his  horses' 

hoofs 
The  Moor  will  trample  our  poor  numbers 

down  ; 
But  join  not.  in  contempt  of  U3   and 

Heaven, 
His  multitudes  !   for  if  thou  shouldst  be 
'if  found 

ih>>      Against    thy  country,   on   the  readiest 

tree  210 

Those  recreant  bones  shall  rattle  in  the 

wind. 
When  the  birds  have  left  tliera  bare. 

As  thus  lie  spake. 
Count    Eudon    heard    and    trembled : 

every  joint 
Was  loosen'd,  every  fibre  of  his  flesh 
iii';    Thrill'd,  and  from  every  pore  effused, 

i;  cold  sweat 

alar     Clung  on  his  quivering  limbs,     fthame 

forced  it  forth, 
Envy,  and  inward  consciousness,  and 

fear 
Predominant,  which  stifled  in  his  heart 
Hatred  and  rage.     Before  his  livid  lips 
Could  shape  to  utterance  their  e.ssay'd 

reply,  220 

5;       Compassionately  Pedro  interposed. 
,pr      <  !o,  Baron,  to  the  Castle,  said  the  Count ; 
Tliere  let  thy  wound  be  look'd  to,  and 

consult 
Thy   better  mind   at   leisure.     I^et   this 

Moor 
Attend  upon  thee  there,  and  when  Ihou 

wilt. 
Follow  thy  fortunes.  .  .  To  Pelayo  then 
He  turn'd,  and  sayincr.  All-too-lonrr,  O 

Prince, 


Hath  this  unlook'd-for  conflict  hold  thee 

here,  .  . 
He  bade   his  gallant   men    begin   tluir 

march. 

Flush'd    with    success,    and  in   aus- 
picious hour,  230 
The  Mountaineers  set  forth.     Ble.ssings 

and  prayers 
Pursued  them  at  their  parting,  and  the 

tears 
Which  fell  were  tears  of  fervour,  not  of 

grief. 
The  sun   was  verging  to    the   western 

slope 
Of    Heaven,    but    they    till    midnight 

travell'd  on  ; 
Renewing  then  at  early  dawn  their  way. 
They  held  their  unremitting  course  from 

morn 
Till  latest  eve.  such  urgent  cause  im- 

pell'd  ; 
And  night  had  closed  around,  when  to 

the  vale 
Where  Sella  in  her  ampler  bed  receives 
Pionia's    stream    they    came.     Massive 

and  black  241 

Pelayo's  castle  there  was  seen  ;   its  lines 
And  battlements  against  the  deep  blue 

sky 
Distinct  in  solid  darkness  vi.sible. 
No  light  is  in  the  tower.     Eager  to  know 
The  worst,  and  with  that  fatal  certainty 
To  terminate  intolerable  dread. 
He  spurr'd  his  courser  forward.     All  his 

fears 
Too  surely   are  fulfill'd.    .    .    for  open 

stand 
The   doors,    and    mournfully   at    times 

a  dog  250 

Fills  with  his  howling  the  de.serted  hall. 
A  moment  overcome  with  wretchedness. 
Silent  Pelavo  stood  !    recovering  then. 
Lord  rjod,  resign'd  ho  cried,  thy  will  be, 

done  ! 


274       RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE    GOTHS 


XIV.    THE   RESCUE 

Count,     said     Pelayo,     Nature     hath 

assign' d 
Two    sovereign    remedies    for    human 

grief  ; 
Religion,  surest,  firmest,  first  and  best, 
Strength  to  the  weak  and  to  the  wounded 

balm  ; 
And  strenuous  action  next.     Think  not 

I  came 
With  unprovided  heart.     My  noble  wife, 
In  the  last  solemn  words,  the  last  fare- 
well 
With  which  she  charged  her  secret  mes- 
senger. 
Told  me  that  whatsoe'er  was  my  resolve, 
She  bore  a  mind  prepared.     And  well 
I  know  10 

The  evil,  be  it  what  it  may,  hath  found 
In  her  a  courage  equal  to  the  hour. 
Captivity,  or  death,  or  what  worse  pangs. 
She  in  her  children  may  be  doom'd  to 

feel, 
Will  never  make  that  steady  soul  repent 
Its  virtuous  purpose.      I  too  did  not 

cast 
My  single  life  into  the  lot,  but  knew 
These  dearer  pledges  on  the  die  were  set ; 
And  if  the  worst  have  fallen,  I  shall  but 

bear 
That  in  ray  breast,  whicli,  with  trans- 
figuring power  20 
Of  piety,  makes  chastening  sorrow  take 
The  form  of  hope,  and  sees,  in  Death, 

the  friend 
And  the  restoring  Angel.     We  must  rest 
Perforce,  and  wait  what  tidings  night 

may  bring. 
Haply  of  comfort.     Ho  there  !    kindle 

fires, 
And  see  if  aught  of  hospitality 
Can  yet  within  these  mournful  walls  he 
found  ! 


Thug    while    he  spake,    lights   were 

descried  far  off 
Moving  among  the  trees,  and  coming 

sounds 
Were  heard  as  of  a  distant  multitude.  30 
Anon  a  company  of  horse  and  foot, 
Advancing  in  disorderly  array, 
Came  up  the  vale ;    before  them  and 

beside 
Their  torches  flashed  on  Sella' s  rippling 

stream  ; 
Now  gleara'd  through  chesnut  groves, 

emerging  now, 
O'er  their  huge   boughs   and  radiated 

leaves 
Cast  broad  and  bright  a  transitory  glare. 
That  sight  inspired  with  strength  the 

mountaineers ; 
All    sense    of    weariness,    all    wish   for 

rest 
At  once  were  gone  ;   impatient  in  desire 
Of  second  victory  alert  they  stood  ;     41 
And  when  the  hostile  symbols,  which 

from  far 
Imagination  to  their  wish  had  shaped, 
Vanished  in  nearer  vision,  high- wrought 

hope 
Departing,    left    the   spirit    pall'd    and 

blank. 
No  turban' d  race,  no  sons  of  Africa 
Were  they  who  now  came  winding  up 

the  vale. 
As  waving  wide  before  their  horses'  feet 
The  torch-light  floated,  with  its  hovering 

glare 
Blackening    the    incumbent    and    sur- 
rounding night.  50 
Helmet    and    breast-plate    glitter'd    as 

they  came. 
And  spears  erect ;    and  nearer  as  they 

drew 
Were  the  loose  folds  of  female  garments 

seen 
On  those  who  led  the  company.     Who 

then 


XIV.    THE   RESCUE 


275 


Had  stood  beside  Pelayo.  might  have 

heard 
Tlie  healinc:  of  his  heart. 

But  vainly  there 
Sought   he   with   wistful   eye   the   well- 
known  forms 
Beloved  ;    and  plainly  might  it  now  be 

seen 
That   from   some   bloody   conflict   they 

ret urn' d 
Victorious.  .  .  for  at  every  saddle-bow  60 
A   gory    liead    was   hung.     Anon    they 

stopt. 
Levelling   in    quick    alarm    their   ready 

spears. 
Hold  !    who  goes  there  ?   cried  one.     A 

hundred  tongues 
Sent  forth  with  one  accord  the  glad  reply, 
Friends  and  Asturians.     Onward  moved 

the  lights,  .  . 
The  people  knew  their  Lord. 

Then  what  a  shout 
Rung  through  the  valley  !    From  their 

clay-built  nests. 
Beneath  the  overbrowing  battlements. 
Now  first  disturb'd,  the  affrighted  mar- 
tins flew. 
And  uttering  notes  of  terror  short  and 

shrill,  70 

Amid  the  yellow  glare  and  lurid  smoke 
Wheel'd  giddily.     Tlien  plainly  was  it 

shown 
How  well  the  vassals  loved  their  generous 

Lord, 
How  like  a  father  the  Asturian  Prince 
Was  dear.     They  crowded  round  ;   they 

claspt  his  knees  ; 
They  snatch' d  his  hand  ;   they  fell  upon 

his  neck,  .  . 
Tliey    wept  ;    .    .    they    blest    Almighty 

Providence. 
Which    had    restored    him    thus    from 

bondage  free  ; 
(^lod  was  with  them  anrl  their  £/ood  cause, 

they  said  ; 


His  hand  was  here.  .  .  His  shield  was 

over  them.  .  .  80 

His  spirit  was  abroad.  .  .  His  jiower  dia- 

play'd  : 
And  pointing  to  their  bloody  trophies 

then, 
They  told  Pelayo  there  he  might  behold 
The  first-fruits  of  the  harvest  they  should 

soon 
Reap  in  the  field  of  war  !    Benignantly, 
With  voice  and  look  and  gesture,  did  the 

Prince 
To  these  warm  greetings  of  tumultuous 

joy 

Respond  ;    and  sure  if  at  that  moment 

aught 
Could    for    a    while    have    overpower' d 

those  fears 
Which  from  the  inmost  heart  o'er  all  his 

frame  90 

Diffused  their  chilling  influence,  worthy 

pride. 
And  sympathy  of    love  and    joy  and 

hope. 
Had  then  possess'd  him  wholly.     Even 

now 
His  spirit  rose  ;   the  .sense  of  power,  the 

sight 
Of  his  brave  people,  ready  where  he  led 
To  fight  their  country's  battles,  and  the 

thought 
Of  instant  action,  and  deliverance,  .  . 
n  Heaven,  which  thus  far  had  protected 

him. 
Should  favour  still,  .  .  revived  his  heart, 

and  gave 
Fresh  impulse  to  its  spring.     In   vain 

he  sought  100 

Amid  that  turbulent  greeting  to  enquire 
Where  Haudiosa  was,  his  children  where. 
Who  call'd  them  to  the  field,  who  cap- 

tain'd  them  ; 
And  how  these  women,  thus  with  arras 

and  death 
Environ'd,  came  amid  their  company  ? 


276      RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


For  yet,  amid  tlie  fluctuating  light 
And  tumult  of  the  crowd,  he  knew  them 
not. 

Guisla  was  one.  The  Moors  had 
found  in  her 

A  willing  and  concerted  prisoner. 

Gladly  to  Gegio,  to  the  renegade  no 

On  whom  her  loose  and  shameless  love 
was  bent, 

Had  .she  set  forth  ;  and  in  her  heart  she 
cursed 

The  busy  spirit,  who.  with  powerful  call 

Rousing  Pelayo's  people,  led  them  on 

In  quick  pursual,  and  victoriously 

Achieved  the  rescue,  to  her  mind  per- 
verse 

Unwelcome  as  unlook'd  for.  With  dis- 
may 

She  recognized  her  brother,  dreaded  now 

More  than  he  once  was  dear  ;  her  coun- 
tenance 

Was  turn'd  toward  him,  .  .  not  with 
eager  joy  120 

To  court  his  sight,  and  meeting  its  first 
glance, 

Exchange  delightful  welcome,  soul  with 
soul ; 

Hers  was  the  conscious  eye,  that  cannot 
chuse 

Buf  look  to  what  it  fears.  She  could 
not  shun 

His  presence,  and  the  rigid  smile  con- 
strain'd. 

With  which  she  coldly  drest  her  features, 
ill 

Conceal'd  her  inward  thoughts,  and  the 
despite 

Of  obstinate  guilt  and  unrepentant 
shame. 

Sullenly  thus  upon  her  mule  she  sate, 

Waiting  the  greeting  which  she  did  not 
dare  130 

Bring  on.  But  who  is  she  that  at  her 
side. 


Upon  a  stately  war-horse  eminent. 
Holds  the  loose  rein  with  careless  hand  ? 

A  helm 
Presses  the  clusters  of  her  flaxen  hair ; 
The  shield  is  on  her  arm  ;   her  breast  is 

mail'd ; 
A  sword-belt  is  her  girdle,   and  right 

well 
It  may  be  seen  that  sword  hath  done 

its  work 
To-da}',  for  upward  from  the  wrist  her 

sleeve 
Is  stiff  with  blood.    An  unregardant  eye, 
As   one   whose   thoughts   were   not    of 

earth,  she  cast  140 

Upon  the  turmoil   round.     One  coun- 
tenance 
So   strongly    mark'd,    so   passion- worn 

was  there, 
That  it  recall'd  her  mind.     Ha  !    Mac- 

cabee  ! 
Lifting  her  arm,  exultingly  she  cried, 
Did  I  not  tell  thee  we  should  meet  in  joy  ? 
Well,  Brother,  hast  thou  done  thy  part, 

.  .  I  too 
Have  not  been  wanting  !    Now  be  His 

the  praise. 
From  whom  the  impulse  came  ! 

That  startling  call. 
That  voice  so  well  remember'd,  touch'd 

the  Goth 
With  timely  impulse  now  ;    for  he  had 

seen  150 

His  Mother's  face.  .  .  and  at  her  sight, 

the  past 
And   present    mingled   like   a   frightful 

dream. 
Which  from  some  dread  reality  derives 
Its  deepest  horror.     Adosinda's  voice 
Dispersed    the    waking    vision.     Little 

deem'd 
Rusilla  at  that  moment  that  the  child. 
For  whom  hersupplicationsday  and  night 
Were   offer'd,   breathed   the   living   air. 

Her  heart 


u\lV.      IIIJCj     lVil.OV^UJ2j 


1577 


Was    calm  ;     her    placid    couutctiaucc, 

though  grief 
Deeper   thau   time   had   left  ity   traccB 

there,  »6o 

Ketaiu'd  ita  dignity  serene  ;   yet  when 
iSiveriaii,  pressing  through  the  people, 

kisa'd 
Her  reverend  hand,  some  (^uiet  tears  ran 

down. 
As  she  approach' d  tho  Prince,  the  crowd 

made  way 
Respectful.     The  maternal  smile  which 

bore 
Her  greeting,   from   i'elayo's  heart  at 

once 
Dispell'd  its  boding.     What  he  would 

have  asked 
She  knew,  and  bending  from  her  palfrey 

down, 
Told  him  that  they  for  whom  he  look'd 

were  safe. 
And  that  in  secret  he  should  hear  the 

rest.  170 


XV.    RODERICK  AT  CANGAS 

How  calmly  gliding  through  the  dark- 
blue  sky 
The    midnight    Moon    ascends !     Her 

placid  beams 
Through    thinly    scattered    leaves    and 

boughs  grotesque. 
Mottle  with  mazy  shades  tho  orchard 

slope ; 
Here,  o'er  the  chesnut's  fretted  foliage 

grey 
And    massy,    motionless   they   spread ; 

here  shine 
Upon  the  crags,  deepening  with  blacker 

night 
Their  chasms  ;    and  there  the  glittering 

argentry 
Ripples  and  glances  on  the  confluent 

streams.  9 


A  lovelier,  purer  light  than  that  of  day 

Rests  on  the  hills  ;  and  oh  how  awefuily 

Into  that  deep  and  tramjuil  (irmamcut 

The  summits  of  Auseva  rise  scrcno  ! 

Tho  watchman  on  the  battlements  par- 
takes 

Tho  stillness  of   the  solemn  hour  ;    ho 
feels 

Tho  silence  of   the  earth,   the  endless 
sound 

Of  flowing  water  soothes  him,  and  the 
stars. 

Which  in  that  brightest  moon-light  well- 
nigh  c^uench'd, 

Scarce  visible,  as  in  the  utmost  depth 

Of  yonder  sapphire  infinite,  are  seen, 

Draw  on  with  elevating  influence        21 

Toward  eternity  the  attemper'd  mind. 

Musing  on  worlds  beyond  the  grave  he 
stands. 

And  to  the  Virgin  Mother  silently 

Prefers  her  hymn  of  praise. 

The  mountaineers 

Before  the  castle,  round  their  mouldering 
fires. 

Lie  on  the  hearth  outstretch' d.  Peiayo's 
hall 

Is  full,  and  he  upon  his  careful  couch 

Hears  all  around   the  deep  and   long- 
drawn  breath 

Of  sleep  :  for  gentle  night  hath  brought 
to  these  3'' 

Perfect  and  undisturb'd  repose,  alike 

Of  corporal  powers  and  inward  faculty. 

Wakeful  the  while  he  lay,  yet  more  by 
hope 

Than    grief  or  anxious    thoughts    pos- 
sess'd,  .  .  though  grief 

For  Guisla's  guilt,   which  freshcn'd  in 
his  heart 

The  memory  of  their  wretched  mother's 
crime, 

.Still  made  its  presence  felt,  like  the  dull 
sense 

Of  some  perpetual  inward  malady  ; 


278      RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


And  the  whole  peril  of  the  future  lay 
Before  him  clearly  seen.     He  had  heard 

all ;  40 

How  that  unworthy  sister,  obstinate 
In  wrong  and  shameless,  rather  seem'd 

to  woo 
N/      The  upstart  renegado  than  to  wait 

His  wooing ;    how,  as  guilt  to  guilt  led 

on, 
iSpurning  at  gentle  admonition  first, 
When  Gaudiosa  hopelessly  forbore 
j      From   farther   counsel,    then   in   sullen 
""/  mood 

Resentful,  Guisla  soon  began  to  hate 
The  virtuous  presence  before  which  she 

felt 
Her  nature  how  inferior,  and  her  fault  50 
How  foul.     Despiteful  thus  she  grew, 

because 
Humbled  yet  unrepentant.     Who  could 

say 
To  what  excess  bad  passions  might  impel 
A  woman  thus  possess' d  '!  She  could  not 

fail 
To  mark  Siverian's  absence,  for  what 

end 
Her  conscience  but  too  surely  had  di- 
vined ; 
And  Gaudiosa,  well  aware  that  all 
To  the  vile  paramour  was  thus  made 

known. 
Had  to  safe  hiding-place  with  timely 

fear 
Removed  her  children.     Well  the  event 

had  proved  60 

How  needful  was  that  caution ;    for  at 

night 
She  sought  the  mountain  solitudes,  and 

morn 
Beheld  Numacian's  soldiers  at  the  gate. 
Yet  did  not  sorrow  in  Pelayo's  heart 
For  this  domestic  shame  prevail  that 

hour. 
Nor  gathering  danger  weigh  his  spirit 

down. 


The  anticipated  meeting  put  to  flight 
These  painful  thoughts  ;  to-morrow  will 

restore 
All  whom  his  heart  holds  dear  ;  his  wife 

beloved, 
No  longer  now  remembered  for  regret,  70 
Is  present  to  his  soul  with  hope  and  joy  ; 
His  inward  eye  beholds  Favila's  form 
In  opening  youth  robust,  and  Hermesind, 
His  daughter,  lovely  as  a  buddiog  rose  ; 
Their  images  beguile  the  hours  of  night. 
Till  with  the  earliest  morning  he  may 

seek 
Their  secret  hold. 

The  nightingale  not  yet 
Had  ceased  her  song,  nor  had  the  early 

lark 
Her  dewy  nest  forsaken,  when  the  Prince 
Upward  beside  Pionia  took  his  way    80 
Toward  Auseva.     Heavily  to  him. 
Impatient  for  the  morrow's  happiness, 
Long  night  had  linger' d,  but  it  seem'd 

more  long 
To   Roderick's  aching  heart.     He  too 

had  watch' d 
For  dawn,  and  seen  the  earliest  break  of 

day, 
And  heard  its  earliest  sounds ;  and  when 

the  Prince 
Went   forth,  the  melancholy  man  was 

seen 
With  pensive  pace  upon  Pionia' s  side 
Wandering  alone  and  slow.     For  he  had 

left 
The  wearying  place  of  his  unrest,  that 

morn  90 

With   its   cold   dews   might   bathe   his 

throbbing  brow, 
And  with  its  breath  allay  the  feverish 

heat 
That  burnt  within.     Alas  !   the  gales  of 

morn 
Reach  not  the  fever  of  a  wounded  heart ! 
How  shall  he  meet  his  Mother's  eye,  how 

make 


.A.V.     i\v.fj^xuxv±v^xv    j\±    \^ixxy\j(/\i:i 


Z/U 


Hib  secret  kaou-n,  and  from  that  voice 

revered 
Obtain  forgiveucas,  .  .  all  that  he  has 

now 
To  ask,  ere  ou  the  lap  of  earth  in  peace 
Ho   lay   his   head    resigii'd  ?     In   silent 

prayer 
He  supplicated   Heaven  to  strengthen 

him  100 

Against  that  trying  hour,  there  seeking 

aid 
Where  all  who  seek  shall  tind  ;   and  thus 

his  soul 
Received   support,   and   gather'd  forti- 
tude. 
Never  than  now  more  needful,  for  the 

hour 
Was  nigh.     He  saw  iSiveriau  drawing 

near, 
And  with  a  dim  but  quick  foreboding  met 
The  good  old  man ;   yet  when  he  heard 

him  say, 
My  Lady  sends  to  seek  thee,  like  a  knell 
To    one    expecting    and    prepared    for 

death, 
But  fearing  the  dread  point  that  hastens 

on,  no 

It  smote  his  heart.     He  foUow'd  silently 
And  knit  his  suffering  spirit  to  the  proof. 

He  went  resolved  to  tell  his  Mother  all, 
Fall  at  her  feet,  and  drinking  the  last 

dregs 
Of  bitterness,  receive  the  only  good 
Earth  had  in  store  for  him.     Resolved 

for  this 
He  went ;   yet  was  it  a  relief  to  find 
That  painful  resolution  must  await 
A  fitter  season,  when  no  eye  but  Heaven's 
Might  witness  to  their  mutual  agony.  120 
Count  Julian's  daughter   with   Rusilla 

sate  ; 
Both  had  been  weeping,  both  were  pale, 

but  calm. 
With  head  as  for  humility  abased 


Roderick  approach'd,  and  bending,  on 

his  breast 
He  cross'd  his  humble  arms.    Rusilla  ro.so 
In  reverence  to  the  priestly  character, 
And  with  a  mournful  eye  regarding  him, 
Thus  she  began,     (.iood  Father,  I  havo 

heard 
IVom  my  old  faithful  servant  and  true 

friend. 
Thou   didst   reprove   the  inconsiderate 

tongue,  130 

That  in  the  anguish  of  its  spirit  pour'd 
A  curse  upon  my  poor  unhappy  child. 

0  Father  Maccabee,  this  is  a  hard  world, 
And  hasty  in  its  judgements  !   Time  has 

been, 
When  not  a  tongue  within  the  Pyrenees 
Dared  whisper  in  dispraise  of  Roderick's 

name. 
Lest,  if  the  conscious  air  had  caught  the 

sound. 
The  vengeance  of  the  honest  multitude 
Should  fall  upon  the  traitorous  head,  or 

brand 
For  life-long  infamy  the  lying  lips.      140 
Now  if  a  voice  be  raised  in  his  behalf, 
'Tis  noted  for  a  wonder,  and  the  man 
Who  utters  the  strange  sixiech  shall  be 

admired 
For  such  excess  of  Christian  charity. 
Thy   Christian  charity   hath   not   been 

lost ;  .  . 
Father,  I  feel  its  virtue  :  .  .  it  hath  been 
Balm  to  my  heart;  .  .  with  words  and 

grateful  tears,  .  . 
All  that  is  left  me  now  for  gratitude,  .  . 

1  thank  thee,  and  beseech  thee  in  thy 

prayers 
That  thou  wilt  still  remember  Roderick's 
name.  150 

Roderick  so  long  had   to  this  hour 
look'd  on, 
That    when    the   actual    point    of    trial 
came, 


280      RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


Torpid  and  numb'd  it  found  him  ;   cold 

he  grew, 
And  as  the  vital  spirits  to  the  heart 
Retreated,  o'er  his  wither' d  countenance, 
Deathy   and   damp,   a   whiter  paleness 

spread. 
Unmoved  the  while,  the  inward  feeling 

seem'd. 
Even  in  such  dull  insensibility 
As  gradual  age  brings  on,  or  slow  disease, 
Beneath   whose  progress   lingering  life 

survives  i6o 

The    power    of    sufiEering.     Wondering 

at  himself. 
Yet  gathering  confidence,  he  raised  his 

eyes, 
Then  slowly  shaking  as  he  bent  his  head, 

0  venerable  Lady,  he  replied. 

If   aught   may   comfort    that   unhappy 

soul, 
It  must   be  thy  compassion,   and   thy 

prayers. 
She  whom  he  most  hath  wrong'd,  she 

who  alone 
On  earth  can  grant  forgiveness  for  his 

crime, 
She    hath    forgiven     him ;      and     thy 

blessing  now 
Were  all  that  he  could  ask,  .  .  all  that 

could  bring  170 

Profit  or  consolation  to  his  soul, 
If  he  hath  been,  as  sure  we  may  believe, 
A  penitent  sincere. 

Oh  had  he  lived, 
Replied  Rusilla,  never  penitence 
Had  equall'd  his  !    full  well  I  know  his 

heart. 
Vehement  in  all  things.     He  would  on 

himself 
Have    wreak' d   such    penance    as    had 

reach' d  the  height 

01  fleshly  suffering  .  .  yea,  which  being 

told 
With  its  portentous  rigour  should  have 
made 


The  memory  of  his  fault,  o'erpowefd 

and  lost  180 

In  shuddering  pity  and  astonishment, 
Fade  like  a  feebler  horror.  Otherwise 
Seem'd  good  to  Heaven.    I  murmur  not, 

nor  doubt 
The  boundless  mercy  of  redeeming  love. 
For  sure  I  trust  that  not  in  his  offence 
Harden' d  and  reprobate  was  my  lost 

son, 
A  child  of  WTath,  cut  off  !  .  .  that  dread- 
ful thought, 
Not  even  amid  the  first  fresh  wretched- 
ness, 
When  the  ruin  burst  around  me  like  a 

flood. 
Assail' d  my  soul.     I  ever  deem'd  his 

fall  190 

An  act  of  sudden  madness ;  and  this  day 
Hath  in  unlook'd-for  confirmation  given 
A  livelier  hope,  a  more  assured  faith. 
Smiling  benignant  then  amid  her  tears. 
She  took   Florinda  by  the  hand,   and 

said, 
I  little  thought  that  I  should  live  to  blese 
Count  Julian's   daughter !      She   hath 

brought  to  me 
The  last,   the   best,   the   only   comfort 

earth 
Could  minister  to  this  afflicted  heart, 
And  my  grey  hairs  may  now  unto  the 

grave  200 

Go  down  in  peace. 

Happy,  Florinda  cried, 
Are  they  for  whom  the  grave  hath  peace 

in  store  ! 
The   wrongs   they   have  sustain' d,   the 

woes  they  bear. 
Pass   not   that   holy    threshold,    where 

Death  heals 
The     broken     heart.     O     Lady,     thou 

may'st  trust 
In  humble  hope,  through  Him  who  on 

the  Cross 
Gave  his  atoning  blood  for  lost  mankind, 


AV.     liUUJ^imUJV    A±    UAJNUAO 


L\S1 


To  meet  beyond  the  grave  thy  child 
forgiven. 

I  too  with  Roderick  there  may  inter- 
change 

Forgiveness.  But  the  grief  which 
wastes  away  210 

This  mortal  frame,  hastening  the  happy 
hour 

Of  my  enlargement,  is  but  a  light  part 

Of  what  my  soul  endures  !  .  .  that  grief 
hath  lost 

Its  sting  :  ,  .  I  have  a  keener  sorrow 
here,  .  . 

One  which, .  .  but  God  forefeud  that  dire 
event,  .  . 

May  pass  with  me  the  jwrtala  of  the  grave, 

And  with  a  thought,  like  sin  which  can- 
not die. 

Embitter  Heaven.  My  father  hath 
renounced 

His  hope  in  Christ !   It  was  his  love  for  me 

Which  drove  him  to  perdition.  .  .  I  was 
born  220 

To  ruin  all  who  loved  me, . .  all  I  loved  ! 

Perhaps  I  sirm'd  in  leaving  him; .  .  that 
fear 

Rises  within  me  to  disturb  the  peace 

Which  I  should  else  have  found. 

To  Roderick  then 

The  pious  mourner  turn'd  her  suppliant 
eyes : 

0  Father,  there  is  virtue  in  thy  prayers! . . 

1  do  beseech  thee  oflfer  them  to  Heaven 
In  his  behalf !    For  Roderick's  sake,  for 

mine. 

Wrestle  with  Him  whose  name  is  Merci- 
ful, 

Tliat  Julian  may  with  penitence  be 
touch' d,  230 

And  clinging  to  the  Cross,  implore  that 
grace 

Which  ne'er  was  sought  in  vain.  For 
Roderick's  sake 

And  mine,  pray  for  him  !  We  have  been 
the  cause 


Of  his  offence  !   What  other  miseries 
May  from   that  same   unhappy  source 

have  risen. 
Are  earthly,  temporal,  reparable  all  ;  .  , 
But  if  a  soul  be  lost  through  our  mis- 
deeds. 
That  were  eternal  evil !    Pray  for  him, 
(Jood    Father    Maccabee,    and    be    thy 

prayers 
More  fervent,  as  the  deeper  is  the  crime. 

While  thus  Florinda  si)ake,  the  dog 

who  lay  241 

Before  Rusilla's  feet,  eyeing  him  long 

And  wistfully,  had  recognized  at  length, 

Changed  as  he  was  and  in  those  sordid 

weeds, 
His  royal   master.     And   he   rose   and 

lick'd 
His  wither'd  hand,  and  earnestly  look'd 

up 
With  eyes  whose  human   meaning  did 

not  need 
The  aid  of  speech  ;  and  moan'd,  as  if  at 

once 
To  court  and  chide  the  long- withheld 

caress. 
A   feeling   uncommix'd    with    sense    of 

guilt  250 

Or  shame,  yet  painfulest,  thrill'd  through 

the  King  ; 
But  he  to  self-controul  now  long  inured, 
Rcprcst  his  rising  heart,  nor  other  tears, 
Full  as  his  struggling  bosom  was,  let  fall 
Than   seem'd   to  follow   on    Florinda"  s 

words. 
Looking  toward  her  then,  yet  so  that  still 
He  shunn'd  the  meeting  of  her  eye,  ho 

said, 
Virtuous  and  pious  as  thou  art,  and  ripe 
For  Heaven,  O  Lady,  I  must  think  the 

man 
Hath  not  by  his  goo<l  i\ngel  been  cast  oil 
For  whom  thy  supplications  rise.     The 

Lord  2O1 


282       RODERICK,  THE  LAST   OF  THE   GOTHS 


Whose  justice  doth  in  its  unerring  course 

Visit  the  children  for  the  sire's  offence, 

Shall  He  not  in  his  boundless  mercy 
hear 

The  daughter's  prayer,  and  for  her  sake 
restore 

The  guilty  parent  '!    My  soul  shall  with 
thine 

In  earnest  and  continual  duty  join.  .  . 

How  deeply,  how  devoutly,  He  will  know 

To  whom  the  cry  is  raised. 

Thus  having  said. 

Deliberately,  in  self-possession  still,   270 

Himself  from  that  most  painful  inter- 
view 

Dispeeding,  he  withdrew.     The  watch- 
ful dog 

Follow' d  his  footsteps  close.     But  he 
retired 

Into  the  thickest  grove  ;   there  yielding 
way 

To  his  o'erburthen'd  nature,  from  all 
eyes 

Apart,  he  cast  himself  upon  the  ground. 

And  threw  his  arms  around  the  dog,  and 
cried, 

While    tears    stream' d    down.     Thou, 
Theron,  then  hast  known 

Thy  poor  lost  master,  .  .  Theron,  none 
but  thou  ! 


XVI.    COVADONGA 

Meantime  Pelayo  up  the  vale  pursued 
Eastward  his  way,  before  the  sun  had 

climb' d 
Auseva's   brow,    or  shed   his  silvering 

beams 
Upon  Europa's  summit,  where  the  snows 
Through  all  revolving  seasons  hold  their 

seat. 
A  happy  man  he  went,  his  heart  at  rest, 
Of  hope  and  virtue  and  affection  full, 
■jTo  all  exhilarating  influences 


Of  earth  and  heaven  alive.     With  kin- 
dred joy 

He  heard  the  lark,  who  from  her  airy 
height,  10 

On    twinkling    pinions    poised,    pour'd 
forth  profuse, 

In  thrilling  sequence  of  exuberant  song, 

As  one  whose  joyous  nature  overflow' d 

With  life  and  power,  her  rich  and  rap- 
turous strain. 

The  early  bee,  buzzing  along  the  way, 

From  flower  to  flower,  bore  gladness  on 
its  wing 

To  his  rejoicing  sense  ;   and  he  pursued, 

With  quicken' d  eye  alert,  the  frolic  hare, 

Where  from  the  green  herb  in  her  wan- 
ton path 

She  brush' d  away  the  dews.     For  he 
long  time,  20 

Far  from  his  home  and  from  his  native 
hills, 

Had  dwelt  in  bondage  ;   and  the  moun- 
tain breeze, 

AVhich  he  had  with  the  breath  of  infancy 

Inhaled,    such    impulse    to    his    heart 
restored, 

As  if  the  seasons  had  roll' d  back,  and  life 

Enjoy' d  a  second  spring. 

Through  fertile  fields 

He  went,  by  cots  with  pear-trees  over- 
bower' d. 

Or  spreading  to  the  sun  their  trelliced 
vines ; 

Through   orchards   now,    and   now   by 
thymy  banks. 

Where  wooden  hives  in  some  warm  nook 
were  hid  30 

From    wind    and    shower ;     and    now 
thro'  shadowy  paths, 

Where    hazels    fringed    Pionia's    vocal 
stream  ; 

Till  where  the  loftier  hills  to  narrower 
bound 

Confine  the  vale,  he  reach' d  those  huta 
remote 


AVI.     UUVAJJUrSUA 


283 


Which  should   hereafter   to   the   noble 

line 
Of  .Soto  origin  and  name  impart  : 
A  gallant  lineage,  long  in  tields  of  war 
And  faithful  chronicler'.s  enduring  page 
Blazond  :    but  mot^t  by  him  illustrated, 
Avid  of  gold,  yet  greedier  of  renown,  40 
Whom  not  the  spoils  of  Atabalipa 
Could  satisfy  insatiate,^  nor  the  fame 
Of  that  wide  empire  overthrown  appease; 
But  he  to  Florida's  disastrous  shores 
In  evil  hour  his  gallant  comrades  led, 
Through  savage  w  oods  and  swamps,  and 

hostile  tribes, 
The  Apalachiau  arrows,  and  the  snares 
Of  wilier  foes,  hunger,  and  thirst,  and 

toil; 
Till  from  ambition's  feverish  dream  the 

touch 
Of  Death  awoke  him  ;   and  w  hen  he  had 

seen  50 

The  fruit  of  all  his  treasures,  all  his  toil, 
Foresight,    and    long    endurance,    fade 

away. 
Earth  to  the  restless  one  refusing  rest. 
In  the  great  river's  midland  bed  he  left 
His  honour' d  bones. 

A  mountain  rivulet, 
Xow  calm   and  lovely  in  its  summer 

course. 
Held  by  those  huts  its  everlasting  way 
Towards    Pionia.     They    whose    flocks 

and  herds 
Drink  of  its  water  call  it  Deva.     Here 
Pelayo  southward  up  the  ruder  vale    60 
Treiced  it,    his  guide   unerring.     Amid 

heaps 
Of    mountain    wreck,    on    either    side 

thrown  high. 
The   wide-spread   traces   of   its   wintry 

might. 
The  tortuous  channel  wound  ;   o'er  beds 

of  sand 

*  Ut-nuindo  de  Soto  (S.). 


Here  silently  it  flows;    hero  from  the 

rock 
Rebutted,  curls  and  eddies ;  plunges  here 
Precipitate  ;    here  roaring  among  cragf, 
It    leaps    and    foams    and    whirls    and 

hurries  on. 
Grey  alders  here  and  bushy  hazels  bid 
The   mossy   side;     their   wreathd   ami 

knotted  feet  70 

Bared  by  the  current,  now  against  its 

force 
Repaying  the  support  they  found,  up- 
held 
The    bank    secure.     Here,    bending    to 

the  stream. 
The  birch  fantastic  strctch'd  its  rugged 

trunk, 
Tall  and  erect,  from  whence,  as  from 

their  base, 
Each  like  a  tree,  its  silver  branches  grew. 
The  cherry  here  hung  for  the  birds  of 

heaven 
Its  rosy  fruit  on  high.     The  elder  there 
Its  purple  berries  o'er  the  water  bent, 
Heavily     hanging.       Here,     amid     the 

brook,  80 

Grey  as  the  stone  to  which  it  clung,  balf 

root, 
Half  trunk,  the  young  ash  rises  from  the 

rock ; 
And  there  its  parent  lifts  a  lofty  head, 
And  spreads  its  graceful  boughs;    the 

passing  wind 
With  twinkling  motion  lifts  the  silent 

leaves. 
And  shakes  its  rattling  tufts. 

Soon  had  the  Prince 
Behind  him  left  the  farthest  dwelling- 
place 
Of  man;  no  fields  of  waving  corn  were 

here, 
Nor  wicker  storehouse  for  the  autumnal 

grain ; 
Vineyard,  nor  bowery  fig,  nor  fruitful 

grove ;  90 


284      RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


Only    the    rocky    vale,    the    mountain 

stream, 
Incumbent  crags,  and  hills  that  over  hills 
Arose  on  either  hand,  here  hung  with 

woods. 
Here  rich  with  heath,  that  o'er  some 

smooth  ascent 
Its  purple  glory  spread,  or  golden  gorse  ; 
Bare  here,  and  striated  with  many  a  hue, 
Scored  by  the  wintry  rain  ;    by  torrents 

here 
Riven,    and    with    overhanging    rocks 

abrupt. 
Pelayo,  upward  as  he  cast  his  eyes 
Where    crags    loose-hanging    o'er    the 

narrow  pass  loo 

Impended,   there  beheld  his  country's 

strength 
Insuperable,  and  in  his  heart  rejoiced. 
Oh  that  the  Musselman  were  here,  he 

cried. 
With  all  his  myriads!    While  thy  day 

endures. 
Moor  !  thou  may'st  lord  it  in  the  plains ; 

but  here 
Hath  Nature  for   the  free   and   brave 

prepared 
A    sanctuary,    where    no    oppressor's 

power, 
No  might  of  human  tyranny  can  pierce. 

The  tears  which  started  then  sprang 

not  alone  109 

From  lofty  thoughts  of  elevating  joy  ; 
For  love  and  admiration  had  their  part, 
And  virtuous  pride.     Here  then  thou 

hast  retired, 
My  Gaudiosa  !   in  his  heart  he  said  ; 
Excellent    woman !     ne'er    was    richer 

boon 
By  fate  benign  to  favour' d  man  indulged, 
Than  when  thou  wert  before  the  face  of 

Heaven 
Given  me  to  be  my  childien's  mother, 

bravo 


And  virtuous  as  thou  art !    Here  thou 

hast  fled, 
Thou  who  wert  nurst  in  palaces,  to  dwell 
In  rocks  and  mountain  caves  !  .  .  The 

thought  WEis  proud,  120 

Yet  not  without  a  sense  of  inmost  pain  ; 
For  never  had  Pelayo  till  that  hour 
So  deeply  felt  the  force  of  solitude. 
High  over  head  the  eagle  soar'd  serene, 
And  the  grey  lizard  on  the  rocks  below 
Bask'd  in  the  sun  :    no  living  creature 

else 
In  this  remotest  wilderness  was  seen  ; 
Nor  living  voice  was  there,  .  .  only  the 

flow 
Of  Deva,  and  the  rushing  of  its  springs 
Long    in    the    distance    heard,    which 

nearer  now,  130 

With  endless  repercussion  deep  and  loud, 
Throbb'd  on  the  dizzy  sense. 

The  ascending  vale, 
Long  straiten' d  by  the  narrowing  moun- 
tains, here 
Was  closed.     In  front  a  rock,  abrupt 

and  bare, 
Stood  eminent,  in  height  exceeding  far 
All  edifice  of  human  power,  by  King 
Or  Caliph,  or  barbaric  Sultan  rear'd, 
Or  mightier  tyrants  of  the  world  of  old, 
Assyrian  or  Egyptian,  in  their  pride  ; 
Yet  far  above,  beyond  the  reach  of  sight, 
Swell  after  swell,  the  heathery  mountain 

rose.  141 

Here,  in  two  sources,  from  the  living  rock 
The  everlasting  springs  of  Deva  gush'd. 
Upon  a  smooth  and  grassy  plat  below, 
By  Nature  there  as  for  an  altar  drest, 
They  join'd  their  sister  stream,  which 

from  the  earth 
Well'd  silently.     In  such  a  scene  rude 

man 
With  pardonable  error  might  have  knelt, 
Feeling  a  present  Deity,  and  made 
His   ofi"cring   to   the   fountain   Nymph 

devout.  150 


AVI.     UUVAl^UlNUiV 


185 


The  arching  rock  disclosed  above  the 
springs 
A  cave,  where  hugest  son  of  giant  birth, 
That  e'er  of  old  in  forest  of  romance 
'Gainst  knights  and  ladies  waged  dis- 
courteous war, 
Erect  within  the  portal  might  have  stood. 
The  broken  stone  allow'd  for  band  and 

foot 
No  difficult  ascent,  above  the  base 
Iq  height  a  tall  man's  stature,  measured 

thrice. 
No  holier  spot  than  Covadonga  Spain 
Boasts  in  her  wide  extent,  though  all  her 

realms  i6o 

Be  with  the  noblest  blood  of  martyrdom 
In  elder  or  in  later  days  enrich'd, 
And  glorified  with  tales  of  heavenly  aid 
By  many  a  miracle  made  manifest  ; 
Nor  in  the  heroic  annals  of  her  fame 
Doth  she  show  forth  a  scene  of  more 

renown. 
Then,  save  the  hunter,  drawn  in  keen 

pursuit 
Beyond  his  wonted  haunts,  or  shepherd's 

boy. 
Following  the  pleasure  of  his  straggling 

f]ock, 
None  knew  the  place. 

Pelayo,  when  he  saw     170 
Tliose  glittering  sources  and  their  sacred 

cave, 
;    Took  from  his  side  the  bugle  silver-tipt, 
And  with  a  breath  long  drawn  and  slow 

expired 
Sent  forth  that  strain,  which,  echoing 

from  the  walls 
Of  Cangas,  wont  to  tell  his  glad  return 
When  from  the  chace  he  came.     At  the 

first  sound 
I  Favila  started  in  the  cave,  and  cried, 
My  father's  horn  !  .  .   A  sudden  flush 

suffused 
Hermesind's     cheek,     and     she     with 

(juicken'd  eye 


Look'd  eager  to  her  mother  silently ;  x8o 
But  Oaudiosa  trembled  and  grew  pale, 
Doubting  her  sense  deceived.     A  second 

time 
The  bugle  breathed  its  well-known  notes 

abroad  ; 
And   Hermesind   around    her   mother's 

neck 
Threw  her   white  arms,   and   earnestly 

exclaim'd, 
'Tis  he  !  .  .  But  when  a  third  and  broader 

blast 
Rung  in  the  echoing  archway,  ne'er  flid 

wand. 
With   magic  power  endued,  call   up  a 

sight 
So  strange,  as  sure  in  that  wild  solitude 
It  seem'd,  when  from  the  bowels  of  the 

rock  190 

The  mother  and  her  children  hasten'd 

forth  ; 
She  in  the  sober  charms  and  dignity 
Of  womanhood  mature,  nor  verging  yet 
Upon  decay  ;   in  gesture  like  a  Queen, 
Such  inborn  and  habitual  majesty 
Ennobled  all  her  steps,  .  .  or  Priestess, 

chosen 
Because  within  such  faultless  work  of 

Heaven 
Inspiring  Deity  might  seem  to  make 
Its  habitation  known,  .  .  Favila  such 
In  form  and  stature  as  the  Sea  Nymph's 

son,  200 

When  that  wise  Centaur  from  his  cave 

well -pleased 
Beheld    the    boy    divine    his    growing 

strength 
Against  some  shaggy  lionet  essay. 
And  fixing  in  the  half-grown  mane  his 

hand.% 
Roll  with  him  in  fierce  dalliance  inter- 
twined. 
But  like  a  creature  of  some  higher  sphere 
His  sister  came  ;    she  scarcely  touch'd 

the  rock, 


286      RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


So  light  was  Hermesind's  aerial  speed. 
Beauty  and  grace  and  innocence  in  her 
In  heavenly  union  shone.     One  who  had 
held  210 

The  faith  of  elder  Greece,  would  sure 

have  thought 
She  was  some  glorious  nymph  of  seed 

divine, 
Oread  or  Dryad,  of  Diana's  train 
The  youngest  and  the  loveliest :    yea, 

she  seem'd 
Angel,  or  soul  beatified,  from  realms 
Of  bliss,  on  errand  of  parental  love 
To  earth  re-sent,  .  .  if  tears  and  trem- 
bling limbs 
With  such  celestial  natures  might  con- 
sist. 

Embraced  by  all,  in  turn  embracing 
each,  219 

The  husband  and  the  father  for  awhile 

Forgot  his  country  and  all  things  beside : 

Life  hath  few  moments  of  such  pure 
delight. 

Such  foretaste  of  the  perfect  joy  of 
Heaven. 

And  when  the  thought  recurr'd  of  suffer- 
ings past. 

Perils  which  threaten'd  still,  and  ardu- 
ous toil 

Yet  to  be  undergone,  remember' d  griefs 

Heighten'd  the  present  happiness  ;  and 
hope 

Upon  the  shadows  of  futurity 

Shone  like  the  sun  upon  the  morning 
mists. 

When  driven  before  his  rising  rays  they 
roll,  230 

And  melt  and  leave  the  prospect  bright 
and  clear. 

When  now  Pelayo's  eyes  had  drunk 
their  fill 
Of  love  from  those  dear  faces,  he  went 
up 


To  view  the  hiding-place.     Spacious  it 

was 
As  that  Sicilian  cavern  in  the  hill 
Wherein  earth-shaking  Neptune's  giant 

son 
Duly  at  eve  was  wont  to  fold  his  flock, 
Ere  the  wise  Ithacan,  over  that  brute 

force 
By  wiles  prevailing,  for  a  life-long  night 
Seel'd  his  broad  eye.     The  healthful  air 

had  here  240 

Free  entrance,  and  the  cheerful  light  of 

heaven ; 
But  at  the  end,  an  opening  in  the  floor 
Of  rock  disclosed  a  wider  vault  below, 
Which    never    sun- beam    visited,    nor 

breath 
Of  vivifying  morning  came  to  cheer. 
No  light  was  there  but  that  which  from 

above 
In  dim  reflection  fell,  or  found  its  way, 
Broken    and    quivering,    through    the 

glassy  stream, 
Where  through  the  rock  it  gush'd.   That 

shadowy  light 
Sufficed  to  show,  where  from  their  secret 

bed  250 

The  waters  issued ;    with  whose  rapid 

course, 
And  with  whose  everlasting  cataracts 
Such  motion  to  the  chill  damp  atmo- 
sphere 
Was  given,  as  if  the  solid  walls  of  rock 
Were  shaken  with  the  sound. 

Glad  to  respire 
The  upper  air,  Pelayo  hasten'd  back 
Fi'om  that  drear  den.     Look  !    Herme- 

sind  exclaim' d, 
Taking  her  father's  hand,  thou  hast  not 

seen 
My  chamber :  .  .  See  !   .  .  did  ever  ring. 

dove  chuse 
In  so  secure  a  nook  her  hiding-place,  260 
Or  build  a  warmer  nest  ?   'Tis  fragrant 

too. 


AVI.     L  U  V  AJJU A  U A 


287 


As  warm,  and  not  more  sweet  than  soft ; 

for  thyme 
And  myrtle  with  tlie  elastic  heath  are 

laid. 
And,    over    all,    this    dry    and    pillowy 

moss.  .  . 
Smiling  she  spake.     Pelayo  kiss'd  the 

child, 
And,  sighing,  said  within  himself,  I  trust 
In  Heaven,  whene'er  thy  May  of  life  is 

come, 
Sweet    bird,    that    thou    shalt    have    a 

blither  bower  ! 
Fitlier,  he  thought,  such  chamber  might 

beseem  269 

Some  hermit  of  Hilarion's  school  austere, 
Or  old  Antonius,  he  who  from  the  hell 
Of  his  bewilder'd  phantasy  saw  fiends 
In  actual  vision,  a  foul  throng  grotesque 
Of  all  horritic  shapes  and  forms  obscene 
Crowd  in  broad  day  before  his  open  eyes. 
That  feeling  cast  a  momentary  shade 
Of  sadness  o'er  his  soul.     But  deeper 

thoughts. 
If  he  might  have  foreseen  the  things  to 

come, 
Would  there  have  fill'd  him;  for  within 

that  cave 
h's  own  remains  were  one  day  doom'd 

to  find  280 

Their  final  place  of  rest ;  and  in  that  spot. 
Where  tiiat  dear  child   with  innocent 

delight 
Had    spread    her    mossy    couch,    the 

sepulchre 
Shall  in  the  consecrated  rock  be  hewn, 
Where  with  Alphonso,  her  beloved  lord, 
Laid  side  by  side,  must  Hermesind  par- 
take 
The  everlasting  marriage-bed,  when  he, 
Leaving  a  name  perdurable  on  earth, 
Hath  changed  his  earthly  for  a  heavenly 

crown. 
Dear  child,   upon   that   fated  spot   she 

stood,  290 


In  all  the  beauty  of  her  opening  youth. 

In  health's  rich  bloom,  in  virgin  inno- 
cence. 

While  her  eyes  sparkled  and  her  heart 
o'erllow'd 

With  pure  and  perfect  joy  of  filial  love. 

Many  a  slow  century  since  that  day 

hath  lill'd 
Its    course,    and    countless    multitudes 

have  trod 
With  pilgrim  feet  that  consecrated  cave; 
Yet  not  in  all  those  ages,  amid  all 
The  untold  concourse,  hath  one  breast 

been  swoln 
With  such  emotions  as  Pelayo  felt      300 
That  hour.     O  Gaudiosa,  he  exclaim'd. 
And  thou  couldst  seek  for  .shelter  here, 

amid 
This  aweful  solitude,  in  mountain  caves  ! 
Thou  noble  spirit !    Oh  when  hearts  like 

thine 
Grow  on  this  sacred  soil,  would  it  not  be 
In  me,  thy  husband,  double  infamy. 
And  tenfold  guilt,  if  I  despair'd  of  Spain  ? 
In  all  her  visitations,  favouring  Heaven 
Hath  left   her  still   the  unconquerable 

mind ; 
And  thus  being  worthy  of  redemption, 

sure  310 

Is  she  to  be  redeem' d. 

Beholding  her 
Through  tears  he  spake,  and  prest  upon 

her  lips 
A  kiss  of  deepest  love.     Think  ever  thus. 
She  answer'd,  and  that  faith  will  give 

the  power 
In  which  it  trusts.     Wlien  to  this  moun- 
tain hold 
These    children,    thy    dear    images,    I 

brought, 
I  said  within  myself,  where  should  thev 

fly 
But  to  the  bosom  of  their  native  hi-lls  ? 
I  brought  them  here  as  to  a  sanctuary, 


288      RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


Where,  for  the  temple's  sake,  the  in- 
dwelling God  320 

Would   guard   his   supplicants.     O   my 
dear  Lord, 

Proud  as  I  was  to  know  that  they  were 
thine. 

Was  it  a  sin  if  I  almost  believed, 

That   Spain,   her  destiny   being  link'd 
with  theirs. 

Must  save  the  precious  charge  ? 

So  let  us  think, 

The  Chief  replied,  so  feel  and  teach  and 
act. 

Spain  is  our  common  parent :    let  the 
sons 

Be    to    the    parent    true,    and    in    her 
strength 

And    Heaven,    their    sure    deliverance 
they  will  find. 


XVII.    RODERICK  AND 
SIVERIAN 

O  HOLIEST  Mary,  Maid  and  Mother ! 
thou 
In  Covadonga,  at  thy  rocky  shrine, 
Hast  witness' d  whatsoe'er  of  human  bliss 
Heart  can  conceive  most  perfect !  Faith- 
ful love. 
Long  crost  by  envious  stars,  hath  there 

attain'd 
Its  crown,  in  endless  matrimony  given  ; 
The  youthful  mother  there  hath  to  the 

font 
Her  first-born  borne,  and  there,   with 

deeper  sense 
Of  gratitude  for  that  dear  babe  redeem' d' 
From    threatening   death,    return'd    to 
pay  her  vows.  10 

But  ne'er  on  nuptial,  nor  baptismal  day, 
Nor  from  their  grateful  pilgrimage  dis- 
charged, 
Did    happier    group    their    way    down 
Deva's  vale 


Rejoicing  hold,  than  this  blest  family. 

O'er  whom  the  mighty  Spirit  of  the 
Land 

Spread  his  protecting  wings.  The  chil- 
dren, free 

In  youthhead's  happy  season  from  all 
cares 

That  might  disturb  the  hour,  yet 
capable 

Of  that  intense  and  unalloy'd  delight 

Which  childhood  feels  when  it  enjoys 
again  20 

The  dear  parental  presence  long  de- 
prived ; 

Nor  were  the  parents  now  less  bless'd 
than  they, 

Even  to  the  height  of  human  happiness  ; 

For  Gaudiosa  and  her  Lord  that  hour 

Let  no  misgiving  thoughts  intrude  ;  she 
fix'd 

Her  hopes  on  him,  and  his  were  fix'd  on 
Heaven  ; 

And  hope  in  that  courageous  heart 
derived 

Such  rooted  strength  and  confidence 
assured 

In  righteousness,  that  'twas  to  him  like 
faith .  . 

An  everlasting  sunshine  of  the  soul,     30 

Illumining  and  quickening  all  its  powers. 

But  on  Pionia's  side  meantime  a  heart 

As  generous,  and  as  full  of  noble 
thoughts. 

Lay  stricken  with  the  deadliest  bolts  of 
grief. 

Upon  a  smooth  grey  stone  sate  Roderick 
there ; 

Tlie  wind  above  him  stirr'd  the  hazel 
boughs, 

And  murmuring  at  his  feet  the  river  ran. 

He  sate  with  folded  arms  and  head  de- 
clined 

Upon  his  breast  feeding  on  bitter 
thoughts. 


XVII.    RODERICK  AND  SIVERIAN 


:89 


Till  nature  gave  him  in  tlie  exhausted 
sense  40 

Of  woe  a  respite  something  like  repose  ; 
And  then  the  quiet  sound  of  gentle  winds 
And  waters  with  their  lulling  consonanee 
Beguiled  him  of  himself.  Of  all  within 
Oblivious  there  he  sate,  sentient  alone 
Of  outward  nature,  .  .  of  the  whispering 

leaves 
That  soothed   his   ear,   .    .    the   genial 

breath  of  Heaven 
That  fann'd  his  cheek,  .  .  the  stream's 

perpetual  flow, 
That,  with  its  shadows  and  its  glancing 

lights, 
Dimples   and   thread-like   motions   in- 
finite, 50 
For  ever  varying  and  yet  still  the  same, 
Like  time  toward  eternity,  ran  by. 
Resting  his  head  upon  his  master's  knees, 
Upon  the  bank  beside  him  Theron  lay. 
What  matters  change  of  state  and  cir- 
cumstance, 
Or  lapse  of  years,  with  all  their  dread 

events. 
To  him  ?  What  matters  it  that  Roderick 

wears 
The  crown  no  longer,  nor  the  sceptre 

wields  ?  .  . 
It  is  the  dear-loved  hand,  whose  friendly 

touch 
Had  flatter'd  iiim  so  oft ;   it  is  the  voice, 
At  whose  glad  summons  to  the  field  so 
oft  6i 

From  slumber  he  had  started,  shaking  ofif 
Dreams  of  the  chace,  to  share  the  actual 

joy ; 

The  eye,  whose  recognition  he  was  wont 
To  watch  and  welcome  with  exultant 
tongue. 

A  coming  step,  unheard  by  Roderick, 
roused 
His  watchful  ear,  and  turning  he  beheld 
Siverian.    Father,  said  the  good  old  man, 


As  Theron  rose  and  fawn'd  about  IiIm 

knees. 
Hast   thou   some   charm,    which   draws 

about  thee  thus  70 

The  hearts  of  all  our  house,  .  .  even  to 

the  beast 
That  lacks  discourse  of  reason,  but  too 

oft. 
With    uncorrupted    feeling    and    dumb 

faith. 
Puts  lordly  man  to  shame  ?  .  .  The  King 

replied, 
'Tis    that    mysterious   sense    by    which 

mankind 
To  fix  their  friendships  and  their  loves 

are  led. 
And  which  with  fainter  influence  doth 

extend 
To  such  poor  things  as  this.     As   we 

put  off 
The  cares  and  passions  of  this  fretful 

world. 
It  may  be  too  that  we  thus  far  approach 
To  elder  nature,  and  regain  in  part     81 
The  privilege  through  sin  in  Eden  lost. 
The  timid  hare  soon  learns  that  she  may 

trust 
The  solitary  penitent,  and  birds 
Will  light  upon  the  hermit's  harmless 

hand. 

Thus  Roderick  answer' d  in  excursive 

speech. 
Thinking  to  draw  the  old  man's  mind 

from  what 
Might  touch  him  else  too  nearly,  and 

himself 
Disposed  to  follow  on  the  lure  he  tlu-ew, 
As  one  whom  such  imaginations  led    90 
Out  of  the  world  of  his  own  miseries. 
But  to  regardless  ears  his  words  were 

given. 
For  on  the  dog  Siverian  gazed  the  while. 
Pursuing  his  own  thoughts.     Thou  hast 

not  felt, 


290      RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


Exclaim' d  the  old  man,  the  earthquake 
and  the  storm ; 

The  kingdom's  overthrow,  the  wreck  of 
Spain, 

The  ruin  of  thy  royal  master's  house. 

Have  reach' d  not  thee  !  .  .  Then  turning 
to  the  King, 

When  the  destroying  enemy  drew  nigh 

Toledo,  he  continued,  and  we  fled      loo 

Before  their  fury,  even  while  her  grief 

Was  fresh,  my  Mistress  would  not  leave 
behind 

This  faithful  creature.      Well  we  knew 
she  thought 

Of  Roderick  then,  although  she  named 
him  not ; 

For  never  since  the  fatal  certainty 

Fell  on  us  all,  hath  that  unhappy  name, 

Save  in  her  prayers,  been  known  to  pass 
her  lips 

Before  this  day.     She  names  him  now, 
and  weeps ; 

But  now  her  tears  are  tears  of  thankful- 
ness, 109 

For  blessed  hath  thy  coming  been  to  her 

And  all  who  loved  the  King. 

His  faltering  voice 

Here  fail'd  him,  and  he  paused  :    re- 
covering soon. 

When  that  poor  injured  Lady,  he  pur- 
sued. 

Did  in  my  presence  to  the  Prince  absolve 

The  unhappy  King.  .  . 

Absolve  him  !  Roderick  cried, 

And  in  that  strong  emotion  turn'd  his 
face 

Sternly  toward  Siverian,  for  the  sense 

Of  shame  and  self-reproach  drove  from 
his  mind 

All  other  thoughts.     The  good  old  man 
replied, 

Of  human  judgements  humanly  I  speak. 

Who  knows  not  what  Pelayo's  life  hath 
been  ?  121 

Not  happier  in  all  dear  domestic  ties, 


Than  worthy  for  his  virtue  of  the  bliss 
Which  is  that  virtue's  fruit ;    and  yet 

did  he 
Absolve,  upon  Florinda's  tale,  the  King. 
Siverian,   thus   he   said,   what   most   I 

hoped. 
And  still  within  my  secret  heart  believed, 
Is  now  made  certain.     Roderick  hath 

been 
More  sinn'd  against  than  sinning.     And 

with  that 
He  clasp' d  his  hands,  and,  lifting  them 

to  Heaven,  130 

Cried,  Would  to  God  that  he  were  yet 

alive ! 
For  not  more  gladly  did  I  draw  my 

sword 
Against  Witiza  in  our  common  cause. 
Than  I  would  fight  beneath  his  banners 

now. 
And  vindicate  his  name  ! 

Did  he  say  this  ? 
The  Prince  ?  Pelayo  ?  in  astonishment 
Roderick  exclaim' d.  .  .  He  said  it,  quoth 

the  old  man. 
None  better  knew  his  kinsman's  noble 

heart, 
None  loved  him  better,  none  bewail' d 

him  more :  139 

And  as  he  felt,  like  me,  for  his  reproach 
A  deeper  grief  than  for  his  death,  even  so 
He  cherish' d  in  his  heart  the  constant 

thought 
Something  was  yet  untold,  which,  being 

known. 
Would  palliate  his  offence,  and  make  the 

fall 
Of  one  till  then  so  excellently  good. 
Less  monstrous,  less  revolting  to  belief. 
More  to  be  pitied,  more  to  be  forgiven. 

While  thus  he  spake,  the  fallen  King 
felt  his  face 
Burn,  and  his  blood  flow  fast.     Down, 
guilty  thoughts  ! 


XVII.    RODERICK   AND   SIVERIAN 


291 


Firmly  he  said  within  his  soul ;   lie  still, 
Thou  heart  of  flesh!    I   thought  thou 

hadst  been  quell'd,  151 

And  quell'd  thou  shalt  be  !    Help  nie, 

0  my  God. 
That  I  may  crucify  this  inward  foe  ! 
Yea,  thou  hast  help'd  me,  Father  !  I  am 

strong, 

0  Saviour,  in  thy  strength. 

As  he  breath' d  thus 
His  inward  supplications,  the  old  man 
Eyed  him  with  frequent  and  unsteady 

looks. 
He  had  a  secret  trembling  on  his  lips, 
And  hesitated,  still  irresolute 
In  utterance  to  embody  the  dear  hope  : 
Fain  would  he  have  it  strengthen' d  and 

assured  i6i 

By  this  concording  judgement,  yet  he 

fear'  d 
To  have  it  chill' d  in  cold  accoil.     At 

length 
Venturing,   he  brake  with  interrupted 

speech 
The  troubled  silence.    Father  Maccabee, 

1  cannot  rest  till  I  have  laid  my  heart 
Open  before  thee.     When  Pelayo  wish'd 
That  his  poor  kinsman  were  alive  to  rear 
His     banner     once     again,     a    sudden 

thought .  . 
A  hope  .  .  a  fancy  .  .  what  shall  it  be 

call'd  ?  170 

d  me,    that   perhaps   the   wish 

might  see 

glad    accomplishment,     .     .     that 

Roderick  lived. 
And  might  in  glory  take  the  field  once 

more 
For  Spain.  .  .  I  see  thou  startest  at  the 

thought ! 
Yet  spurn  it  not  with  hasty  unbelief. 
As  though  'twere  utterly  beyond  the 

scope 
Of  possible  contingency.     I  think 
That  I  have  calmly  satisfied  myself 


Its 


How  this  is  more  than  idle  fancy,  more 
Than  mere  imaginations  of  a  mind  180 
Which  from  its  wishes  builds  a  baselees 

faith. 
His  horse,   his  royal   robe,   his  horned 

helm. 
His  mail  and  sword  were  found  upon  the 

field ; 
But   if   King   Roderick    had   in   battle 

fallen. 
That  sword,  I  know,  would  only  have 

been  found 
Clench'd   in    the    hand    which,    living, 

knew  so  well 
To  wield  the  dreadful  steel !   Not  in  the 

throng 
Confounded,  nor  amid  the  torpid  stream. 
Opening  with  ignominious  arms  a  way 
For    flight,    would    he    have    perish' d ! 

Wliere  the  strife  190 

Was  hottest,  ring'd  about  with  slaugh- 
ter'd  foes. 
Should  Roderick  have  been  found :    by 

this  sure  mark 
Ye  should  have  known  him,  if  nought 

else  remain'd, 
That  his  whole  body  had  been  gored 

with  wounds, 
And  quill'd  with  spears,  as  if  the  Moors 

had  felt 
That  in  his  single  life  the  victory  lay. 
More  than  in  all  the  host ! 

Siverian's  eyes 
Shone  with  a  youthful  ardour  wliile  he 

spake, 
His  gathering  brow  grew  stern,  and  as 

he  raised 
His  arm,  a  warrior's  impulse  character'd 
The  impassion' d  gesture.     But  the  King 

was  calm  201 

And  heard  him  with  unchanging  coun- 
tenance ; 
For  he  had  taken  his  resolve,  and  felt 
Once  more  the  i)eace  of  God  within  his 

soul, 


292       RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


As  in  that  hour  when  by  his  father's 

grave 
He  knelt  before  Pelayo. 

Soon  the  old  man 
Pursued  in  calmer  tones,  .  .  Thus  much 

I  dare 
Believe,  that  Roderick  fell  not  on  that 

day 
When  treason  brought  about  his  over- 
throw. 
If  yet  he  live,  for  sure  I  think  I  know  210 
His  noble  mind,  'tis  in  some  wilderness, 
Where,  in  some  savage  den  inhumed, 

he  drags 
The  weary  load  of  life,  and  on  his  flesh 
As  on  a  mortal  enemj',  inflicts 
Fierce  vengeance  with  immitigable  hand. 
Oh  that  I  knew  but  where  to  bend  my 

way 
In  his  dear  search  !    my  voice  perhaps 

might  reach 
His  heart,  might  reconcile  him  to  himself, 
Restore  him  to  his  mother  ere  she  dies. 
His  people  and  his  country :    with  the 

sword,  220 

Them  and  his  own  good  name  should  he 

redeem. 
Oh  might  I  but  behold  him  once  again 
Leading  to  battle  these  intrepid  bands, 
Such  as  he  was, . .  yea  rising  from  his  fall 
More    glorious,    more    beloved !     Soon 

I  believe 
Joy  would  accomplish  then  what  grief 

hath  fail'd 
To  do  with  this  old  heart,  and  I  should  die 
Clasping   his   knees    with   such   intense 

delight. 
That   when  I   woke   in   Heaven,   even 

Heaven  itself 
Could  have  no  higher  happiness  in  store. 

Thus  fervently  he  spake,  and  copious 
tears  231 

Ran    down   his   cheeks.     Full    oft    the 
Royal  Goth, 


Since  he  came  forth  again  among  man- 
kind. 
Had  trembled  lest   some   curious   eye 

should  read 
His  lineaments  too  closely ;  now  he  long'd 
To  fall  upon  the  neck  of  that  old  man, 
And  give  his  full  heart  utterance.     But 

the  sense 
Of  duty,  by  the  pride  of  self-controul 
Corroborate,  made  him  steadily  repress 
His  yearning  nature.    Whether  Roderick 

live,  240 

Paying  in  penitence  the  bitter  price 
Of  sin,  he  answered,  or  if  earth  hath 

given 
Rest  to  his  earthly  part,  is  only  known 
To  him  and  Heaven.     Dead  is  he  to  the 

world; 
And  let  not  these  imaginations  rob 
His  soul  of  thy  continual  prayers,  whose 

aid 
Too  surely,  in  whatever  world,  he  needs. 
The  faithful  love  that  mitigates  his  fault, 
Heavenward  addrest,  may  mitigate  his 

doom. 
Living  or  dead,  old  man,  be  sure  his 

soul,  .  .  250 

It  were  unworthy  else, .  .  doth  hold  with 

thine 
Entire  communion !     Doubt  not  he  relies 
Firmly  on  thee,  as  on  a  father's  love. 
Counts  on  thy  offices,  and  joins  with  thee 
In  sympathy  and  fervent  act  of  faith. 
Though    regions,     or    though    worlds, 

should  intervene. 
Lost  as  he  is,  to  Roderick  this  must  be 
Thy  first,  best,  dearest  duty  ;  next  must 

be 
To  hold  right  onward  in  that  noble  path, 
Which  he  would  counsel,  could  his  voice 

be  heard.  260 

Now  therefore  aid  me,  while  I  call  upon 
The  Leaders  and  the  People,  that  this 

day 
We  may  acclaim  Pelayo  for  our  King. 


AVlll.      inJli    AUUljiUVlAilUJN 


293 


XVIII.    THE   ACCLAMATION 

Now,  wliea  from  Covadonga,  down  tlie 

valo 
Holding   his   way,   the  princely   moun- 
taineer 
Came  with  that  happy  family  in  sight 
Of  Cangas  and  his  native  towers,  far  olT 
He  saw  before  the  gate,  in  fair  array, 
The    assembled    land.     Broad    banners 

were  display'd, 
And  spears  were  sparkling  to  the  smi, 

shields  shone, 
And  helmets  glitter' d,  and  the  blairing 

horn, 
With  frequent  sally  of  impatient  joy, 
Provoked  the  echoes  round.     Well  he 

areeds,  lo 

From  yonder  ensigns   and  augmented 

force. 
That  Odoar  and  the  Primate  from  the 

west 
Have  brought  their  aid ;   but  wherefore 

all  were  thus 
Instructed  as  for  some  great  festival. 
He  found  not,  till  Favila's  quicker  eye 
Catching  the  ready  buckler,  the  glad  boy 
Leapt   up,    and  clapping   his   exultant 

hands, 
Shouted,  King  !  King  !   my  father  shall 

be  King 
This  day  !   Pelayo  started  at  the  word. 
And  the  first  thought  which  smote  him 

brought  a  sigh  20 

For  Roderick's  fall ;    the  second  was  of 

hope, 
Deliverance  for  his  country,  for  himself 
Enduring  fame,  and  glory  for  his  line. 
That  high  prophetic  forethought  gather'd 

strength, 
Ai   looking   to   his   honour' d   mate,  he 

read 
Her  soul's  accordant  augury  ;    her  eyes 
Brighten' d  ;   the  quicken' d  action  of  the 

blood 


Tinged  with  a  deeper  hue  her  glowing 

cheek, 
And  on  her  lips  there  sate  a  smile  which 

spake 
The  honourable  pride  of  perfect  love,   30 
Rejoicing,   for   her   husband's  sake,   to 

share 
The  lot  ho  chose,  the  perils  he  defied, 
The    lofty    fortune    which    their    faith 

foresaw. 

Roderick,  in  front  of  all  the  assembled 

troops, 
Held  the  broad  buckler,  following  to  the 

end 
That  steady  purpose  to  the  which  his 

zeal 
Had  this  day  wrought  the  Chiefs.     TaU 

as  himself. 
Erect  it  stood  beside  him,  and  his  hands 
Hung  resting  on  the  rim.     This  was  an 

hour 
That  sweeten' d  life,  repaid  and  recom- 
pensed 40 
All  losses;    and  although  it  could  not 

heal 
All  griefs,  yet  laid  them  for  awhile  to  rest. 
The  active  agitating  joy  that  fill'd 
The  vale,  that  with  contagious  influence 

spread 
Through  all  the  exulting  mountaineers, 

that  gave 
New  ardour  to  all  spirits,  to  all  breasts 
Inspired  fresh  impulse  of  excited  hojx", 
Moved  every  tongue,  and  strengthen' d 

every  limb,  .  . 
That  joy  which  every  man  rellected  saw 
From  every  face  of  all  the  multitude,   50 
And  heard  in  ever}'  voice,  in  every  sound, 
Reach' d    not    the    King.     Aloof    from 

sympathy. 
He  from  the  solitude  of  his  own  soul 
Beheld  the  busy  scene.     None  shared  or 

knew 
His  deep  and  incommunicable  joy  ; 


294      RODERICK,  THE  LAST   OF  THE   GOTHS 


None  but  that  heavenly  Father,   who 

alone 
Beholds  the  struggles  of  the  heart,  alone 
Sees  and  rewards  the  secret  sacrifice. 

Among  the  chiefs  conspicuous.  Urban 

stood. 
He  whom,  with  well- weigh' d  choice,  in 

arduous  time,  60 

To  arduous  office  the  consenting  Church 
Had  call'd  when  Sindered  fear-smitten 

fled; 
Unfaithful  shepherd,  who  for  life  alone 
Solicitous,  forsook  his  flock,  when  most 
In  peril  and  in  suffering  they  required 
A  pastor's  care.     Far  off  at  Rome  he 

dwells 
In  ignominious  safety,  while  the  Church 
Keeps  in  her  annals  the  deserter's  name. 
But  from  the  service  which  with  daily 

zeal 
Devout  her  ancient  prelacy  recalls,      70 
Blots    it,    unworthy    to    partake    her 

prayers. 
Urban,  to  that  high  station  thus  being 

call'd, 
From    whence    disanimating   fear    had 

driven 
The  former  primate,  for  the  general  weal 
Consulting  first,  removed  with  timely 

care 
The  relics   and   the   written   works   of 

Saints, 
Toledo's  choicest  treasure  prized  beyond 
All  wealth,  their  living  and  their  dead 

remains ; 
These  to  the   mountain  fastnesses  he 

bore  79 

Of  unsubdued  Cantabria,  there  deposed. 
One  day  to  be  the  boast  of  yet  unbuilt 
Oviedo,  and  the  dear  idolatry 
Of   multitudes   unborn.     To   things   of 

state 
Then  giving  thought  mature,   he  held 

advice 


With  Odoar,  whom  of  counsel  competent 
And  firm  of  heart  he  knew.    What  then 

they  plann'd, 
Time  and  the  course  of  over-ruled  events 
To  earlier  act  had  ripen' d,  than  their 

hope 
Had  ever  in  its  gladdest  dream  pro- 
posed ; 
And  here   by   agents   unforeseen,   and 

means  90 

Beyond  the  scope  of  foresight  brought 

about, 
This  day  they  saw  their  dearest  heart's 

desire 
Accorded  them  :   All-able  Providence 
Thus  having  ordered  all,  that  Spain  this 

hour 
With  happiest   omens,   and   on  surest 

base, 
Should  from  its  ruins  rear  again  her 

throne. 

For  acclamation  and  for  sacring  now 
One  form  must  serve,  more  solemn  for 

the  breach 
Of  old  observances,  whose  absence  here 
Deeplier  impress' d  the  heart,  than  all 

display  100 

Of  regal  pomp  and  wealth  pontifical, 
Of  vestments  radiant  with  their  gems, 

and  stiff 
With  ornature  of  gold ;    the  glittering 

train. 
The  long  procession,  and  the  full-voiced 

choir. 
This  day  the  forms  of  piety  and  war, 
In  strange  but  fitting  union  must  com- 
bine. 
Not  in  his  alb  and  cope  and  orary 
Came  Urban  now,  nor  wore  he  mitre 

here, 
Precious    or    auriphrygiate ;      bare    of 

head 
He  stood,  all  else  in  arms  complete,  and 

o'er  no 


jC^  T   J.I.X. 


J.JLJ.JJJ         AJk\^V>'A^XA_l.TJ_CJL^XVyX^ 


His   gorget's   iron   rings   the   pall    was 

thrown 
Of  wool  uudyed,  which  on  the  Apostle's 

tomb 
Gregory  had  laid,   and  sanctified  with 

prayer  ; 
That  from  the  living  Pontiff  and  the 

dead 
Replete  with  holiness,  it  might  impart 
Doubly   derived  its  grace.     One   Page 

beside 
Bore    his    broad-shadow' d    helm;    an- 
other's hand 
Held  the  long  six?ar,  more  suited  in  these 

times 
For    Urban,    than    the    crosier    richly 

wrought 
With  silver  f oliature,  the  elaborate  work 
Of  Grecian  or  Italian  artist,  train'd    121 
In  the  eastern  capital,  or  sacred  Rome, 
Still  o'er  the  West  predominant,  though 

fallen. 
Better  the  spear  befits  the  shepherd's 

hand 
When  robbers  break  the  fold.     Now  he 

had  laid 
The  weapon  by,  and  held  a  natural  cross 
Of  rudest  form,  unpeel'd,  even  as  it  grew 
On  the  near  oak  that  morn. 

Mutilate  alike 
Of  royal  rites  was  tliis  solemnity. 
Where  was  the  rubied  crown,  the  sceptre 

where,  130 

And  where  the  golden  pome,  the  proud 

array 
Of  ermines,  aureate  vests,  and  jewelry, 
With  all  which  Leuvigild  for  after  kings 
Left,  ostentatious  of  his  power  ?    The 

Moor 
Had  made  his  spoil  of  these,  and  on  the 

field 
Of  Xeres,  where  contending  multitudes 
Had  trampled  it  beneath  their  bloody 

feet. 
The  standard  of  the  Goths  forgotten  lay 


Defiled,  and  rotting  there  in  sun  and 

rain, 
rtterly  is  it  lost ;   nor  evermore  140 

Herald  or  antiquary's  patient  search 
Shall  from  forgetfulncss  avail  to  save 
Those  blazon' d  arms,  so  fatally  of  old 
Renown'd    tlirough    all    the    affrighted 

Occident. 
That  banner,  before  which  imperial  Rome 
First  to  a  conqueror   bow'd  her   head 

abased ; 
Which  when  the  dreadful  Hun,  with  all 

his  powers. 
Came  like  a  deluge  rolling  o'er  the  world, 
Made  head,  and  in  the  front  of  battle 

broke 
His  force,  till  then  resistless ;    which  so 

oft  150 

Had  with  alternate  fortune  braved  the 

Frank  : 
Driven  the  Byzantine  from  the  farthest 

shores 
Of  Spain,  long  lingering  there,  to  final 

flight ; 
And  of  their  kingdoms  and  their  name 

despoil' d 
The   Vandal,    and   the   Alan,    and   the 

Sueve ; 
Blotted  from  human  records  is  it  now 
As  it  had  never  been.     So  let  it  rest 
With  things  forgotten  !    But  Oblivion 

ne'er 
Shall  cancel  from  the  historic  roll,  nor 

Time, 
Who  changeth  all,   obscure  that  fated 

sign,  »6o 

Which    brighter    now    than    mountain 

snows  at  noon 
To  the  bright  sun  displays  its  argent 

field. 

Rose  not   the  vision  then  upon    thy 
soul, 
0  Roderick,   when  within   that   argent 
field 


298      RODERICK,   THE   LAST   OF   THE    GOTHS 


Thou  saw'st  the  rampant  Lion,  red  as  if 
Upon  some  noblest  quarry  he  had  roll'd, 
Rejoicing  in  his  satiate  rage,  and  drunk 
With  blood  and  fury  ?  Did  the  auguries 
Which  open'd  on  thy  spirit  bring  with 

them 
A  perilous  consolation,  deadening  heart 
And  soul,  yea  worse  than  death,  .  .  that 

thou  through  all  171 

Thy  chequer' d  way  of  life,  evil  and  good, 
Thy  errors  and  thy  virtues,  hadst  but 

been 
The   poor   mere   instrument   of   things 

ordain' d,  .  . 
Doing  or  suffering,  impotent  alike 
To  ^vill  or  act,  .  .  perpetually  bemock'd 
With  semblance  of  volition,  yet  in  all 
Blind  worker  of  the  ways  of  destiny  ! 
That  thought  intolerable,  which  in  the 

hour 
Of   woe   indignant   conscience   had  re- 
pell' d  180 
As  little  might  it  find  reception  now, 
When  the  regenerate  spirit  self-approved 
Beheld    its    sacrifice    complete.     With 

faith 
Elate,  he  saw  the  banner' d  Lion  float 
Refulgent,    and  recall'd   that   thrilling 

shout 
Which  he  had  heard  when  on  Romano's 

grave 
The  joy  of  victory  woke  him  from  his 

dream. 
And  sent  him  with  prophetic  hope  to 

work 
Fulfilment  of  the  great  events  ordain'd, 
There  in  imagination's  inner  world    190 
Prefigured  to  his  soul. 

Alone,  advanced 
Before  the  ranks,   the  Goth  in  silence 

stood, 
While  from  all  voices  round,  loquacious 

joy 
Mingled  its  buzz  continuous  with  the 

blast 


Of  horn,  shrill  pipe,  and  tinkling  cym- 
bals' clash. 
And  sound  of   deafening  drum.      But 

when  the  Prince 
Drew  nigh,  and  Urban  with  the  cross 

upheld 
Stept  forth  to  meet  him,  all  at  once  were 

stiU'd 
With  instantaneous  hush  ;  as  when  the 

wind. 
Before  whose  violent  gusts  the  forest 

oaks,  200 

Tossing  like  billows  their  tempestuous 

heads, 
Roar  like  a  raging  sea,  suspends  its  force, 
And  leaves  so  dead  a  calm  that  not  a 

leaf 
Moves  on  the  silent  spray.     The  passing 

air 
Bore  with  it  from  the  woodland  undis- 

turb'd 
The  ringdove's  wooing,  and  the  quiet 

voice 
Of  waters  warbling  near. 

Son  of  a  race 
Of  Heroes  and  of  Kings  !    the  Primate 

thus 
Address' d    him.    Thou    in    whom    the 

Gothic  blood, 
Mingling  with  old  Iberia's,  hath  restored 
To  Spain  a  ruler  of  her  native  line,     211 
Stand  forth,  and  in  the  face  of  God  and 

man 
Swear  to  uphold  the  right,  abate  the 

wrong, 
With  equitable  hand,  protect  the  Cross 
Whereon  thy  lips  tliis  day  shall  seal 

their  vow. 
And  underneath  that  hallow' d  symbol, 

wage 
Holy  and  inextinguishable  war 
Against  the  accursed  nation  that  usm'ps 
Thy  country's  sacred  soil ! 

So  speak  of  me     219 
Now  and  for  ever,  O  my  countrymen ! 


XVlil.    THE   ACCLA.MAT10x\ 


297 


Replied  Pelayo ;   and  bo  deal  with  me 
Hero    and    hereafter,    thou,    Almighty 

God, 
In  whom  I  put  my  truat ! 

Lord  Ciod  of  Hosts, 
Urban  pursued,  of  Augcls  and  of  Men 
Creator  and  Disposer,  King  of  Kings, 
Ruler  of   Earth  and  Heaven,  .  .   look 

down  this  day, 
And  multiply  thy  blessings  on  the  head 
Of    this    thy   servant,    chosen    in    thy 

sight ! 
Bo  thou  his  counsellor,  his  comforter. 
His  hope,  his  joy,  his  refuge,  and  his 

strength ;  230 

CVown  him  with  justice,  and  with  forti- 
tude. 
Defend    him    with    tliino    all-sufficient 

shield, 
Surround   him   every    where   with   the 

right  hand 
Of  thine  all- present  power,  and  with  the 

might 
Of  tliine  omnipotence,  send  in  his  aid 
Thy  unseen  Angels  forth,  that  potently 
And  royally  against  all  enemies 
He  may  endure  and  triumph  !  Bless  the 

land 
O'er  which  he  is  appointed ;   bless  thou 

it 
With  the  waters  of  the  firmament,  the 

springs  240 

Of  the  low-lying  deep,  the  fruits  which 

8un 
And  Moon  mature  for  man,  the  precious 

stores 
Of  the  eternal  hills,  and  all  the  gifts 
Of  Earth,  its  wealth  and  fulness  ! 

Then  he  took 
Pelayo's  hand,  and  on  his  finger  placed 
The  mystic  circlet.  .  .  With  tliis  ring, 

O  Prince. 
To  our  dear  Spain,  who  likF  a  widow 

now 
Mourneth  in  desolation,  I  thee  wed  : 


For  weal  or  woo  thou  takest  her,  till 

death 
Dispart  the  union :    Bo  it  blest  to  her. 
To  thee,  and  to  thy  seed  !  251 

Thus  when  ho  ceased, 
He  gave  the  awaited  signal.     Roderick 

brought 
The  buckler :    Eight  for  strength  and 

stature  chosen 
Came  to  their  honour' d  office:    Round 

the  shield 
Standing,  they  lower  it  for  the  Chief- 
tain's feet. 
Then,  slowly  raised  upon  their  shoulders, 

lift 
The     steady     weight.      Erect     Pelayo 

stands. 
And  thrice  he  brandishes  the  burnish'd 

sword. 
While  Urban  to  the  assembled  people 

cries, 
Spaniards,    behold    youi-    King !     The 

multitude  260 

Then  sent  forth  all  their  voice  with  glad 

acclaim. 
Raising  the  loud  Real;    thrice  did  the 

word 
Ring  through  the  air,  and  echo  from  the 

walls 
Of  Cangas.     Far  and  wide  the  thun- 
dering shout. 
Rolling  among  reduplicating  rocks, 
Peal'd  o'er  the  hills,  and  up  the  moun- 
tain vales. 
The  wild  ass  starting  in  the  forest  glade 
Ran  to  the  covert ;   the  affrighted  wolf 
Skulk' d  tlu-ough  the  thicket  to  a  closer 

brake  ; 
The  sluggish  bear,  awaken' d  in  liis  den. 
Roused  up  and  answcr'd  with  a  sullen 

growl,  271 

Low-breathed   and   long;     and   at    the 

uproar  scared. 
The  brooding  eagle  from  her  nest  took 

wincr. 


l3 


298       RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF  THE   GOTHS 


Heroes  and  Chiefs  of  old  !  and  ye  who 

bore 
Firm  to  the  last  your  part  in  that  dread 

strife, 
When  Julian  and  Witiza's  viler  race 
Betray' d  their  country,  hear  ye  from 

yon  Heaven 
The  joyful  acclamation  which  proclaims 
That  Spain  is  born  again!    0  ye  who 

died 
In  that  disastrous  field,  and  ye  who  fell 
Embracing  with  a  martyr's  love  your 

death  281 

Amid  the  flames  of  Auria ;    and  all  ye 
Victims  innumerable,   whose  cries  un- 
heard 
On  earth,  but  heard  in  Heaven,  from 

all  the  land 
Went  up  for  vengeance  ;   not  in  vain  ye 

cry 
Before   the   eternal    throne !    .    .    Rest 

innocent  blood ! 
Vengeance  is  due,  and  vengeance  will 

be  given, 
Rest  innocent  blood !    The  appointed 

age  is  come  ! 
The  star  that  harbingers  a  glorious  day 
Hath    risen !     Lo    there    the    Avenger 

stands  !     Lo  there  290 

He  brandishes  the  avenging  sword  !   Lo 

there 
The  avenging  banner  spreads  its  argent 

field 
Refulgent    with    auspicious   light !    .    . 

Rejoice, 
O  Leon,  for  thy  banner  is  displayed, 
Rejoice  with  all  thy  mountains,  and  thy 

vales 
And    streams !     And    thou,    0    Spain, 

through  all  thy  realms. 
For  thy  deliverance  cometh !    Even  now. 
As  from  all  sides  the  miscreant  hosts 

move  on  ;  .  . 
From  southern  Betis  ;  from  the  western 

lands. 


Where  through  redundant  vales  smooth 

Minho  flows,  300 

And  Douro  pours  through  vine-clad  hills 

the  wealth 
Of  Leon's  gathered  waters ;    from  the 

plains 
Burgensian,  in  old  time  Vardulia  call'd, 
But  in  their  castellated  strength  ere  long 
To    be    design' d    Castille,    a    deathless 

name ; 
From    midland   regions    where    Toledo 

reigns 
Proud  city  on  her  royal  eminence, 
And  Tagus  bends  his  sickle  round  the 

scene 
Of  Roderick's  fall ;    from  rich  Rioja's 

fields ; 
Dark  Ebro's  shores ;    the  walls  of  Sal- 

duba,  310 

Seat  of  the  Sedetaniaus  old,  by  Rome 
Caesarian  and  August  denominate. 
Now  Zaragoza,  in  this  later  time 
Above  all  cities  of  the  earth  renown' d 
For  duty  perfectly  perform'd;  .  .  East, 

West 
And    South,    where'er    their    gather' d 

multitudes 
Urged  by  the  si>eed  of  vigorous  tyranny, 
With  more  than  with  commeasurable 

strength 
Haste  to  prevent  the  danger,  crush  the 

hopes 
Of  rising  Spain,  and  rivet  round  her  neck 
The  eternal  yoke,  .  .  the  ravenous  fowls 

of  heaven  321 

Flock   there  presentient   of   their  food 

obscene, 
Following  the  accursed  armies,   whom 

too  well 
They  know  their  purveyors  long.  Pursue 

their  march, 
Ominous   attendants !     Ere   the   moon 

hath  fill'd 
Her  horns,  these  pm'veyors  shall  become 

the  prey, 


XVIII.    THE   ACCLAMATION 


299 


And  ye  on  Moorish  not  on  Christian 

flesh 
Wearying  your  beaks,  shall  clog  your 

scaly  feet 
With  foreign  gore.     Soon  will  yo  learn 

to  know, 
Followers  and  harbingers  of  blood,  the 

flag  330 

Of  Leon   where  it    bids  you    to  your 

feast! 
Terror  and  flight  shall  with  that  flag  go 

forth. 
And  Havoc  and  the  Dogs  of  War  and 

Death. 
Thou     Covadonga     with     the     tainted 

stream 
Of  Deva,  and  this  now  rejoicing  vale. 
Soon  its  primitial  triumphs  wilt  behold  ! 
Nor  shall  the  glories  of  the  noon  be 

less 
Than  such  miraculous  promise  of  the 

dawn : 
Witness  Clavijo,  where  the  dreadful  cry 
Of    Santiago,    then    first    heard,    o'er- 

power'  d  340 

The  Akbar,  and  that  holier  name  blas- 
phemed 
By  misbelieving  lips  !    Simancas,  thou 
Be  witness!     And  do  ye  your  record 

bear, 
Tolosan  mountains,   where  the  Almo- 

hade 
Beheld    his  myriads  scatter' d  and  de- 
stroy'd. 
Like  locusts  swept  before  the  stormy 

North  ! 
Thou  too,  Salado,  on  that  later  day 
When  Africa  received  her  final  foil. 
And   thy   swoln   stream    incarnadined, 

roird  back 
The  invaders  to  the  deep,  .  .  there  shall 

they  toes  35° 

Till  on  their  native  Mauritanian  shore 
The   waves   shall    cast   their    bones   to 

whiten  there. 


XIX.  RODERICK  AND  RUSILLA 

When  all  had  been  perform' d,  the  royal 

Goth 
Look'd  up  towards  the  chamber  in  the 

tower 
Where,  gazing  on  the  multitude  below, 
Alone  Rusilla  stood.     He  met  her  eye, 
For  it  was  singling  iiim  amid  the  crowd  ; 
Obeying  then  the  hand  which  beckon'd 

him, 
He    went    with    heart    prepared,    nor 

shrinking  now. 
But  arm'd  with  self-approving  thoughts 

that  hour. 
Entering  in  tremulous  haste,  he  closed 

the  door, 
And  turn'd  to  clasp  her  knees ;    but  lo, 

she  spread  10 

Her  arms,  and  catching  him  in  close 

embrace, 
Fell  on  his  neck,  and  cried.  My  Son,  my 

Son !  .  . 
Ere  long,  controlling  that  first  agony 
With  effort  of  strong  will,  backward  she 

bent. 
And  gazing  on  his  head  now  shorn  and 

grey. 
And  on  his  furrow' d  countenance,  ex- 
claim'd. 
Still,  still,  my  Roderick  !  the  same  noble 

mind ! 
The  same  heroic  heart !    Still,  still,  my 

Son  !  .  . 
Changed,  .  .  yet  not  wholly  fallen, .  .  not 

wholly  lost. 
He  cried,  .  .  not  wholly  in  the  sight  of 

Heaven  ao 

Unworthy,  O  my  Mother,  nor  in  thine  ! 
She  lock'd  her  arms  again  around  his 

neck. 
Saying,    Lord,    let    me    now    depart    in 

peace ! 
And  bow'd  her  head  again,  and  silently 
Gave  way  to  tears. 


300      RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


When  that  first  force  was  spent, 
And    passion    in    exhaustment    found 

relief,  .  . 
I  knew  thee,  said  Rusilla,  when  the  dog 
Rose    from    my    feet,    and    lick'd    his 

master's  hand. 
All  flash'  d  upon  me  then ;    the  instinc- 
tive sense 
That    goes    unerringly    where    reason 

fails,  .  .  30 

The    voice,    the    eye,    .    .    a    mother's 

thoughts  are  quick,  .  . 
JMiraculous  as  it  seem'd,  .  .  Siverian's 

tale,  .  . 
Florinda's,  .   .  every  action,  .  .  every 

word,  .  . 
Each  strengthening  each,  and  all  con- 
firming all, 
Reveal' d  thee,  0  my  8on !    but  I  re- 
strain'd 
My  heart,  and  yielded  to  thy  holier  will 
The  thoughts  which  rose  to  tempt  a  soul 

not  yet 
Wean'd  wholly  from  the  world. 

What  thoughts  ?  replied 
Roderick.     That  I  might  see  thee  yet 

again 
Such  as  thou  wert,  she  answer' d;    not 

alone  40 

To   Heaven   and  me  restored,   but   to 

thyself,  .  . 
Thy  Crown, .  .  thy  Country, .  .  all  within 

thy  reach ; 
Heaven  so  disposing  all  things,  that  the 

means 
Which  wrought  the  ill,  might  work  the 

remedy. 
Methought  I  saw  thee  once  again  the 

hope,  .  . 
The  strength, . .  the  pride  of  Spain  !  The 

miracle 
Which  I  beheld  made  all  things  possible. 
I  know  the  inconstant  people,  how  their 

mind. 
With  every  breath  of  good  or  ill  report. 


Fluctuates,  like  summer  corn  before  the 

breeze ;  50 

Quick  in  their  hatred,  quicker  in  their 

love, 
Generous  and  hasty,  soon  would  they 

redress 
All   wrongs   of   former   obloquy.    .   .   I 

thought 
Of  happiness  restored,  .   .   the  broken 

heart 
Heal'd,  .   ,   and  Count  Julian,  for  his 

daughter's  sake, 
Turning  in  thy  behalf  against  the  Moors 
His  powerful  sword :  .  .  all  possibilities 
That  could  be  found  or  fancied,  built 

a  dream 
Before  me  ;   such  as  easiest  might  illude 
A  lofty  spirit  train' d  in  palaces,  60 

And  not  alone  amid  the  flatteries 
Of  youth  with  thoughts  of  high  ambition 

fed 
When  all  is  sunshine,  but  through  years 

of  woe. 
When  sorrow  sanctified  their  use,  upheld 
By  honourable  pride  and  earthly  hopes. 
I  thought  I  yet  might  nurse  upon  my 

knee 
Some  young  Theodofred,  and  see  in  him 
Thy    Father's    image    and    thine    own 

renew' d. 
And  love  to  think  the  little  hand  which 

there 
Play'd  with  the  bauble,  should  in  after 

days  70 

Wield  the  transmitted  sceptre ;  .  .  that 

through  him 
The  ancient  seed  should  be  perpetuate, . . 
That    precious    seed   revered   so   long, 

desired 
So  dearly,  and  so  wondrously  preserved. 

Nay,    he   replied,   Heaven   hath   not 
with  its  bolts 
Scathed  the  proud  summit  of  the  tree, 
and  left 


XIX.    RODERICK   AND    RUSILLA 


301 


The  trunk  uaflaw'd  ;  ne'er  shall  it  clothe 

its  boughs 
Again,  nor  push  again  its  scyons  forth. 
Head,  root,   and  branch,  all  mortilied 

alike  !  .  . 
Long  ere  these  locks  were  shorn  liad 

I  cut  of!  80 

The  thoughts  of  royalty!     Time  might 

renew 
Their  growth,  as  for  Manoah's  captive 

son. 
And  I  too  on  the  miscreant  race,  like 

him. 
Might   prove   my  strength  regenerate ; 

but  the  hour. 
When,  in  its  second  best  nativity, 
My  soul  was  born  again  through  grace, 

this  heart 
Died  to   the   world.     Dreams  such   as 

thine  pass  now 
Like  evening  clouds  before  me ;    if  I 

think 
How  beautiful  they  seem,  'tis  but  to 

feel 
How  soon  they  fade,  how  fast  the  night 

shuts  in.  90 

But  in  that  World  to  which  my  hopes 

look  on. 
Time  enters  not,  nor  Mutability  ; 
Beauty    and    goodness    are    unfading 

there ; 
Whatever  there  is  given  us  to  enjoy, 
That  we  enjoy  for  ever,  still  the  same.  .  . 
Much     might     Count    Julian's    sword 

achieve  for  Spain 
And  me.butmorewill  his  dear  daughter's 

soul 
Effect  in  Heaven  ;   and  soon  will  she  be 

there 
An  Angel  at  the  throne  of  Grace,  to 

plead 
In  his  behalf  and  mine. 

I  knew  thy  heart,  100 
She   answer'd,    and   subdued   the    vain 

desire. 


It  wa.s  the  World's  la«t  ctTort.     Tho\i 

hivst  chosen 
The  better  part.     Yes,  Roderick,  even 

on  earth 
There  is  a  praise  above  the  monardi'H 

fame, 
A  higher,  holier,  more  enduring  praise. 
And  tliis  will  yet  be  thine  ! 

0  tempt  me  not. 
Mother !     he   cried ;     nor   let   ambition 

take 
That  specious  form  to  cheat  us  !    What 

but  this. 
Fallen  as  I  am,  have  I  to  ofTer  Heaven  ? 
The  ancestral  sceptre,  public  fame,  con- 
tent no 
Of  private  life,  the  general  good  report. 
Power,  reputation,  happiness,  .  .  what- 

e'er 
The  heart  of  man  desires  to  constitute 
His  earthly  weal,  .   .   unerring  Justice 

claim' d 
In  forfeiture.     I  with  submitted  soul 
Bow  to  the  righteous  law  and  kiss  the 

rod. 
Only   while   thus   submitted,    suffering 

thus,  .  . 
Only  while  offering  up  that  name  on 

earth, 
Perhaps  in  trial  offer'd  to  my  choice. 
Could  I  present  myself  before  tliy  sight ; 
Thus  only  could  endure  myself,  or  fix   121 
My   thoughts   upon   that   fearful   pass, 

where  Death 
Stands  in  the  Oate  of  Heaven !  .  .  Time 

passes  on, 
The  healing  work  of  sorrow  is  complete  ; 
All  vain  desires  have  long  been  weeded 

out. 
All  vain  regrets  subdued ;    the  heart  in 

dead, 
The  soul  is  ripe  and  eager  for  her  birth. 
Bless  me,  my  >rothor  !    and  come  when 

it  will 
The  inevitable  hour,  we  die  in  peace. 


302       RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE    GOTHS 


So  saying,  on  her  knees  he  bow'd  his 
head ;  130 

She  raised  her  hands  to  Heaven  and 
blest  her  cliild  ; 

Then  bending  forward,  as  he  rose,  em- 
braced 

And  claspt  him  to  her  heart,  and  cried, 
Once  more 

Theodofred,  with  pride  behold  thy  son  ! 


XX.    THE  MOORISH  CAMP 

The  times  are  big  with  tidings ;    every 

hour 
From  east  and  west  and  south  the  breath- 
less scouts 
Bring  swift  alarums  in ;    the  gathering 

foe. 
Advancing   from    all    quarters    to    one 

point, 
Close  their  wide  crescent.     Nor  was  aid 

of  fear 
To  magnify  their  numbers  needed  now. 
They    came    in    myriads.     Africa    had 

pour'  d 
Fresh  shoals  upon  the  ooast  of  wretched 

Spain ; 
Lured  from  their  hungry  deserts  to  the 

scene 
Of  spoil,  like  vultures  to  the  battle-field, 
Fierce,  unrelenting,  habited  in  crimes,  11 
Like  bidden  guests  the  mirthful  ruffians 

flock 
To  that  free  feast  wliich  in  their  Pro- 
phet's name 
Rapine  and  Lust  proclaim' d.     Nor  were 

the  chiefs 
Of  victory  less  assured,  by  long  success 
Elate,  and  proud  of  that  o'er  whelming 

strength. 
Which,  surely  they  believed,  as  it  had 

roU'd 
Thus  far  uncheck'd  would  roll  victorious 

on. 


Till,  like  the  Orient,  the  subjected  West 

Should  bow  in  reverence  at  Mahommed's 
name ;  20 

And    pilgrims,    from    remotest    Arctic 
shores, 

Tread  with  religious  feet  the  burning 
sands 

Of  Araby,  and  Mecca's  stony  soil. 

Proud  of  his  part  in  Roderick's  over- 
throw, 

Their  leader  Abulcacem  came,  a  man 

Immitigable,  long  in  war  renown'd. 

Here  Magued  comes,  who  on  the  con- 
quered walls 

Of   Cordoba,    by   treacherous   fear   be- 
tray'd. 

Planted  the  moony  standard  :    Ibrahim 
here. 

He,  who  by  Genii  and  in  Darro's  vales,  30 

Had  for  the  Moors  the  fairest  portion  won 

Of  all  their  spoils,  fairest  and  best  main 
tain'd, 

And  to  the  Alpuxarras  given  in  trust 

His  other  name,  through  them  preserved 
in  song. 

Here  too  Alcahman,  vaunting  liis  late 
deeds 

At  Auria,  all  her  children  by  the  sword 

Cut  ofiF,  her  bulwarks  rased,  her  towers 
laid  low. 

Her  dwellings  by  devouring  flames  con- 
sumed, 

Bloody    and   hard   of    heart,    he   little 
ween'd. 

Vain-boastful  chief  !    that  from   those 
fatal  flames  40 

The  fire  of  retribution  had  gone  forth 

Which  soon  should  wrap  him  round. 

The  renegades 

Here  too  were  seen,  Ebba  and  Sisibert ; 

A  spurious  brood,  but  of  their  parent's 
crimes 

True  heirs,  in  guilt  begotten,  and  in  ill 

Train' d  up.     The  same  unnatural  rage 
that  turn'd 


XX.    THE   MOORISH   CAMP 


303 


Their    swords    against    tlicir    country, 

made  them  seek. 
Unmindful  of  their  wretched  mother's 

end, 
Pelayo's  life.     No  enmity  is  like 
Domestic  hatred.     For  his  blood  they 
thirst,  50 

As  if  that  sacrifice  might  satisfy 
Witiza's  guilty  ghost,  efface  the  shame 
Of  their  adulterous  birth,  and  one  crime 

more 
Crowning  a  hideous  course,  emancipate 
Thenceforth  their  spirits  from  all  earthly 

fear. 
This  was  their  only  care :    but  other 

thoughts 
Were  rankling   in   that   elder   villain's 

mind, 
Their  kinsman  Orpas,  he  of  all  the  crew 
Who  in  this  fatal  visitation  fell. 
The  foulest  and  the  falsest  wretch  that 
e'er  60 

Renounced    his    baptism.     From    his 

cherish' d  views 
Of  royalty  cut  off,  he  coveted 
Count  Julian's  wide  domains,  and  hope- 
less now 
To  gain  them  through  the  daughter,  laid 

his  toils 
Against  the  father's  life,  .  .  the  instru- 
ment 
Of  his  ambition  first,  and  now  design'd 
Its  victim.     To  this  end  with  cautious 

hints. 
At  favouring  season  ventured,  he  pos- 
sess'd 
The  leader's  mind ;    then,  subtly  fos- 
tering 
The    doubts    himself    had    sown,    witii 
bolder  charge  70 

He  bade  him  warily  regard  the  Count, 
Lest  underneath  an  outward  show  of 

faith 
The  heart  uncircumcised  were  Christian 
still : 


Else,  wherefore  had  Florinda  not  obey'd 

Her  dear  loved  sire's  example,  and  em- 
braced 

The  saving  truth  ?    Else,  wherefore  was 
her  hand. 

Plighted  to  him  so  long,  so  long  withheld. 

Till  she  had  found  a  fitting  hour  to  fl}' 

With  that  audacious  Prince,  who  now 
in  arms. 

Defied  the  Caliph's  power  ;  .  .  for  who 
could  doubt  80 

That  in  his  company  she  fled,  perhaps 

The  mover  of  his  flight  ?    What  if  the 
Count 

Himself  had  plann'd  the  evasion  which 
he  feign' d 

In  sorrow  to  condemn  ?  What  if  she  went 

A   pledge   assured,    to   tell    the   moun- 
taineers 

That  when  they  met  the  Mussel  men  in 
the  heat 

Of  fight,  her  father  passing  to  their  side 

Would  draw  the  victory  with  him  ?  .  . 
Thus  he  breathed 

Fiend-like     in     Abulcacem's     ear     his 
schemes 

Of  murderous  malice ;    and  the  course 
of  things,  90 

Ere  long,   in  part   approving   his   dis- 
course. 

Aided   his   aim,    and   gave   his   wishes 
weight. 

For  scarce  on  the  Asturian  territory 

Had  they  set  foot,  when,  with  the  speed 
of  fear. 

Count   Eudon,   nothing   doubting  that     . 
their  force  • 

Would  like  a  flood  sweep  all  resistance 
down, 

Hasten'd  to   plead   his   merits ;   .   .    he 
alone. 

Found    faithful    in    obedience    tlu-ough 
reproach 

And  danger,  when  tlir  niadden'd  multi- 
tude 


304       RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


Hurried  their  chiefs  along,  and  high  and 
low  100 

With  one  infectious  frenzy  seized,  pro- 
voked 

The  invincible  in  arms.     Pelayo  led 

The  raging  crew,  .  .  he  doubtless  the 
prime  spring 

Of  all  these  perilous  movements ;  and 
'twas  said 

He  brought  the  assurance  of  a  strong 
support, 

Count  Julian's  aid,  for  in  his  company 

From  Cordoba,  Count  Julian's  daughter 


Thus  Eudon  spake  before  the  assem- 
bled chiefs  ; 
When  instantly  a  stern  and  wrathful 

voice 
Replied,  I  know  Pelayo  never  made   no 
That  senseless  promise  !    He  who  raised 

the  tale 
Lies  foully  ;    but  the  bitterest  enemy 
That  ever  hunted  for  Pelayo's  life 
Hath  never  with  the  charge  of  falsehood 

touch' d 
His  name. 

The  Baron  had  not  recognized 
Till  then,  beneath  the  turban's  shadow- 
ing folds, 
Julian's  swart  visage,   where  the  fiery 

skies 
Of  Africa,  through  many  a  year's  long 

course, 
Had  set  their  hue  inburnt.     Something 
he  sought  119 

In  quick  excuse  to  say  of  common  fame, 
Lightly  believed  and  busily  diffused, 
And  that   no   enmity   had  moved   his 

speech 
Repeating  rumour's  tale.  Julian  replied. 
Count  Eudon,  neither  for  thyself  nor  me 
Excuse   is   needed   here.     The   path   I 

tread 
Is  one  wherein  there  can  be  no  return. 


No  pause,  no  looking  back  !    A  choice 

like  mine 
For  time  and  for  eternity  is  made, 
Once  and  for  ever  !   and  as  easily 
The  breath  of  vain  report  might  build 

again  130 

The  throne  which  my  just  vengeance 

overthrew. 
As  in  the  Caliph  and  his  Captain's  mind 
Affect    the  opinion    of    my   well-tried 

truth. 
The  tidings  which  thou  givest  me  of  my 

child 
Touch  me  more  vitally ;    bad  though 

they  be, 
A  secret  apprehension  of  aught  worse 
Makes  me  with  joy  receive  them. 

Then  the  Count 
To  Abulcacem  turn'd  his  speech,  and 

said, 
I  pray  thee.  Chief,  give  me  a  messenger 
By  whom  I  may  to  this  unhappy  child 
Dispatch  a  father's  bidding,  such  as  yet 
May  win  her  back.     What  I  would  say 

requires  142 

No  veil  of  privacy  ;   before  ye  all 
The  errand  shall  be  given. 

Boldly  he  spake. 
Yet  wary  in  that  show  of  open  truth, 
For  well  he  knew  what  dangers  girt  him 

round 
Amid  the  faithless   race.     Blind   with 

revenge, 
For  them  in  madness  had  he  sacrificed 
His  name,  his  baptism,  and  his  native 

land, 
To  feel,  still  powerful  as  he  was,  that  life 
Hung  on  their  jealous  favour.     But  his 

heart  151 

Approved    him    now,    where   love,    too 

long  restrain' d. 
Resumed  its  healing  influence,  leading 

him 
Right  on  with  no  misgiving.     Chiefs,  he 

said, 


XX.    THE   MOORISH  CAMP 


306 


• 


Hear  mo,  and  lot  your  wisdom  judge 

between 
Me  and  Prince  Orpaa  !  .  .  Known  it  is  to 

all, 
Too  well,  what  mortal  injury  provoked 
My  spirit  to  that  vengeance  which  your 

aid 
So  signally  hath  given.     A  covenant 
We   made   when   tirst   our   purpose   we 
combined.  i6o 

That  he  should  have  Florinda  for  his 

wife, 
Myonlychild.  so  shouldshobe.Ithought, 
Revenged     and     honour' d     best.     My 

word  was  given 
Truly,  nor  did  I  cease  to  use  all  means 
Of  counsel  or  command,  entreating  her 
Sometimes    with    tears,    seeking   some- 
times with  threats 
Of  an  offended  father's  curse  to  enforce 
Obedience  ;  that,  she  said,  the  Christian 

law 
Forbade,  moreover  she  had  vow'd  her- 
self 169 
A  servant  to  the  Lord.  In  vain  I  strove 
To  win  her  to  the  Prophet's  saving  faith, 
Using  perhaps  a  rigour  to  that  end 
Beyond  permitted  means,  and  to  my 

heart. 
Which  loved  her  dearer  than  its  own 

life-blood. 
Abhorrent,     Silently  she  suffer' d  all. 
Or  when  I  urged  her  with  most  vehe- 
mence. 
Only  replied,  I  knew  her  fix'd  resolve, 
And  craved  my  patience  but  a  little 

while 
Till  death  should  set  her  free.    Touch'd 

as  I  was, 
I  yet  persisted,  till  at  length  to  escape 
The  ceaseless  importunity,  she  fled  :    181 
And  verily  I  fear'd  until  this  hour. 
My  rigour  to  some  foarfuUer  resolve 
Than  flight,had  driven  mychild.  Chiefs. 
I  appeal 


To  each  and  all,  and  Orpas  to  thyself 

Esjx'cially,  if,  having  thus  essay'd 

All   moans  that   law   and   nature   have 

allow' d 
To  bend  her  will,  1  may  not  light  fully 
Hold   myself   free,    that   promise   being 

void 
Which  cannot  bo  fulfil  I'd. 

Thou  sayest  then,  190 
Orpas  replied,  that  from  her  false  belief 
Her  stubborn  oppasition  drew  its  force 
I  should  have  thought  that  from   the 

ways  corrupt 
Of  these  idolatrous  Christians,  little  care 
Might  have  sufficed  to  wean  a  duteous 

child. 
The  example  of  a  parent  so  beloved 
Leading  the  way  ;    and  yet  I  will  not 

doubt 
Thou  didst  enforce  with  all  sincerity 
And  holy  zeal  upon  thy  daughter's  mind 
The  truths  of  Islam. 

Julian  knit  his  brow,  200 
And  scowling  on  the  insidious  renegade 
He  answered.  By  what  reasoning  my 

poor  mind 
Was  from  the  old  idolatry  reclaim' d. 
None  better  knows  than  Seville's  mitred 

chief. 
Who  first  renouncing  errors  which  he 

taught. 
Led  me  his  follower  to  the  Prophet's 

pale. 
Thy  lessons  I  repeated  as  I  could ; 
Of  graven  images,  unnatural  vows. 
False     records,     fabling     creeds,     and 

juggling  priests,  209 

Who,  making  sanctity  the  cloak  of  sin. 
Laugh' d  at  the  fools  on  whose  credulity 
They   fatten'd.      To   these    arguments, 

whose  worth 
Prince  Orpas,  least  of  all  men,  should 

imjX'ach, 
I  added,  like  a  soldier  bred  in  arms. 
And  to  the  subtleties  of  schools  unused. 


306      RODERICK.  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


The   flagrant   fact,    that   Heaven   with 

victory, 
Where'er  they  turn'd,  attested  and  ap- 
proved 
The  chosen  Prophet's  arms.     If   thou 

wert  still 
The  mitred  Metropolitan,  and  I 
Some  wretch  of  Arian  or  of  Hebrew  race. 
Thy  proper  business  then  might  be  to 

pry,  221 

And  question  me  for  lurking  flaws  of 

faith. 
We  Musselmen,  Prince  Orpas,  live  be- 
neath 
A  wiser  law,  which  with  the  iniquities 
Of  thine  old  craft,  hath  abrogated  thia 
Its  foulest  practice  ! 

As  Count  Julian  ceased. 
From  underneath  his  black  and  gather' d 

brow 
There  went  a  look,   which  with  these 

wary  words 
Bore  to  the  heart  of  that  false  renegade 
Their      whole      envenom' d      meaning. 

Haughtily  230 

Withdrawing  then  his  alter' d  eyes,  he 

said. 
Too  much  of  this  !  return  we  to  the  sum 
Of  my  discourse.     Let  Abulcacem  say. 
In  whom  the  Caliph  speaks,  if  with  all 

faith 
Having  essay' d  in  vain  all  means  to  win 
My   child's   consent,    I   may   not   hold 

henceforth 
The  covenant  discharged. 

The  Moor  replied, 
Well  hast  thou  said,  and  rightly  may'st 

assure 
Thy  daughter  that  the  Prophet's  holy 

law 
Forbids  compulsion.     Give  thine  errand 

now ;  240 

The  messenger  is  here. 

Then  Julian  said. 
Go  to  Pelayo,  and  from  him  entreat 


Admittance  to  my  child,  where'er  she  be. 
Say  to  her,  that  her  father  solemnly 
Annuls     the     covenant     with     Orpas 

pledged. 
Nor  with  solicitations,  nor  with  threats, 
Will    urge    her    more,    nor   from    that 

liberty 
Of  faithrestrain  her,  which  the  Prophet's 

law. 
Liberal  as  Heaven  from  whence  it  came, 

to  all 
Indulges.     Tell  her  that  her  father  says 
His  days  are  number' d,  and  beseeches 

her  251 

By  that  dear  love,  which  from  her  in- 
fancy 
Still  he  hath  borne  her,  growing  as  she 

grew, 
Nursed  in  our  weal  and  strengthen' d  in 

our  woe. 
She  will  not  in  the  evening  of  his  life 
Leave  him  forsaken  and  alone.     Enough 
Of  sorrow,  tell  her,  have  her  injuries 
Brought  on  her  father's  head ;    let  not 

her  act 
Thus  aggravate  the  burden.     Tell  her 

too, 
That  when  he  pray'd  her  to  return,  he 

wept  260 

Profusely  as  a  child  ;   but  bitterer  tears 
Than  ever  fell  from   childhood's  eyes 

were  those 
Which  traced  his  hardy  cheeks. 

With  faltering  voice 
He  spake,  and  after  he  had  ceased  from 

speech 
His     lip     was     quivering     still.     The 

Moorish  chief 
Then  to  the  messenger  his  bidding  gave. 
Say,  cried  he,  to  these  rebel  infidels, 
Thus  Abulcacem  in  the  Caliph's  name 
Exhorteth  them  :    Repent  and  be  for- 
given ! 
Nor  think  to  stop  the  dreadful  storm  of 

war,  270 


XX.    THE   MOORISH   CAMP 


307 


Which  conquering  and  to  conquer  must 

fullil 
Its  destined  circle,  rolling  eastward  now 
Back  from  the  subjugated  west,  to  sweep 
Thrones  and  dominions  down,  till  in  the 

bond 
Of  unity  all  nations  join,  and  Earth 
Acknowledge,  as  she  sees  one  Sun  in 

heaven. 
One  God,  one  Cliief,  one  Prophet,  and 

one  Law. 
Jerusalem,  the  holy  City,  bows 
To  holier  Mecca's  creed ;    the  Crescent 

shines 
Triumphant  o'er  the  eternal  pyramids  ; 
On  the  cold  altars  of  the  worshippers  281 
Of  Fire  moss  grows,  and  reptiles  leave 

their  slime ; 
The  African  idolatries  are  fallen. 
And  Europe's  senseless  gods  of  stone 

and  wood 
Have  had  their  day.     Tell  these  mis- 
guided men, 
A  moment  for  repentance  yet  is  left, 
/  And   mercy    the   submitted   neck    will 

spare 
Before  the  sword  is  drawn  :    but  once 

unsheath'd, 
Let  Auria  witness  how  that  dreadful 

sword 
Accomplisheth  its   work !     They   little 

know  290 

The  Moors  who  hope  in  battle  to  with- 
stand 
Their  valour,  or  in  flight  escape  their 

rage  ! 
Amid  our  deserts  we  hunt  down  the  birds 
Of  heaven,  .  .  wings  do  not  save  them ! 

Nor  shall  rocks. 
And  holds,  and  fastnesses,  avail  to  save 
These  mountaineers.     Is  not  the  Earth 

the  Lord's  ? 
And  we,  his  chosen  people,  whom  he 

sends 
To  conquer  and  possess  it  in  his  name  ? 


XXI.  THE  FOUNTAIN  IN  THE 
FOREST 

The  second  eve  had  closed  upon  tiieir 

march 
Within   the   Asturian   border,   and   tlio 

Moors 
Had  pitch'd  their  tents  amid  an  open 

wood 
Upon  the  mountain  side.     As  day  grew 

dim, 
Their  scatter' d  fires  shone  with  distincter 

light 
Among  the  trees,  above  whose  top  the 

smoke 
Diffused  itself,  and  stain'd  the  evening 

sky. 
Ere  long  the  stir  of  occupation  ceased, 
And  all  the  murmur  of  the  busy  host 
Subsiding   died   away,    as   through   the 

camp  10 

The  crier  from  a  knoll  proclaim' d  the 

hour 
For  prayer  appointed,  and  with  sonorous 

voice, 
Thrice  in  melodious  modulation  full, 
Pronounced  the  highest  name.     There 

is  no  God 
But  God,  he  cried ;   there  is  no  God  but 

God! 
Mahommed    is    the    Prophet     of    the 

Lord! 
Come  ye  to  prayer !    to  prayer !    The 

Lord  is  great  ! 
There  is  no  God  but  God !  .  .  Thus  he 

pronounced 
His  ritual  form,  mingling  with  holiest 

truth 
The    audacious    name    accurs'd.     The 

multitude  20 

Made  their  ablutions  in  the  mountain 

stream 
Obedient,  then  their  faces  to  the  earth 
Bent  in  formality  of  easy  prayer 


308       RODERICK,   THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


An  arrow's  flight  above  that  moun- 
tain stream 
There  waa  a  little  glade,  where  under- 
neath 
A  long  smooth  mossy  stone  a  fountain 

rose. 
An  oak  grew  near,  and  with  its  ample 

bouglis 
O'ercanopied   the   spring ;     its   fretted 

roots 
Emboss' d  the  bank,  and  on  their  tufted 

bark 
Grew  plants  which  love  the  moisture  and 

the  shade ;  30 

Short  ferns,  and  longer  leaves  of  wrin- 
kled green 
Which    bent    toward    the    spring,    and 

when  the  wind 
Made  itself  felt,  just  touch' d  with  gentle 

dip 
The   glassy   surface,    ruffled   ne'er   but 

then. 
Save  when  a  bubble  rising  from  the  depth 
Burst,  and  with  faintest  circles  mark'd 

its  place. 
Or  if  an  insect  skimm'd  it  with  its  wing. 
Or  when  in  heavier  drops  the  gather' d 

rain 
Fell  from  the  oak's  high  bower.     The 

mountain  roe. 
When,  having  drank  there,   he  would 

bound  across,  40 

Drew  up  upon  the  bank  his  meeting  fast. 
And   put   forth   half   his  force.     With 

silent  lapse 
From  thence  through  mossy  banks  the 

water  stole, 
Then  murmuring  hasten' d  to  the  glen 

below. 
Diana  might  have  loved  in  that  sweet 

spot 
To  take  her  noontide  rest ;    and  when 

she  stoopt 
Hot  from  the  chase  to  drink,  well  please^l 

had  seen 


Her    own    bright    crescent,     and    tlie 

brighter  face 
It  crown' d,  reflected  there. 

Beside  that  spring 
Count  Julian's  tent  was  pitch'd  upon 

the  glade  ;  50 

There  his  ablutions  Moor-like   he  per- 
form' d, 
And  Moor-like  knelt  in  prayer,  bowing 

his  head 
Upon  the  mossy  bank.     There  was  a 

sound 
Of  voices  at  the  tent  when  he  arose, 
And  lo !  with  hurried  step  a  woman  came 
Toward  him ;     rightly   then  his   heart 

presaged. 
And  ere  he  could  behold  hercountenance, 
Florinda  knelt,  and  with  uplifted  arms 
Embraced  her  sire.     He  raised  her  from 

the  ground, 
Kiss'd  her,  and  clasp' d  her  to  his  heart, 

and  said,  60 

Thou  hast  not  then  forsaken  me,  my 

child ! 
Howe'er  the  inexorable  will  of  Fate 
May  in  the  world  which  is  to  come, 

divide 
Our  everlasting  destinies,  in  this 
Thou  wilt  not,  0  my  child,  abandon  me  ! 
And  then  with  deep  and  interrupted 

voice, 
Nor  seeking  to  restrain  his  copious  tears. 
My  blessing  be  upon  thy  head,  he  cried, 
A  father's  blessing  !    Though  all  faiths 

were  false. 
It  should  not  lose  its  worth  !  .  .  She 

lock'd  her  hands  70 

Around  his  neck,  and  gazing  in  his  face 
Through  streaming  tears,  exclaim' d,  Oh 

never  more, 
Here  or  hereafter,  never  let  us  part  ! 
And  breathing  then  a  prayer  in  silence 

forth, 
The  name   of   Jesus   trembled   on   her 

tongue. 


XXI.    THE  FOUNTAIN   IN   THE   E0UE8T      :m 


Whom  haat  thou  there  ?  cried  Julian,    And  mitigates  the  griefs  ho  cannot  heal. 


and  drew  back, 
iSooing  that  near  them  stood  a  meagre 

man 
/  In  humble  garb,  who  resteil  with  raised 

hands 
On  a  long  statf,  bending  his  liead  hke 

one 
Who  when  he  hears  the  distant  vcsper- 

bcll,  80 

Halts  by  the  way,  and,  all  unseen  of  men. 
Offers  his  homage  in  the  eye  of  Heaven. 
She  answered,  Let  not  my  dear  father 

frown 
In  anger  on  liis  child !     Thy  messenger 
Told  me  that  I  should  be  restrain' d  no 

more 
From  liberty  of  faith,  which  the  new  law 
Indulged  to  all ;     how  soon  my   hour 

might  come 
I  knew  not,  and  although  that  hour  will 

bring 
Few  terrors,  yet  methinks  I  would  not 

be 
Without  a  Christian  comforter  in  death. 

A  Priest !    exclaimed  the  Count,  and 

drawing  back,  91 

Stoopt  for  his  turban  that  he  might  not 

lack 
Some  outward  symbol  of  apostacy  ; 
For  still  in  war  his  wonted  arms  hewore. 
Nor  for  the  scymitar  had  changed  the 

sword 
Accustomed  to  his  hand.     He  covered 

now 
His  short  grey  hair,  and  under  the  white 

folds 
His  swarthy  brow,  which  gathered  as  he 

rose, 
Darken' d.     Oh  frown  not  thus  !    Flor- 

inda  said, 
A  kind  and  gentle  counsellor  is  this,   100 
One  who  pours  balm  into  a  wounded 

soul, 


I  told  liim  I  had  vow'd  to  pass  my  days 
A   servant  of   the   Lord,   yet   that   my 

heart. 
Hearing  the  message  of  thy  love,   whb 

drawn 
With  powerful  yearnings  back.     Follow 

thy  heart,  .  . 
It  answers  to  the  call  of  duty  here. 
Ho  said,  nor  canst  thou  better  serve  the 

Lord 
Than  at  thy  father's  side. 

Count  Julian's  brow. 
While  thus  she  spake,  insensibly  relax' d. 
A  Priest,  cried  he,  and  thus  with  even 

hand  m 

Weigh  vows  and  natural   duty  in   the 

scale  V 
In  what  old  heresy  hath  he  been  train' d? 
Or  in  what  wilderness  hath  he  escaixd 
The    domineering    Prelate's    fire    and 

sword  ? 
Come   hither,   man,    and   tell   me   who 

thou  art ! 

A   sinner,    Roderick,    drawing   nigh, 

replied ; 
Brought  to  repentance  by  the  grace  of 

God, 
And  trusting  for  forgiveness  through  the 

blood 
Of  Christ  in  humble  hope. 

A  smile  of  scorn  120 
Julian  assumed,   but  merely  from  the 

lips 
It  came  ;    for  he  was  troubled  wliile  he 


On  the  strong  countenance  and  thought- 
ful eye 

Before  him.  A  new  law  hath  been 
proclaim'  d. 

Said  he,  which  overthrows  in  its  career 

The  Christian  altars  of  idolatry. 

What  think'st  thou  of  tlte  Prophet  V  .  . 
Roderick 


310      RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


Made  answer,  I  am  in  the  Moorish  camp, 

And  he  who  asketh  is  a  Musselman. 

How  then  should  I  reply  ?  .  .  Safely, 
rejoin' d  130 

The  renegade,  and  freely  may'st  thou 
speak 

To  all  that  Julian  asks.     Is  not  the  yoke 

Of  Mecca  easy,  and  its  burden  light  ?  .  . 

Spain  hath  not  found  it  so,  the  Goth 
replied, 

And  groaning,  turn'd  away  his  coun- 
tenance. 

Count  Julian  knit  his  brow,  and  stood 

awhile 
Regarding  him  with  meditative  eye 
In  silence.     Thou  art  honest  too  !    he 

cried ; 
Why 'twas  in  quest  of  such  a  man  as  this 
That  the  old  Grecian  search' d  by  lantern 

light  140 

In  open  day  the  city's  crowded  streets. 
So  rare  he  deem'd  the  virtue.  Honesty 
And  sense  of  natural  duty  in  a  Priest ! 
Now  for  a  miracle,  ye  Saints  of  Spain ! 
I  shall  not  pry  too  closely  for  the  wires, 
For,  seeing  what  I  see,  ye  have  me  now 
In  the  believing  mood ! 

O  blessed  Saints, 
Florinda  cried,  'tis  from  the  bitterness. 
Not  from  the  hardness  of  the  heart,  he 

speaks ! 
Hear  him  !    and  in  your  goodness  give 

the  scoff  150 

The  virtue  of  a  prayer  !     So  saying,  she 

raised 
Her  hands  in  fervent  action  clasp' d  to 

Heaven : 
Then  as,  still  clasp' d,  they  fell,  toward 

her  sire 
She    turn'd    her    eyes,    beholding    him 

through  tears. 
The  look,  the  gesture,  and  that  silent  woe. 
Soften' d  her  father's  heart,  which  in  this 

horn- 


Was  open  to  the  influences  of  love. 
Priest,  thy  vocation  were  a  blessed  one, 
Said  Julian,  if  its  mighty  power  were 

used 
To  lessen  human  misery,  not  to  swell  160 
The  mournful  sum,  already  all-too-great. 
If,  as  thy  former  counsel  should  imply. 
Thou  art  not  one  who  would  for  his 

craft's  sake 
Fret  with  corrosives  and  inflame   the 

wound, 
W^hich  the  poor  sufferer  brings  to  thee 

in  trust 
That  thou  with  virtuous  balm  wilt  bind 

it  up,  .  . 
If,  as  I  think,  thou  art  not  one  of  those 
Whose  villainy  makes  honest  men  turn 

Moors, 
Thou  then  wilt  answer  with  unbiass'd 

mind  169 

What  I  shall  ask  thee,  and  exorcise  thus 
The  sick  and  feverish  conscience  of  my 

child. 
From  inbred  phantoms,  fiend-like,  which 


Her  innocent  spirit.  Children  we  are  all 
Of  one  great  Father,  in  whatever  clime 
Nature  or  chance  hath  cast  the  seeds  of 

life. 
All  tongues,  all  colours :    neither  after 

death 
Shall  we  be  sorted  into  languages 
And  tints,  .  .  white,  black,  and  tawny, 

Greek  and  Goth, 
Northmen  and  offspring  of  hot  Africa ; 
The  All-Father,  He  in  whom  we  live  and 

move,  180 

He  the  indifferent  Judge  of  all,  regards 
Nations,  and  hues,  and  dialects  alike ; 
According  to  their  works  shall  they  be 

judged. 
When  even-handed  Justice  in  the  scale 
Their  good  and  evil  weighs.     All  creeds, 

I  ween. 
Agree  in  this,  and  hold  it  orthodox. 


XXI.    THE   FOUNTAIN    IN    THE   EOREtST      311 


Roderick,  perceiving  hero  that  Julian 
paused, 

As  if  he  waited  for  aeknowlodgement 
/  Of  that  plain  truth,  in  motion  of  a^ent 
/  IncUned    liis    brow   complacently,    and 
said,  190 

Even  80 :    What  follows  1  .  .  Tliis,  re- 
sumed the  Count, 

That  creeds  like  colours  being  but  acci- 
dent. 

Are  therefore   in   the   scale   imponder- 
able ;  .  . 

Thou  seest  my  meaning ;  .  .  that  from 
every  faith 

As  every  clime,  there  is  a  way  to  Heaven, 

And  thou  and  I  may  meet  in  Paradise. 

Oh  grant  it,   God !   cried  Roderick, 

fervently, 
-7  And  smote   his   breast.     Oh   grant  it, 

gracious  God  ! 
Through  the  dear  blood  of  Jesus,  grant 

that  he 
And   I    may   meet   before   the   Mercy- 
throne  !  200 
That    were    a    triumph    of    Redeeming 

Love, 
For  which  admiring  Angels  would  renew 
Their  hallelujahs  through  the  choir  of 

Heaven  ! 
Man !    quoth  Count  Julian,  wherefore 

art  thou  moved 
To  this  strange  passion  ?    I  require  of 

thee 
Thy  judgement,  not  thy  prayers  ! 

Be  not  displeased  ! 
In    gentle    voice    subdued    the    Goth 

replies ; 
A  prayer,  from  whatsoever  lips  it  flow, 
By  thine  own  rule  should  find  the  way 

to  Heaven, 
So  that  the  heart  in  its  sincerity  aio 

iStraight   forward   breathe  it   forth.     I, 

like  thyself. 
Am  all  untrain'd  to  subtleties  of  8i)eech, 


Nor  competent  of  this  great  argument 
Thou  openost;  and  i>erhaps  shall  answer 

thee 
Wide  of  the  words,  but  to  the  purport 

home. 
There  are  to  whom  the  light  of  gospel 

truth 
Hath  never  roach' d  ;    of  such  I  needs 

must  deem 
As  of  the  sons  of  men  who  had  their  day 
Before  the  light  was  given.     But,  Count, 

for  those 
Who,  born  amid  the  light,  to  darkness 

turn,  220 

Wilful  in  error,  .  .  I  dare  onl}'  say, 
God  doth  not  leave  the  unhappy  soul 

without 
An  inward  monitor,  and  till  the  grave 
Open,  the  gate  of  mercy  is  not  closed. 

Priest-like  !  the  renegade  replied,  and 

shook 
His  head  in  scorn.     What  is  not  in  the 

craft 
Is  error,  and  for  error  there  shall  be 
No  mercy  found  in  Him  whom  yet  ye 

name 
The  Merciful  ! 

Now  God  forbid,  rejoin' d 
The  fallen  King,  that  one  who  stands  in 

need  230 

Of  mercy  for  his  sins  should  argue  thus 
Of   error !     Thou   hast   said   that   thou 

and  I, 
Thou  dying  in  name  a  Musselman,  and  I 
A  servant  of  the  Cross,   may  meet   in 

Heaven. 
Time  was  when  in  our  fathers'  ways  wc 

walk'd 
Regardlessly     alike;      faith     b*'in^     to 

each,  .  . 
For  so  far  thou  luust  reason'd  rightly.  .  . 

like 
Our  country's  fa.shion  and  our  mother- 
tongue, 


312      RODERICK,  THE   LAST  OF  THE   GOTHS 


Of  mere  iuheritance, . .  no  thing  of  choice    To  send  into  futurity  thy  thoughts  : 


In  judgement  fix"d,  nor  rooted  in  the 

heart.  240 

Me  have  the  arrows  of  calamity 
Sore  stricken ;    sinking  underneath  the 

weight 
Of  sorrow,  yet  more  heavily  oppress' d 
Beneath  the  burthen  of  my  sins,  I  turn'd 
In  that  dread  hour  to  Him  who  from  the 

Cross 
Calls  to  the  heavy-laden.     There  I  found 
Relief  and  comfort ;    there  I  have  my 

hope, 
My  strength  and  my  salvation ;    there, 

the  grave 
Ready  beneath  my  feet,  and  Heaven  in 

view, 
[   to  the  King  of   Terrors  say,   Come, 

Death,  .  .  250 

Come  quickly  !  Thou  too  wert  a  stricken 

deer, 
JuUan, .  .  God  pardon  the  unhappy  hand 
That  wounded  thee  ! .  .  but  whither  didst 

thou  go 
For  heaUng  ?     Thou  hast  turn'd  away 

from  Him, 
Who  saith,  Forgive  as  ye  would  be  for- 
given ; 
And  that  the  Moorish  sword  might  do 

thy  work. 
Received  the  creed  of  Mecca  :  with  what 

fruit 
For  Spain,  let  tell  her  cities  sacked,  her 

sons 
Slaughter' d,  her  daughters  than  thine 

own  dear  child 
More  foully  wrong' d,  more  wretched ! 

For  thyself,  260 

Thou  hast  had  thy  fill  of  vengeance,  and 

perhaps 
The  cup  was  sweet :    but  it  hath  left 

behind 
A  bitter  relish  !   Gladly  would  tby  soul 
Forget  the  past;    as  little  canst  thou 

bear 


And  for  this  Now,  what  is  it,  Count,  but 

fear  .  . 
However  bravely  thou  may'st  bear  thy 

front,  .  . 
Danger,  remorse,  and  stinging  obloquy  '! 
One  only  hope,  one  only  remedy, 
One  only  refuge  yet  remains.  .  .  My  life 
Is  at  thy  mercy.  Count !    Call,  if  thou 

wilt,  271 

Thy  men,  and  to  the  Moors  deliver  me  ! 
Or  strike  thyself !  Death  were  from  any 

hand 
A  welcome  gift ;  from  thine,  and  in  this 

cause, 
A  boon  indeed !    My  latest  words  on 

earth 
Should  tell  thee  that  all  sins  may  be 

effaced, 
Bid  thee  repent,  have  faith,  and  be  for- 
given ! 
Strike,  Juhan,  if  thou  wilt,  and  send  my 

soul 
To  intercede  for  thine,  that  we  may  meet, 
Thou  and  thy  child  and  I,  beyond  the 

grave.  280 

Thus  Roderick  spake,  and  spread  his 

arms  as  if 
He  offer'  d  to  the  sword  his  willing  breast. 
With  looks  of  passionate  persuasion  fix'd 
Upon  the  Count,  who  in  his  first  access 
Of  anger,  seem'd  as  though  he  would 

have  call'd 
His   guards   to   seize   the   Priest.     The 

attitude 
Disarm' d  him,   and  that  fervent   zeal 

sincere, 
And  more  than  both,  the  look  and  voice, 

which  like 
A  mystery  troubled  him.     Floriuda  too 
Hung  on  his  arm  with  both  her  hands, 

and  cried,  290 

0  father,  wrong  him  not !    he  epeaka 

from  God ! 


XXI.    THE   FOUNTAIN   IN   THE   EOUEST       313 


J 


Life  and  salvation  are  upon  his  tongue  ! 
Judge    thou    the    value    of    that    faith 

whereby. 
Reflecting  on  the  past,  I  murmur  not. 
And  to  the  end  of  all  look  on  with  joy 
Of  hope  assured  ! 

Peace,  innocent !   replied 
The  Count,  and  from  her  hold  withdrew 

his  arm. 
Then  with  a  gathered  brow  of  mournful- 

ness 
Rather  than  wrath,  regarding  Roderick, 

said. 
Thou  preachest  that  all  sins  may  be 

effaced :  300 

Is  there  forgiveness,  Christian,  in  thy 

creed 
For  Roderick's  crime  ?  .  .  For  Roderick 

and  for  thee. 
Count  Julian,  said  the  Goth,  and  as  he 

spake 
Trembled   through   every    fibre   of    his 

frame. 
The  gate  of   Heaven  is   open.     Julian 

threw 
His    wrathful    hand    aloft,    and    cried. 

Away  ! 
Earth  could  not  hold  us  both,  nor  can 

one  Heaven 
Contain  my  deadliest  enemy  and  me  ! 

My  father,  say  not  thus  !    Florinda 

cried ; 
I  have  forgiven  him  !    I  have  pray'd  for 

him !  310 

For  him,  for  thee,  and  for  myself  I  pour 
One   constant   prayer   to   Heaven  !     In 

passion  then 
She  knelt,  and  bending  back,  with  arms 

and  face 
Raised  toward  the  sky,  the  supplicant 

exclaim' d. 
Redeemer,  heal  his  heart !    It  is  the  grief 
Which  festers  there  that  hath  bewilder'd 

him! 


Save  liim.  Redeemer !    by  thy  precious 

death 
Save,  save  him,  ()  my  (Jod  !  Tlien  on  her 

fivce 
She  fell,  and  thus  with  bitterness  p\ir- 

sued 
In  silent  tluoes  her  agonizing  prayer.  320 

Afflict  not  thus  thyself,  my  child,  thy 

Count 
Exclaim' d;     O   dearest,   be  thou  com- 
forted ; 
Set  but  thy  heart  at  rest,  I  ask  no  more  ! 
Peace,  dearest,  peace  !  .  .  and  weeping 

as  he  spake, 
He  knelt  to  raise  her.     Roderick  also 

knelt ; 
Be  comforted,  he  cried,  and  rest  in  faith 
That  God  will  hear  thy  prayers  !    they 

must  be  heard. 
He  who  could  doubt  the  worth  of  prayers 

like  thine 
May  doubt  of  all  things !      Sainted  as 

thou  art  329 

In  sufferings  here,  this  miracle  will  be 
Thy  work  and  thy  reward  I 

Then  raising  her, 
They   seated   her    upon   the   fountain's 

brink, 
And  there  beside  her  sate.     The  moon 

had  risen. 
And  that  fair  spring  lay  blacken' d  half 

in  shade. 
Half  like  a  burnish'd  mirror  in  her  light. 
By  that  reflected  light  Count  Julian  saw 
That  Roderick's  face  was  bathed  with 

tears,  and  pale 
As  monumental  marble.    Friend,  said  he, 
Whether  thy  faith  bo  fabulouH,  or  sent 
Indeed  from  Heaven,  its  dearest  gift  to 

man,  34o 

Thy  heart  is  true  :    and  had  tht-  niitrcil 

Priest 
Of  Seville  been  like  thee,  or  had.st  thou 

held 


3U   RODERICK,  THE 
1 


LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS 


The  place  he  fill'd;  .  .  but  this  is  idle 

talk,  .  . 
Things  are  as  they  will  be  ;  and  we,  poor 

slaves. 
Fret  in  the  harness  as  we  may,  must 

drag 
The  Car  of  Destiny  where'er  she  drives, 
Inexorable  and  blind ! 

Oh  wTetched  man  ! 
Cried  Roderick,  if  thou  seekest  to  assuage 
Thy  wounded  spirit  with  that  deadly 

drug, 
Hell's  subtlest  venom  ;    look  to  thine 

own  heart,  350 

Where  thou  hast  Will  and  Conscience 

to  belie 
This  juggling  sophistry,  and  lead  thee 

yet 
Through  penitence  to  Heaven  ! 

Whate'er  it  be 
That  governs  us,  in  mournful  tone  the 

Count 
Replied,  Fate,  Providence,  or  Allah's  will, 
Or  reckless  Fortune,  still  the  effect  the 

same, 
A  world  of  evil  and  of  misery  ! 
Look  where  we  will  we  meet  it ;   where- 

soe'er 
We  go  we  bear  it  with  us.  Here  we  sit 
Upon  the  margin  of  this  peaceful  spring. 
And  oh  !  what  volumes  of  calamity  361 
Would  be  unfolded  here,  if  either  heart 
Laid  open  its  sad  records  !  Tell  me  not 
Of  goodness !    Either  in  some  freak  of 

power 
This  frame  of  things  was  fashion' d,  then 

cast  off 
To  take  its  own  wild  course,  the  sport 

of  chance  ; 
Or  the  bad  Spirit  o'er  the  Good  prevails. 
And  in  the  eternal  conflict  hath  arisen 
Lord  of  the  ascendant ! 

Rightly  would'st  thou  say 
Were  there  no  world  but  this !  the  Goth 

replied.  370 


The  happiest  child  of  earth  that  e'er  was 

mark'  d 
To  be  the  minion  of  prosperity. 
Richest  in  corporal  gifts  and  wealth  of 

mind, 
Honour  and  fame  attending  him  abroad. 
Peace   and  all   dear   domestic  joys   at 

home. 
And  sunshine  till  the  evening  of  his  days 
Closed  in  without  a  cloud,  .  .  even  such 

a  man 
Would  from  the  gloom  and  horror  of  his 

heart 
Confirm  thy  fatal  thought,   were  this 

world  all ! 
Oh !     who    could    bear    the    haunting 

mystery,  380 

If  death  and  retribution  did  not  solve 
The  riddle,  and  to  heavenliest  harmony 
Reduce  the  seeming  chaos  !  .  .  Here  we 

see 
The  water  at  its  well-head ;    clear  it  is. 
Not  more  transpicuous  the  invisible  air  ; 
Pure  as  an  infant's  thoughts  ;   and  here 

to  life 
And  good  directed  all  its  uses  serve. 
The  herb  grows  greener  on  its  brink; 

sweet  flowers 
Bend  o'er  the  stream  that  feeds  their 

freshened  roots ; 
The  red- breast  loves  it  for  his  wintry 

haunts ;  390 

And  when  the  buds  begin  to  open  forth, 
Builds  near  it  with  his  mate  their  brood- 
ing nest ; 
The  thirsty  stag  with  widening  nostrils 

there 
Invigorated  draws  his  copious  draught ; 
And  there  amid  its  flags  the  wild-boar 

stands. 
Nor  suffering  wrong  nor  meditating  hurt. 
Through  woodlands   wild  and  solitary 

fields 
Unsullied  thus  it  holds  its  bounteous 


XXL    THE  FOUNTAIN   IN   THE  FOREST       315 


I 


But  wheQ  it  reaches  the  resorts  of  men, 
The  service  of  the  city  there  detiles  400 
The  tainted  stream  ;    corrupt  and  foul 

it  flows 
Through  loathsome  banks  and  o'er  a  bed 

impure, 
Till  in  the  sea,  the  appointed  end  to 

which 
Through   all   ita    way    it    hastens,    'tis 

received. 
And,  losing  all  jwllution,  mingles  there 
In  the  wide  world  of  waters.     80  is  it 
With  the  great  stream  of  things,  if  all 

were  seen ; 
Good  the  beginning,  good  the  end  shall 

be, 
And  transitory  evil  only  make 
The  good  end  happier.     Ages  pass  away, 
Thrones  fall,  and  nations  disappear,  and 

worlds  4" 

Grow  old  and  go  to  wreck ;    the  soul 

alone 
Endures,  and  what  she  chuseth  for  her- 
self, 
The  arbiter  of  her  own  destiny. 
That  only  shall  be  permanent. 

But  guilt. 
And  all  our  suflering  ?    said  the  Count. 

The  Goth 
Replied,  Reix?ntance  taketh  sin  away, 
Death  remedies  the  rest.  .  .  Soothed  by 

the  strain 
Of  such  discourse,  Julian  was  silent  then. 
And  sate  contemplating.     Florinda  too 
Was  calm'd  :   If  sore  experience  may  be 

thought  421 

To  teach  the  uses  of  adversity. 
She  said,  alas !  who  better  learn'd  than  I 
In  that   sad   school !     Methinks   if   ye 

would  know 
How  visitations  of  calamity 
Affect   the   pious   soul,   'tis   whown   ye 

there  ! 
Look  yonder  at  that  cloud,  wliitli  through 

the  sky 


Sailing  alone,  doth  cross  in  her  career 
The  rolling  Moon  !    I  watch' d  it  as  it 

came. 
And  deem'd  the  deep  opake  would  blot 

her  beams  ;  430 

But,  melting  like  a  wreath  of  snow,  it 

hangs 
In    folds    of    wavy    silver    round,    and 

clothes 
The  orb  with  richer  beauties  than  her 

own, 
Then  passing,   leaves  her  in  her  light 

serene. 

Thus  having  said,  the  pious  sufferer 

sate. 
Beholding  with  fix'd  eyes   that  lovely 

orb. 
Till  quiet  tears  confused  in  dizzy  light 
The  broken  moonbeams.     They  too  by 

the  toil 
Of  spirit,  as  by  travail  of  the  day 
Subdued,   were  silent,   yielding  to  the 

hour.  440 

The  silver  cloud  diffusing  slowly  pass'd, 
And  now  into  its  airy  elements 
Resolved  is  gone ;    while  through  the 

azure  depth 
Alone  in  heaven  the  glorious  Moon  pur- 
sues 
Her  course  appointed,  with  indifferent 

beams 
Shining  upon  the  silent  hills  around, 
And  the  dark  tents  of  that  unholy  host. 
Who,  all  unconscious  of  impending  fate, 
Take    their    last    slumber    there.     The 

camp  is  still ; 
The  fires  have  moulder'd,  anil  the  breeze 

which  stirs  45° 

The  soft  and  snowy  euibrrs,  just    lays 

bare 
At  times  a  red  and  evau»'sient  light, 
Or  for  a  moment  wakes  a  feeble  flame. 
They  by  the  fountain  hear  the  stream 

below, 


316      RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF  THE   GOTHS 


Whose  murmurs,  as  the  wind  arose  or 

fell, 
Fuller  or  fainter  reach  the  ear  attuned. 
And  now  the  nightingale,  not  distant  far, 
Began  her  solitary  song ;    and  pour'd 
To   the   cold   moon   a  richer,   stronger 

strain 
Than  that   with   which  the  lyric  lark 

salutes  460 

The    new-born    day.     Her    deep    and 

thrilling  song 
Seem'  d  with  its  piercing  melody  to  reach 
The  soul,  and  in  mysterious  unison 
Blend  with  all  thoughts  of  gentleness 

and  love. 
Their  hearts  were  open  to  the  heaUng 

power 
Of  nature  ;    and  the  splendour  of  the 

night, 
The  flow  of  waters,  and  that  sweetest  lay 
Came  to  them  like  a  copious  evening 

dew 
Falling  on  vernal  herbs  which  thirst  for 

rain. 


XXII.   THE  MOORISH  COUNCIL 

Thus  they  beside  the  fountain  sate,  of 

food 
And  rest  forgetful,  when  a  messenger 
Summon' d  Count  Juhan  to  the  Leader's 

tent. 
In  council  there  at  that  late  hour  he 

found 
The  assembled  Chiefs,  on  sudden  tidings 

call'd 
Of  unexpected  weight  from  Cordoba. 
Jealous  that  Abdalaziz  had  assumed 
A  regal  state,  affecting  in  his  court 
The  forms  of  Gothic  sovereignty,  the 

Moors, 
Whom  artful  spirits  of  ambitious  mould 
Stirr'd   up,    had   risen  against   him   in 

revolt :  n 


And  he  who  late  had  in  the  Caliph's 

name 
Ruled  from  the  Ocean  to  the  Pyrenees, 
A  mutilate  and  headless  carcass  now, 
From  pitying  hands  received  beside  the 

road 
A  hasty  grave,  scarce  hidden  there  from 

dogs 
And    ravens,    nor    from    wintry    rains 

secure. 
She,   too,   who  in  the  wreck  of  Spain 

preserved 
Her  queenly  rank,  the  wife  of  Roderick 

first. 
Of  Abdalaziz  after,  and  to  both  20 

Alike  unhappy,  shared  the  ruin  now 
Her  counsels  had  brought  on ;    for  she 

had  led 
The     infatuate     Moor,     in     dangerous 

vauntery, 
To  these  aspiring  forms,  .  .  so  should  he 

gain 
Respect  and  honour  from  theMusselmen, 
She  said,  and  that  the  obedience  of  the 

Goths 
Follow' d  the  sceptre.     In  an  evil  horn- 
She  gave  the  counsel,  and  in  evil  hour 
He  lent  a  willing  ear  ;   the  popular  rage 
Fell  on  them  both ;    and  they  to  whom 

her  name  30 

Had   been   a   mark   for   mockery    and 

reproach, 
Shudder' d  with  human  horror  at  her 

fate. 
Ayub  was  heading  the  wild  anarchy; 
But  where  the  cement  of  authority 
Is  wanting,  all  things  there  are  dislocate: 
The  mutinous  soldiery,  by  every  cry 
Of    rumour    set    in    \\'ild    career,    were 

driven 
By  every  gust  of  passion,  setting  up 
One  hour,  what  in  the  impulse  of  the 

next, 
Equally   unreasoning,    they   destroy'd : 

thus  all  40 


XXII.    THE   MOORISH   COUNCIL 


:U7 


Was  in  misrule  where  uproar  gave  the 

law. 
And  ere  from  far  Damascus  lliey  could 

learn 
The  Caliph's   pleasure,    many   n   moon 

raust  pass. 
What  should  be  done  ?   should  Abulca- 

cem  march 
To  Cordoba,  and  in  the  Caliph's  name 
Assume  the  power  which  to  his  rank  in 

arms 
Rightly   devolved,    restoring   thus   the 

reign 
Of  order  ?  or  pursue  with  quicken' d  speed 
The  end  of  this  great  armament,  and 

crush 
Rebellion  first,  then  to  domestic  ills    50 
Apply  bis  undivided  mind  and  force 
Victorious  ?   What  in  this  emergency 
Was  Julian's  counsel,  Abulcacem  ask'd. 
Should  they  accomplish  soon  their  enter- 
prize  ? 
Or  would  the  insurgent  infidels  prolong 
The  contest,  seeking  by  protracted  war 
To   weary  them,   and  trusting  in  the 

strength 
Of  these  wild  hills  ? 

Julian  replied.  The  Chief 
Of  this  revolt  is  wary,  resolute. 
Of  approved  worth  in  war  :   a  desperate 

part  60 

He  for  himself  deliberately  hath  chosen, 
Confiding  in  the  hereditary  love 
Borne  to  him   by  these  hardy   moun- 
taineers, 
A  love  which  his  own  noble  qualities 
Have  strengthen' d  so  that  every  heart 

is  his. 
When  ye  can  bring  them  to  the  open 

proof 
Of  battle,  ye  will  find  them  in  his  cause 
Lavish  of  life  ;    but  well  they  know  the 

strength 
Of  their  own  fastnesses,  the  mountain 

pat  hs 


Impervious  to  pursuit,  the  vantages    70 
Of  rock,  and  pass,  and  woodland,  and 

ravine  ; 
And  hardly  will  yo  tempt  them  to  forego 
These   natural   aids   wherein   they   i)ut 

their  trust 
As  in  their  stubborn  spirit,  each  alike 
Deom'd  by  tiicmselves  invincible,  and  so 
By  Roman  found  and  Goth  .  .  beneath 

whose  sway 
Slowly  persuaded  rather  than  subdued 
They    came,    and    still    through    every 

change  retain' d 
Tlieir  manners  obstinate  and  barbarous 

speech. 
My  counsel,  therefore,  is,  that  we  secure 
With  strong  increase  of  force  the  adja- 
cent posts,  81 
And    cliiefly    Gegio,    leaving    them    so 

mann'd 
As  may  abate  the  hope  of  enterprize 
Their  strength  being  told.     Time  in  a 

strife  like  this 
Becomes  the  ally  of  those  who  trust  in 

him  : 
Make  then  with  Time  your  covenant. 

Old  feuds 
May  disunite  the  chiefs :    some  may  be 

gain'd 
By  fair  entreaty,  others  by  the  stroke 
Of  nature,  or  of  policy,  cut  oflf. 
This  was  the  counsel  which  in  Cordoba 
I  offer' d  Abdalaziz  :  in  ill  hour  91 

Rejecting  it,  he  sent  upon  this  war 
His  father's  faithful  friend  !    Dark  are 

the  ways 
Of  destiny  !   had  I  been  at  his  side 
Old  Muza  would  not  now  have  mourn'd 

his  age 
Left  childless,  nor  had  Ayub  dared  defy 
The   Caliph's  represented   power.     The 

case 
Calls  for  thine  instant   presence,   with 

the  weight 
Of  thv  legitimate  authority. 


318       RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


Julian,    said    Orpas,    turning    from 

beneath  loo 

Hi3  turban  to  the  Count  a  crafty  eye, 
Thy  daughter  is  return 'd  ;   doth  she  not 

bring 
Some  tidings  of  the  movements  of  the 

foe  ? 
The    Count   replied,  When    child   and 

parent  meet 
First  reconciled  from  discontents  which 

wrung 
The  hearts  of  both,  ill  should  their  con- 
verse be 
Of  warlike  matters  !    There  hath  been 

no  time 
For  such  inquiries,  neither  should  I  think 
To   ask   her   touching   that   for   which 

I  know  109 

She  hath  neither  eye  nor  thought. 

There  was  a  time, 
Orpas  with  smile  malignant  thus  replied. 
When  in  the  progress  of  the  Caliph's 

arms 
Count  Julian's  daughter  had  an  interest 
Which   touch' d   her   nearly  !     But   her 

turn  is  served. 
And  hatred  of  Prince  Orpas  may  beget 
Indifference  to  the  cause.     Yet  Destiny 
Still  guideth  to  the  service  of  the  faith 
The  wayward  heart  of  woman ;    for  as 

one 
Delivered    Roderick    to    the    avenging 

sword, 
So  hath  another  at  this  hour  betray'd 
Pelayo  to  his  fall.     His  sister  came     121 
At  nightfall  to  my  tent  a  fugitive. 
She    tells    me    that    on    learning    our 

approach 
The  rebel  to  a  cavern  in  the  hills 
Had  sent  his  wife  and  children,  and  with 

them 
Those  of  his  followers,  thinking  there 

conceal' d 
They  might  be  safe.     She,  moved,  by 

injuries 


Which  stung   her   spirit,    on   the   way 
escaped. 

And    for    revenge    will    guide    us.     In 
reward 

She  asks  her  brother's  forfeiture  of  lands 

In   marriage    with   Numacian :     some- 
thing too  131 

Touching  his  life,  that  for  her  services 

It  might  be  spared,  she  said ; . .  an  after- 
thought 

To  salve  decorum,  and  if  conscience  wake 

Serve  as  a  sop:  but  when  the  sword  shall 
smite 

Pelayo  and  his  dangerous  race,  I  ween 

That  a  thin  kerchief  will  dry  all  the  tears 

The  Lady  Guisla  sheds  ! 

'Tis  the  old  taint  I 

Said    Julian    mournfully ;      from    her 
mother's  womb 

She    brought    the    inbred    wickedness 
which  now  140 

In   ripe   infection    blossoms.     Woman, 
woman. 

Still  to  the  Goths  art  thou  the  instru- 
ment 

Of  overthrow  ;   thy  virtue  and  thy  vice 

Fatal  aUke  to  them  ! 

Say  rather,  cried 

The  insidious  renegade,  that  Allah  thus 

By  woman  punisheth  the  idolatry 

Of  those  who  raise  a  woman  to  the  rank 

Of  godhead,  calling  on  their  Mary's  name 

With  senseless  prayers.     In  vain  shall 
they  invoke 

Her   trusted   succour   now !     like   silly 
birds  150 

By  fear  betray'd,  they  fly  into  the  toils  ; 

And  this  Pelayo,  who  in  lengthen' d  war 

Baffling  our  force,  has  thought  perhaps 
to  reign 

Prince  of  the  Mountains,  when  we  hold 
his  wife 

And  offspring  at  our  mercy,  must  him- 
self 

Come  to  the  lure, 


XXII.    THE   MOORISH   COUNCIL 


319 


Enough,  the  Leader  said  J 
This  unexpected  work  of  favouring  Fate 
Opens  an  easy  way  to  our  desires, 
And   renders   farther   counsel   needless 

now. 
Great  is  the  Prophet  whose  protecting 

power  i6o 

Goes  with  the  faithful  forth  !  the  rebels' 

days 
Are   nuraber'd;     Allah    hath   deliver'd 

them 
Into  our  hands  ! 

So  saying  he  arose  ; 
The     Chiefs     withdrew,     Orpas     alone 

remain' d 
Obedient  to  his  indicated  will. 
The  event,   said  Abulcacem,   hath  ap- 
proved 
i  Thy    judgement    in    all    points ;      his 

daughter  comes 
At   the   first   summons,    even   as   thou 

saidst ; 
Her  errand  with  the  insurgents  done, 

she  brings 
Their    well-concerted    project    back,    a 

safe  170 

And    unexpected    messenger ;   .    .    the 

Moor,  .  . 
The  shallow  ^loor,  .  .  must  see  and  not 

perceive ; 
Must   hear  and  understand   not ;    yea 

must  bear, 
Poor  easy  fool,  to  serve  their  after  mirth, 
A  part  in  his  own  undoing !    But  just 

Heaven 
With    this    unlook'd-for    incident    hath 

marr'd 
Their  complots,  and  the  sword  shall  cut 

this  web 
Of  treason. 

Well,  the  renegade  replied. 
Thou    knowest    Count    Julian's    spirit, 

quick  in  wiles. 
In    act    audacious.     Baffled    now,    he 

thinks  180 


Either  by  instant  warning  to  apprize 
The  rebels  of  their  danger,  or  preserve 
The  hostages  when  fallen  into  our  power. 
Till  secret  craft  contrive,  or  open  force 
Win  their  enlargement.     Haply  too  ho 

dreams 
Of  Cordoba,  the  avenger  and  the  friend 
Of  Abdalaziz,  in  that  cause  to  arm 
Moor  against  Moor,  preparing  for  him- 
self 
The    victory    o'er    the    enfeebled    con- 
querors. 
Success  in  treason  hath  embolden' d  him. 
And   power   but   serves   him   for  fresh 
treachery,  false  191 

To  Roderick  first,  and  to  the  Caliph  now. 

The  guilt,   said  Abulcacem,   is   con- 
firm'd. 
The  sentence  pass'd ;    all  that  is  now      /- 

required 
Is  to  strike  sure  and  safely.     He  hath 

with  him 
A  veteran  force  devoted  to  his  will. 
Whom  to  provoke  were  perilous ;    nor 

less 
Of  peril  lies  there  in  delay  :   what  course 
Between  these  equal  dangers  should  we 
steer  ? 

They  have  been  train' d  beneath  him 

in  the  wars  200 

Of  Africa,  the  renegade  replied  ; 
Men  are  they  who,  from  their  youth  up, 

have  found 
Their  occupation  and  their  joy  in  arms  ; 
Indifferent  to  the  cause  for  which  they 

fight. 
But  faithful  to  their  leader,  who  hath 

won 
By  licence  largely  given,  yet  temper'd 

still 
With  exercise  of  firm  authority. 
Their   whole   devotion.     Vainly  should 

we  seek 


320       RODERICK,   THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


By  proof  of  Julian's  guilt  to  pacify 

Such    martial    spirits,    unto    whom    all 
creeds  210 

And  countries  are  alike  ;   but  take  away 

The  head,  and  forthwith  their  fidelity 

Goes  at  the  market  price.     The  act  must 
be 

Sudden  and  secret ;    poison  is  too  slow. 

Thus  it  may  best  be  done  ;    the  Moun- 
taineers, 

Doubtless,  ere  long  will  rouse  us  with 
some  spur 

Of  sudden  enterprize :    at  such  a  time 

A  trusty  minister  approaching  him 

May  smite  him,  so  that  all  shall  think 
the  spear 

Comes  from  the  hostile  troops. 

Right  counsellor  ! 

Cried  Abulcacem,  thou  shalt  have  his 
lands,  221 

The  proper  meed  of  thy  fidelity : 

His  daughter  thou  may'st  take  or  leave. 
Go  now 

And  find  a  faithful  instrument  to  put 

Our  purpose  in  effect  !  .  .  And  when  'tis 
done, 

The  Moor,  as  Orpas  from  the  tent  with- 
drew, 

Muttering  pursued,  .   .  look  for  a  like 
reward 

Thyself !    that  restless  head  of  wicked- 
ness 

In  the  grave   will   brood  no  treasons. 
Other  babes 

Scream  when  the  Devil,  as  they  spring 
to  life,  230 

Infects  them  with  his  touch  ;    but  thou 
didst  stretch 

Thine    arms    to    meet    him,    and    like 
mother's  milk 

Suck   the   congenial  evil  !      Thou  hast 
tried 

Both  laws,  and  were  there  aught  to  gain, 
would  St  prove 

A  third  as  readilv  ;    but  when  tliv  sins 


Are     weigh' d,    'twill     be     against     an 

empty  scale. 
And    neither    Prophet    will    avail    thee 

then  ! 


XXIII.    THE   VALE   OF 
COVADONGA 

The  camp  is  stirring,  and  ere  day  hath 

dawn'd 
The  tents  are  struck.     Early  they  rise 

whom  hope 
Awakens,    and    they    travel    fast    with 

whom 
She  goes  companion  of  the  way.     By 

noon 
Hath  Abulcacem  in  his  speed  attain'd 
The  vale  of  Cangas.     Well  the  trusty 

scouts 
Observe  his  march,  and  fleet  as  moun- 
tain roes, 
From  post  to  post  with  instantaneous 

speed 
The  warning  bear  :    none  else  is  nigh  ; 

the  vale 
Hath  been  deserted,  and  Pelayo'  s  hall    10 
Is  open  to  the  foe,  who  on  the  tower 
Hoist  their  white  signal-flag.     In  Sella's 

stream 
The  misbelieving  multitudes  perform. 
With  hot  and  hasty  hand,  their  noon- 
!  tide  rite, 

I  Then  hurryingly  repeat  the  Impostor's 

prayer. 
'  Here  they  divide ;    the  Chieftain  halts 
I  \nth  half 

The  host,  retaining  Julian  and  his  men, 
Whom  where  the  valley  widen'd  he  dis- 
posed, 
Liable  to  first  attack,  that  so  the  deed 
Of  murder  plann'd  with  Orpas  might  be 
done.  20 

The  other  force  the  Moor  Alcahman  led 
Whom  Guisla  guided  up  Pionia's  stream 


XXIII.    THE   VALE   OF   COVADONGA 


321 


Eastward  to  Soto.     Ibrahim  went  with 
him, 

Proud  of  Granada's  snowy  heights  sub- 
dued. 

And  boasting  of  his  skill  in  mountain 
war ; 

Yet  sure  ho  deem'd  an  easier  victory 

Awaited  him  this  day.     Little,   quoth 
he. 

Weens  the  vain  Mountaineer  who  puts 
his  trust 

In  dens  and  rocky  fastnesses,  how  close 

Destruction    is    at    hand !     Belike    he 
tliinkg  30 

The  Humma's  happy  wings  have  sha- 
dow'd  him, 

And  therefore  Fate  with  royalty  must 
crown 

His  chosen  head  !     Pity  the  scymitar 

With  its  rude  edge  so  soon  should  inter- 
rupt 

The  pleasant  dream  ! 

There  can  be  no  escape 

For  those  who  in  the  cave  seek  shelter, 
cried 

Alcahman ;    yield  they  must,  or  from 
their  holes 

Like  bees  we  smoke  them   out.     The 
Chief  perhaps 

May  reign  awhile  King  of  the  wolves  and 
bears, 

Till  his  own  subjects  hunt  him  down,  or 
kites  40 

And  crows  divide  what  hunger  may  have 
left 

Upon  his  ghastly  limbs.     Happier  for 
him 

That   destiny  should  this  day   to  our 
hands 

Deliver  him  ;   short  would  be  liis  suffer- 
ings then ; 

And  we  right  joyfully  should  in  one  hour 

Behold  our  work  accomplish' d,  and  his 
race 

Extinct. 


Thus  these  in  mockery  and  in 

thoughts 
Of  bloody  triumph,  to  the  future  blind, 
Indulged  the  scornful  vein  ;   nor  dccm'd 

that  they 
Whom  to  the  sword's  unsparing  edge 

they  doom'd,  50 

Even  then  in  joyful  expectation  pray'd 
To  Heaven  for  their  approach,  and  at 

their  post 
Prepared,   were  trembling  with  excess 

of  hope. 
Here    in    these    mountain    straits    the 

Mountaineer 
Had  felt  his  country's  strength  insuper. 

able ; 
Here  he  had  pray'd  to  see  the  Mussel  man 
With  all  his  myriads ;   therefore  had  he 

look'd 
To  Covadonga  as  a  sanctuary 
Apt  for  concealment,  easy  of  defence  ; 
And  Guisla's  flight,  though  to  his  heart 

it  sent  60 

A  pang  more  poignant  for  their  mother's 

sake, 
Yet  did  it  further  in  its  consequence 
His  hope  and  project,  surer  than  decoy 
Well-laid,  or  best-concerted  stratagem. 
That  sullen  and  revengeful   mind,   he 

knew, 
Would  follow  to  the  extremity  of  guilt 
Its  long  fore-purposed  shame  :   the  toils 

were  laid. 
And  she  who  by  the  Musselmen  full  sure 
Thought  on  her  kindred  her  revenge  to 

wreak. 
Led  the  Moors  in. 

Count  Pedro  and  his  son 
Were  hovering  with  the  main  Asturian 

force  11 

In  the   wider  vale   to   watch   occasion 

there. 
And   with  hot  onset   when  the  alarm 

began 
Pursue  the  vantage.     In  the  fated  straits 


322      RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


Of  Deva  had  the  King  disposed  the  rest : 
Amid  the  hanging  woods,  and  on  the 

cUffs, 
A  long  mile's  length  on  either  side  its  bed, 
They  lay.     The  lever  and  the  axe  and 

saw 
Had  skilfully  been  plied  ;  and  trees  and 

stones, 
A  dread  artillery,  ranged  on  crag  and 

shelf  80 

And  steep  descent,  were  ready  at  the 

word 
Precipitate  to  roll  resistless  down. 
The  faithful  maiden  not  more  wistfully 
Looks  for  the  day  that  brings  her  lover 

home ;  .  . 
Scarce  more  impatiently  the  horse  en- 
dures 
The    rein,    when   loud    and   shrill    the 

hunter's  horn 
Rings  in  his  joyous  ears,  than  at  their 

post 
The  Mountaineers  await  their  certain 

prey; 
Yet  mindful  of  their  Prince's  order,  oft 
And  solemnly  enforced,  with  eagerness 
Subdued  by  minds  well-master' d,  they 

expect  91 

The  appointed  signal. 

Hand  must  not  be  raised, 
Foot  stirr'd,  nor  voice  be  utter' d,  said 

the  Chief, 
Till  the  word  pass :    impatience  would 

mar  all. 
God  hath  deliver'd  over  to  your  hands 
His  enemies  and  ours,  so  we  but  use 
The  occasion  wisely.     Not  till  the  word 

pass 
From  man  to  man  transmitted,  '  In  the 

name 
Of  God,  for  Spain  and  Vengeance  ! '  let 

a  hand 
Be  lifted  ;  on  obedience  all  depends,  100 
Their  march  below  with  noise  of  horse 

and  foot 


And  haply  with  the  clang  of  instruments, 
Might   drown  all   other  signal,  this  is 

sure; 
But  wait  it  calmly  ;  it  will  not  be  given 
Till  the  whole  line  hath  enter' d  in  the 

toils. 
Comrades,    be    patient,    so   shall    none 

escape 
Who  once  set  foot  within  these  straits  of 

death. 
Thus  had  Pelayo  on  the  Mountaineers 
With  frequent  and  impressive  charge 

enforced 
The  needful  exhortation.     This  alone 
He  doubted,  that  the  Musselmen  might 

see  III 

The  perils  of  the  vale,  and  warily 
Forbear  to  enter.     But  they  thought  to 

find. 
As  Guisla  told,  the  main  Asturian  force 
Seeking  concealment  there,  no  other  aid 
Soliciting  from  these  their  native  hills  ; 
And  that  the  babes  and  women  having 

fallen 
In    thraldom,    they   would    lay    their 

weapons  down, 
And    supplicate  forgiveness   for   their 

sake. 
Nor  did  the  Moors  perceive  in  what  a 

strait  120 

They  enter' d;    for  the  morn  had  risen 

o'ercast, 
And   when   the   Sun   had  reach' d   the 

height  of  heaven. 
Dimly  his  pale  and  beamless  orb  was 

seen 
Moving    through    mist.     A    soft    and 

gentle  rain, 
Scarce  heavier  than  the  summer's  even- 
ing dew. 
Descended,  .  .  through  so  still  an  atmo- 
sphere, 
That  every  leaf  upon  the  moveless  trees 
Was    studded    o'er    with    rain-drops, 

bright  and  full, 


XXIII.    THE   VALE   OF   COVADONGA 


323 


None  falling  till   from  its  own  weight 

o'erswoln  129 

The  motion  came. 

Low  on  tho  mountain  side 
The  tleecj'  vapour  hunsj,  and  in  its  veil 
With    all    their    dreadful    preparations 

wrapt 
The  Mountaineers  ;  .  .  in  breathless  hope 

they  lay. 
Some  blessing  God  in  silence  for  the 

power 
This    day    vouchsafed ;     others    with 

fervency 
Of  prayer  and  vow  invoked  the  Mother- 

.Maid, 
Beseeching   her  that  in  this  favouring 

hour 
She  would  be  strongly  v^ith  them.  From 

below 
Meantime  distinct  they  heard  the  pass- 
ing tramp 
Of  horse  and  foot,  continuous  as  the 

sound  140 

Of  Deva' 8  stream,  and  barbarous  tongues 

commixt 
With     laughter,     and     with     frequent 

shouts,  .  .  for  all 
Exultant  came,  expecting  sure  success  ; 
Blind    wretches    over    whom    the    ruin 

hung  ! 

They  say,  quoth  one,  that  though  the 

Prophet's  soul 
Doth  with  the  black-eyed  Houris  bathe 

in  bliss, 
Life  hath  not  left  his  body,  which  bears 

up 
By  its  miraculous  power  the  holy  tomb, 
And  holds  it  at  Medina  in  the  air 
Buoyant  between  the  temple's  floor  and 

roof :  150 

And  there  the  Angels  fly  to  him  with 

news 
From  East,  West,  North,  and  South,  of 

what  befalls 


His  faithful  people.     If  when  he  shall 

hear 
The  tale  of  this  day's  work,  ho  should 

for  joy 
Forget     that    ho    is    dead,    and    walk 

abroad,  .  . 
It  were  as  good  a  miracle  as  when 
He  sliced  the  moon  !      Sir  Angel   hear 

me  now, 
W^hoe'er  thou  be'st  who  are  about  to 

speed 
From  Spain  to  Araby  !   when  thou  ha.«t 

got 
The  Prophet's  ear,  be  sure  thou  tellest 

him  160 

How  bravely  Ghauleb  did  his  part  to- 
day, 
And   with   what   special   reverence    he 

alone 
Desired  thee  to  commend  him  to  his 

grace !  .  . 
Fie    on   thee,    scoffer   that    thou    art ! 

replied 
His  comrade ;    thou  wilt  never  leave 

these  gibes 
Till  some  commission' d  arrow  through 

the  teeth 
Shall  nail  the  offending  tongue.     Hast 

thou  not  heard 
How  when  our  clay  is  leaven'd  first  with 

life. 
The  ministering  Angel  brings  it  from 

that  spot 
W^hereon  'tis  written  in  the  eternal  book 
That  soul  and  body  must  their  parting 

take,  171 

And    earth    to    earth    return  ?     How 

knowest  thou 
But  that  the  Spirit  who  compounded 

thee. 
To  distant  Syria  from  this  very  vale 
Bore  thy  component  dust,  and  Azrael 

here 
Awaits  thee  at  this  hour  ?   .   .   Little 

thought  ho 


324      EODERICK,  THE   LAST    OF   THE   GOTHS 


Who  spake,  that  in  that  valley  at  that 

hour 
One  death  awaited  both  ! 

Thus  they  pursued 
Toward    the    cavo    their    inauspicious 

way. 
Weak  childhood  there  and  ineffective 
age  1 80 

In  the  chambers  of  the  rock  were  placed 

secure ; 
But  of  the  women,  all  whom  with  the 

babes 
Maternal  care  detain' d  not,  were  aloft 
To  aid  in  the  destruction  ;   by  the  side 
Of    fathers,    brethren,    husbands,    sta- 
tion'd  there, 
They  watch  and  pray.     Pelayo  in  the 

cave 
With  the  venerable  Primate  took  his 

post. 
Ranged  on   the  rising  cliffs  on  either 

hand, 
Vi^lant  sentinels  with  eye  intent 
Observe  his  movements,  when  to  take 
the  word  190 

And  pass  it  forward.     He  in  arms  com- 
plete 
Stands  in  the  portal :   a  stern  majesty 
Reign' d  in  his  countenance  severe  that 

hour. 
And  in  his  eye  a  deep  and  dreadful  joy 
Shone,   as  advancing  up   the   vale   he 

saw 
The  Moorish  banners.  God  hath  blinded 

them  ! 
He  said  ;   the  measure  of  their  crimes  is 

full ! 
0  Vale  of  Deva,  famous  shalt  thou  be 
From  this  day  forth  for  ever ;    and  to 

these 
Thy  springs  shall  unborn  generations 
come  200 

In  pilgrimage,   and  hallow   with  their 

prayers 
The  cradle  of  their  native  monarchy ! 


There  was  a  stirring  in  the  air,  the  sun 
Prevail' d,  and  gradually  the  brightening 

mist 
Began  to   rise   and   melt.      A  jutting 

crag 
Upon    the    right    projected    o'er    the 

stream. 
Not  farther  from  the  cave  than  a  strong 

hand 
Expert,  with  deadly  aim,  might  cast  the 

spear. 
Or  a  strong  voice,  pitch' d  to  full  com- 

pass,  make 
Its  clear  articulation  heard  distinct.   210 
A  venturous  dalesman,  once  ascending 

there 
To  rob  the  eagle's  nest,  had  fallen,  and 

hung 
Among  the  heather,   wondrously  pre- 
served : 
Therefore  had  he  with  pious  gratitude 
Placed    on   that    overhanging   brow    a 

Cross, 
Tall  as  the  mast  of  some  light  fisher's 

skiff, 
And  from  the  vale  conspicuous.     As  the 

Moors 
Advanced,  the  Chieftain  in  the  van  was 

seen, 
Known  by  his  arms,  and  from  the  crag 

a  voice 
Pronounced  his  name,  .  .  Alcahman  ! 

hoa,  look  up,  220 

Alcahman  !    As  the  floating  mist  drew 

up, 
It  had  divided  there,  and  open'd  round 
The   Cross ;    part  clinging  to  the  rock 

beneath. 
Hovering   and   waving   part   in   fleecy 

folds, 
A  canopy  of  silver  light  condensed 
To  shape  and  substance.     In  the  midst 

there  stood 
A  female  form,   one   hand   upon   the 

Cross, 


XXIII.    THE   VALE   OF  COVADONGA 


325 


1 


The  other  raised  in  menacing  act ;  below 
Loose    tiow'd    her    raiment,    but    her 

breast  was  arm'd, 
And    helmeted    her    head.     Tlie    Moor 

turn'd  pale,  230 

For  on  the  walls  of  Auria  he  had  seen 
That   well-known  tigui-e,  and  had  well 

beUcved 
She  rested  with  the  dead.     What,  hoa  ! 

she  cried, 
Alcahman  !   In  the  name  of  all  who  fell 
At  Auria  in  the  massacre,  this  hour 
I  summon   thee    before   the  throne  of 

God 
To  answer  for  the  innocent  blood  !  This 

hour. 
Moor,    Miscreant,    Murderer,    Child    of 

Hell,  this  hour 
I  summon  thee  to  judgement ! .  .  In  the 

name 
Of  God !  for  Spain  and  Vengeance ! 

Thus  she  closed 
Her  speech ;    for  taking  from  the  Pri- 
mate's hand  241 
That  oaken  cross  which  at  the  sacring 

rites 
Had  served  for  crosier,  at  the  cavern's 

mouth 
Pelayo  lifted  it  and  gave  the  word. 
From  voice  to  voice  on  either  side  it 

pass'  d 
With  rapid  repetition,  .  .  In  the  name 
Of  God  !    for  Spain  and  Vengeance  ! 

and  forthwith 
On  either  side  along  the  whole  defile 
The  Asturians  shouting  in  the  name  of 

God, 
Set  the  whole  ruin  loose !    huge  trunks 

and  stones,  250 

And  loosen' d  crags,   down  down  they 

roU'd  with  rush 
And  bound,  and  thundering  force.    Such 

was  the  fall 
As   when  some  city   by   the  labouring 

earth 


Heaved  from  its  strong  foundations  ia 

cast  down, 
And    all    its    dwellings,    towers,    and 

palaces, 
In  one  wide  desolation  prostrated. 
From  end  to  end  of  that  long  strait,  the 

crash 
Was   heard   continuous,    and   commixt 

with  sounds 
More  dreadful,   shrieks  of   horror   and 

despair. 
And  death,  .  .  the  wild  and  agonizing 

cry  260 

Of  that  whole  host  in  one  destruction 

whelm' d. 
Vain  was  all   valour  there,   all  martial 

skill ; 
The  valiant  arm  is  helpless  now  ;    the 

feet 
Swift  in  the  race  avail  not  now  to  save  ; 
They  perish,  all  their  thousands  perish 

there,  .  . 
Horsemen    and    infantry    they    perish 

all,  .  . 
The   outward   armour   and    the    bones 

within 
Broken  and  bruised  and  crush' d.    Echo 

prolong' d 
The  long  uproar  :   a  silence  then  ensued. 
Through   which   the   sound   of    Deva's 

stream  was  heard,  270 

A    lonely   voice   of    waters,    wild    and 

sweet ; 
The  lingering  groan,  the  faintly-uttcr'd 

prayer, 
The  louder  curses  of  despairing  death, 
Ascended  not  so  high.     Down'  from  the 

cave 
Pelayo    hastes,    the    Asturians    hasten 

down, 
Fierce    and    immitigable    down    they 

speed 
On  all  sides,  and  along  the  vale  of  blood 
The  avenging  sword  did  mercy's  work 

that  hour. 


326      RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF  THE   GOTHS 


XXIV.    RODERICK   AND 
COUNT  JULIAN 

Thou  hast  been  busy.  Death  !  this  day, 

and  yet 
But  half  thy  work  is  done  ;  the  Gates  of 

Hell 
Are  throng' d,  yet  twice  ten  thousand 

spirits  more. 
Who  from   their   warm   and   healthful 

tenements 
Fear  no  divorce,  must  ere  the  sun  go 

down 
Enter  the  world  of  woe !    the  Gate  of 

Heaven 
Is  open  too,  and  Angels  round  the  throne 
Of  Mercy  on  their  golden  harps  this  day 
8hall  sing  the  triumphs  of  Redeeming 

Love. 

There  was  a  Church  at  Cangas  dedi- 
cate 10 
To  that  Apostle  unto  whom  his  Lord 
Had  given  the  keys ;  a  humble  edifice, 
Whose  rude  and   time-worn   structure 

suited  well 
That  vale  among  the  mountains.     Its 

low  roof 
With  stone  plants  and  with  moss  was 

overgrown, 
Short  fern,  and  richer  weeds  which  from 

the  eaves 
Hung  their  long  tresses  down.     White 

lichens  clothed 
The  sides,  save  where  the  ivy  spread, 

which  bower' d 
The   porch,    and  clustering  round   the 

pointed  wall, 
Wherein  two  bell.^,  each  open  to  the 

wind,  20 

Hung  side  by  side,  threaded  with  hairy 

shoots 
The  double  nich ;    and  climbing  to  the 

cross. 


Wreathed  it  and  half  conceal' d  its  sacred 

form 
With  bushy  tufts  luxuriant.     Here  in 

the  font,  .  . 
Borne  hither  with  rejoicing  and  with 

prayers 
Of  all  the  happy  land  who  saw  in  him 
The    lineage    of    their    ancient    Chiefs 

renew' d,  .  . 
The  Prince  had  been  immersed :    and 

here  within 
An  oaken  galilee,  now  black  with  age, 
His  old  Iberian  ancestors  were  laid.    30 

Two  stately  oaks  stood  nigh,  in  the 

full  growth 
Of  many  a  century.    They  had  flourish' d 

there 
Before  the  Gothic  sword  was  felt  in 

Spain, 
And  when  the  ancient  sceptre  of  the 

Goths 
Was  broken,  there  they  flourish' d  still. 

Their  boughs 
IVIingled  on  high,  and  stretching  wide 

around, 
Form'd  a  deep  shade,   beneath  which 

canopy 
Upon  the  ground  Count  Julian's  board 

was  spread, 
For  to  his  daughter  he  had  left  his  tent 
Pitch'  d  for  her  use  hard  by.     He  at  the 

board  40 

Sate  with  liis  trusted  Captains,  Gun- 

derick, 
Felix  and  Miro,  Theudered  and  Paul, 
Basil  and  Cottila,  and  Virimar, 
Men   through   all   fortunes   faithful    to 

their  Lord, 
And  to  that  old  and  tried  fidehty. 
By  personal  love  and  honour  held  in  ties 
Strong   as   religious    bonds.     As    there 

they  sate. 
In  the  distant  vale  a  rising  dust  was 

seen. 


XXIV.    RODERICK   AND    COUNT   JULIAN      327 


And  frequent  flash  of  steel,  .  .  the  Hying 

fight 

Of  men  who,  by  a  fiery  foe  pursued,  50 
E*ut  forth  their  coursers  at  full  speed,  to 

reach 
The  aid  in  wliich  they  trust.     Up  sprung 

the  Cliiefs, 
And  hastily  taking  hehu  and  sliield,  and 

spear, 
Sped  to  their  post. 

Amid  the  chesnut  groves 
On  Sella's  side,  Alphouso  had  in  charge 
To  watch  the  foe ;    a  prowling   band 

came  nigh. 
Whom  with  the  ardour  of  impetuous 

youth 
He  charged  and  followed  them  in  close 

pursuit : 
Quick  succours  join'd  them;    and  the 

strife  grew  hot,  59 

Ere  Pedro  hastening  to  bring  oti  his  son, 
Or  Juhan  and  his  Captains,  .  .  bent  alike 
That  hour  to  abstain  from  combat,  (for 

by  this 
Full  sure  they  deem'd  Alcahman  had 

secured 
The  easy  means  of  certain  victory,)  .  . 
Could  reach   the   spot.     Both   thus  in 

their  intent 
According,    somewhat    had    they    now 

allay' d 
The  fury  of  the  tight,  though  still  spears 

flew. 
And  strokes  of  sword  and  mace  were 

interchanged, 
When  passing  through  the  troop  a  Moor 

came  up 
On  errand  from   the  Chief,  to  Julian 

sent ;  70 

A  fatal  errand  fatally  perform' d 
For  Julian,  for  the  Chief,  and  for  himself, 
And    all    that    host    of    Musselmen    he 

brought ; 
For  while  with  well-dissembled  words 

he  lured 


The  warrior's  oar,  the  dexterou.s  ruffian 

mark'd 
The  favouring  moment  and  unguarded 

place. 
And  plunged  a  javelin  in  liis  side.     The 

Count 
Fell,  but  in  falling  called  to  Cottila, 
Treachery  !    the  Moor  !    the  Moor  !  .  . 

He  too  on  whom 
He  call'd  had  seen  the  blow  from  whence 

it  came,  80 

And  seized  the  murderer.     Miscreant ! 

he  exclaim' d. 
Who  set  thee  on  ?  The  Musselman,  who 

saw 
His  secret  purpose  baffled,  undismayed, 
Replies,  What  I  have  done  is  authorized ; 
To  punish  treachery  and  prevent  worse 

ill 
Orpas  and  Abulcacem  sent  me  here ; 
The  service  of  the  Caliph  and  the  Faith 
Required  the  blow. 

The  Prophet  and  the  Fiend 
Reward    thee    then!      cried     Cottila; 

meantime 
Take  thou  from  me  thy  proper  earthly 

meed ;  90 

Villain !  .  .  and  lifting  as  he  spake  the 

sword. 
He  smote  him  on  the  neck  :    the  tren- 
chant blade 
Through   vein   and   artery   pass'd   and 

yielding  bone  ; 
And  on  the  shoulder,  as  the  assassin 

dropt. 
His  head  half-severed  fell.     The  curse 

of  God 
Fall  on  theCahphand  the  Faith  and  thee; 
StamjHng  for  anguish,  Cottila  pursued  ! 
African  dogs,  thus  is  it  ye  requite 
Our  services  V  .  .  But  dearly  shall  ye  pay 
For  this  day's  work  !  .  .  O  Fellow- 
soldiers,  here,  100 
Stretching   his   hands  toward  the  host, 

he  cried, 


328      RODERICK,   THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


Behold  your  noble  leader  basely  slain  ! 
He  who  for  twenty  years  hath  led  us 

forth 
To    war,    and   brought   us   home   with 

victory, 
Here  he  lies  foully  murdered,  .  .  by  the 

Moors,  .  . 
Those  whom  he  trusted,  whom  he  served 

so  well ! 
Our  turn  is  next !    but  neither  will  we 

wait 
Idly,  nor  tamely  fall ! 

Amid  the  grief, 
Tumult,  and  rage,  of  those  who  gather' d 

round, 
When  Julian  could  be  heard,  I  have  yet 

life,  no 

He  said,  for  vengeance.     Virimar,  speed 

thou 
To  yonder  Mountaineers,  and  tell  their 

Chiefs 
That  Julian's  veteran  army  joins  this 

day 
Pelayo's  standard  !     The  command  de- 
volves 
On  Gunderick.     Fellow-soldiers,  who  so 

well 
Redress' d    the    wrongs    of    your    old 

General, 
Ye  will  not  let  this  death  go  unrevenged! . . 
Tears  then  were  seen  on  many  an  iron 

cheek. 
And  groans  were  heard  from  many  a 

resolute  heart. 
And  vows  with,  imprecations  mix'd  went 

forth,  120 

And  curses  check' d  by  sobs.     Bear  me 

apart, 
Said  JuUan,  with  a  faint  and  painful 

voice. 
And  let  me  see  my  daughter  ere  I  die. 

Scarce  had  he  spoken  when  the  pity- 
ing throng 
Divide  before  her.     Eagerly  she  came  ; 


A  deep  and  fearful  lustre  in  her  eye, 
A  look  of  settled  woe,  .  .  pale,  deadly 

pale. 
Yet  to  no  lamentations  giving  way. 
Nor  tears  nor  groans ;   .   .   within  her 

breaking  heart 
She     bore     the     grief,     and     kneeling 

solemnly  130 

Beside  him,  raised  her  aweful  hands  to 

heaven. 
And  cried.  Lord  God !    be  with  him  in 

this  hour  ! 
Two  things  have  I  to  think  of,  O  my 

child. 
Vengeance  and  thee  ;   said  Julian.    For 

the  first 
I  have  provided :    what  remains  of  life 
As  best  may  comfort  thee  may  so  be  best 
Employ'  d ;    let  me  be  borne  within  the 

church. 
And  thou,   with  that  good  man  who 

follows  thee. 
Attend  me  there. 

Thus  when  Florinda  heard 
Her  father  speak,  a  gleam  of  heavenly 

joy  140 

Shone  through  the  anguish  of  her  coun- 
tenance. 
0  gracious  God,  she  cried,  my  prayers 

are  heard ; 
Now  let  me  die  !  .  .  They  raised  him 

from  the  earth ; 
He,  knitting  as  they  lifted  him  his  brow. 
Drew  in  through  open  lips  and  teeth 

firm-closed 
His  painful  breath,  and  on  the  lance  laid 

hand. 
Lest  its  long  shaft  should  shake  the 

mortal  wound. 
Gently  his  men  with  slow  and  steady  step 
Their  suffering  burthen  bore,  and  in  the 

Cliurch 
Before  the  altar  laid  him  down,  his  head 
Upon  Florinda' 8  knees.  .  .  Now,  friends, 
said  he,  151 


XXIV.    RODERICK   AND   COUNT   JULIAN      329 


Farewell.     I  ever  hoped  to  meet  my 

death 
Among  ye,  like  a  soldier,  .  .  but  not 

thus! 
Go,  join  the  Asturiana ;    and  in  after 

years. 
When  of  your  old  commander  yo  shall 

talk, 
How  well  he  loved  his  followers,  what  he 

was 
In  battle,  and  how  basely  ho  was  slain, 
Let  not  the  tale  its  tit  completion  lack, 
But  say   how   bravely   was   his   death 

revenged. 
Vengeance !    in  that  good  word  doth 

JuUan  make  i6o 

His  testament ;    your  faithful  swords 

must  give 
The  will  its  full  performance.     Leave 

me  now, 
I  have  done  with  worldly  things.    Com- 
rades, farewell. 
And  love  my  memory  ! 

They  with  copious  tears 
Of  burning  anger,  grief  exasperating 
Their  rage,  and  fury  giving  force  to  grief, 
Hasten' d  to  form  their  ranks  against  the 

Moors. 
Julian  meantime  toward  the  altar  turn'd 
His  languid  eyes  :   That  Image,  is  it  not 
St.  Peter,  he  inquired,  he  who  denied 
His  Lord  and  was  forgiven  ? .  .  Roderick 

rejoin' d,  171 

It  ia  the  Apostle ;    and  may  that  same 

Lord, 
0  JuUan,  to  thy  soul's  salvation  bless 
The  seasonable  thought ! 

The  dying  Count 
Then  fix'd  upon  the  Goth  his  earnest 

eyes. 
No  time,  said  he,  is  this  for  bravery, 
As  little  for  dissemblance.     I  would  fain 
Die  in  the  faith  wherein  my  fathers  died, 
Whereto  they  pledged  me  in  mine  in- 
fancy. .  . 


A   soldier's   habits,    ho   pursued,    have 

steel' d  180 

My  spirit,  and  perhaps  I  do  not  fear 
This  piujsago  as  I  ought.     But  if  to  feci 
That  I  have  sinn'd,  and  from  my  soul 

renounce 
The  Impostor's  faith,   which  never  in 

that  soul 
Obtain'd  a  place,  .  .  if  at  the  Saviour's 

feet. 
Laden  with  guilt,  to  cast  myself  and  cry. 
Lord,   I   believe !     help   thou    my    un- 
belief !  .  . 
If  this  in  the  sincerity  of  death 
SufHceth,  .  .  Father,  let  me  from  thy  lips 
Receive  the  assurances  with  which  the 

Church  190 

Doth  bless  the  dying  Christian. 

Roderick  raised 
His  eyes  to  Heaven,  and  crossing  on  his 

breast 
His  open  palms,  Mysterious  are  thy  ways 
And  merciful,  0  gracious  Lord !  he  cried, 
Who  to  this  end  hast  thus  been  pleased 

to  lead 
My  wandering  steps  !  0  Father,  this  thy 

son 
Hath  sinn'd  and  gone  ash-ay  :    but  hast 

not  Thou 
Said,  When  the  sinner  from  his  evil  ways 
Turneth,  that    he  shall   save  his  soul 

aUve, 
And    Angels    at    the    sight    rejoice    in 

Heaven  '!  200 

Therefore  do  I,  in  thy  most  holy  name, 
Into  thy  family  receive  again 
Him  who  was  lost,  and  in  that  name 

absolve 
The  Penitent.  .  .  So  sa}  ing  on  the  head      ' 
Of  Julian  solemnly  he  laid  his  hands. 
Then  to  the  altar  tremblingly  he  turn'd, 
And  took  the  bread,  and  breaking  it, 

pursued, 
Julian  !    receive  from  me  the  Bread  of 

Life! 
3 


330       RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


In  silence  reverently  the  Count  partook 
The  reconciUng  rite,  and  to  his  lips  210 
Roderick  then  held  the  consecrated  cup. 

Me  too  !   exclaim'  d  Florinda,  who  till 
then 

Had  listened  speechlessly;    Thou  Man 
of  God, 

I  also  must  partake !     The  Lord  hath 
heard 

My  prayers !     one  sacrament,   .   .    one 
hour,  .  .  one  grave,  .  . 

One  resurrection  ! 

That  dread  office  done. 

Count  JuHan  with,  amazement  saw  the 
Priest 

Kneel  down  before  him.     By  the  sacra- 
ment 

Which  we  have  here  partaken,  Roderick 
cried, 

In  this  most  awef ul  moment ;    by  that 
hojie,  .  .  220 

That  holy  faith  which  comforts  thee  in 
death. 

Grant  thy  forgiveness,  Juhan,  ere  thou 
diest  ! 

Behold  the  man  who  most  hath  injured 
thee  ! 

Roderick,  the  wretched  Goth,  the  guilty 
cause 

Of  all  thy  guilt,  .  .  the  unworthy  instru- 
ment 

Of  thy  redemption, .  .  kneels  before  thee 
here. 

And  prays  to  be  forgiven  ! 

Roderick  !  exclaim'  d 

The  dying  Count,  .  .  Roderick  !   .  .  and 
from  the  floor 

With  violent  effort  half  he  raised  him- 
self; 

The  spear  hung  heavy  in  his  side,  and 
pain  230 

And  weakness  overcame  liim,  that  he  fell 

Back  on  his  daughter's  lap.     0  Death, 
cried  he, .  . 


Passing  his  hand  across  his  cold  damp 

brow,  .  . 
Thou  tamest  the  strong  limb,  and  con- 

querest 
The   stubborn   heart !     But   yesterday 

I  said 
One  Heaven  could  not  contain  mine 

enemy 
And  me  :   and  now  I  lift  my  dying  voice 
To  say,  Forgive  me.  Lord,  as  I  forgive 
Him  who  hath  done  the  wrong !  .  .  He 

closed  his  e^'es 
A  moment ;    then  with  sudden  impulse 

cried,  .  .  240 

Roderick,  thy  wife  is  dead, .  .  the  Church 

hath  power 
To  free  thee  from  thy  vows, . .  the  broken 

heart 
JVIight  yet  be  heal'd,  the  wrong  redress' d, 

the  throne 
Rebuilt  by  that  same  hand  which  pull'd 

it  down, 
And  these  cursed  Africans.  .  .  Oh  for  a 

month 
Of  that  waste  life  which  millions  mis- 
bestow  !  .  . 
His  voice  was  passionate,  and  in  his  e3'e 
With  glowing  animation  while  he  spake 
Tlie  vehement  s^Dirit  shone  :    its  effort 

soon 
Was  pass'd,  and  painfully  with  feeble 

breath  250 

In  slow  and  difficult  utterance  he  pur- 
sued, .  . 
Vain  hope,  if  all  the  evil  was  ordain' d. 
And  this  wide  wreck  the  will  and  work 

of  Heaven, 
We  but  the  poor  occasion !    Death  will 

make 
All  clear,  and  joining  us  in  better  worlds, 
Complete  our  union  there!  Do  for  me  now 
One  friendly  office  more  :  draw  forth  the 

spear, 
And  free  me  from  this  pain  !  .  .  Receive 

his  soul, 


XXIV.    RODERICK  AND   COUNT   JULIAN      331 


Saviour  !  exclaim' d  the  Goth,  as  ho  pur- 
form' d 
The    fatal    service.       Julian    cried,    O 

friend  !  .  .  260 

True  friend !  .  .  and  gave  to  him  liis 

dying  hand. 
Then  said  he  to  Florinda,  I  go  tirst, 
Thou  f  ollowcst !  .  .  kiss  me,  child  ! .  .  and 

now  good  night ! 
When  from  her  father's  body  she  arose, 
Her  cheek  was  flush' d,  and  in  her  eyes 

there  bcam'd 
A  wilder  brightness.     On  the  Goth  she 

gazed 
While  underneath  the  emotions  of  that 

hour 
Exhausted  life  gave  way.     0  God !  she 

said, 
Lifting  her  hands,  thou  hast  restored 

me  all,  .  . 

^      All .  .  in  one  hour  ! .  .  and  round  his  neck 

/  she  threw  270 

Her   arms   and   cried.    My   Roderick ! 

mine  in  Heaven ! 
Groaning,  he  clasp' d  her  close,  and  in 

that  act 
And  agony  her  happy  spirit  fled. 


XXV.    RODERICK  IN   BATTLE 

Eight  thousand  men  had  to  Asturias 

march"  d 
Beneath   Count   Juhan's   banner ;     the 

remains 
Of  that  brave  army  wliich  in  Africa 
So  well  against  the  Musselman  made 

head. 

Till  sense  of  injuries  insupportable, 
And  raging  thirst  of  vengeance,  over- 
threw 
Their  leader's  noble  spirit.     To  revenge 
His  quarrel,  twice  that  number  left  their 

bones. 
Slain  in  unnatural  battle,  on  the  field 


Of  Xeres,   when  th«  seeptio  from  the 

Goths  10 

By  righteous  Heaven  was  reft.    Others 

had  fallen 
Consumed  in  sieges,  alway  by  the  Moor 
To    the    front    of    war    opposed.     The 

policy. 
With     whatsoever     show     of     honour 

cloak' d. 
Was  gross,  and  this  sui'viving  band  had 

oft 
At  their  carousals,  of  the  flagrant  wrong, 
Held  such  discourse  as  stirs  the  mount- 
ing blood. 
The  common  danger  with  one  discontent 
Affecting  chiefs  and  men.     Nor  had  the 

bonds 
Of  rooted  discipline  and  faith  attached. 
Thus  long  restrain' d  them,  had  they  not 

known  well  21 

That  JuUan  in   their  just  resentment 

shared. 
And  fix'd  their  hopes  on  him.     Slight 

impulse  now 
Sufficed  to  make  these  fiery  martialists 
Break  forth  in  open  fury ;    and  though 

tirst 
Count  Pedi'o  listen' d  with  suspicious  ear 
To  Julian's  dying  errand,  deeming  it 
Some  new  decoy  of  treason,  .  .  when  ho 

found 
A  second  legato  follow' d  Virimar, 
And  then  a  third,  and  saw  the  turbu- 
lence 30 
Of  the  camp,  and  how  against  the  Moors 

in  haste 
They  form'd  their  lines,  he  knew  that 

Providence 
This  hour  had  for  his  country  interposed, 
And  in  such  faith  advanced  to  use  the 

aid 
Thus  wondrously  ordain' d.     The  eager 

Chiefs 
Hasten  to  greet  him,  Cottila  and  Paul, 
Basil  and  Miro,  Tiicudercd,  Gundcrick, 


332      RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


Felix,  and  all  who  held  authority  ; 
The  zealous  services  of  their  brave  host 
They  proffer' d,  and  besought  him  in- 
stantly 40 
To  lead  against  the  African  their  force 
Combined,  and  in  good  hour  assail  a  foe 
Divided,  nor  for  such  attack  prepared. 

While  thus  they  communed,  Roderick 

from  the  church 
Came  forth,  and  seeing  Pedro,  bent  his 

way 
Toward  them.     Sirs,  said  he,  the  Count 

is  dead ; 
He    died    a    Christian,    reconciled    to 

Heaven, 
In  faith:    and  when  his  daughter  had 

received 
His  dying  breath,  her  spirit  too  took 

flight.  49 

One  sacrament,  one  death,  united  them  ; 
And  I  beseech  ye,  ye  who  from  the  work 
Of    blood    which    lies    before    us   may 

return,  .  . 
If,  as  I  think,  it  should  not  be  my  fate  .  . 
That  in  one  grave  with  Christian  cere- 
monies 
Ye  lay  them  side  by  side.     In  Heaven 

I  ween 
They  are  met  through  mercy : . .  ill  befall 

the  man 
WTio  should  in  death  divide  them  !  .  . 

Then  he  turn'd 
His  speech  to  Pedro  in  an  under  voice ; 
The  King,  said  he,  I  know  with  noble 

mind 
Will  judge  of  the  departed ;    Christian 

like  60 

He  died,  and  with  a  manly  penitence  : 
They  who  condemn  him  most  should 

call  to  mind 
How   grievous    was   the   wrong    which 

madden'd  him  ; 
Be  that  remember' d  in  his  history. 
And  let  no  shame  be  offer' d  hia  remains. 


As  Pedro  would  have  answer' d,  a  loud 

cry 
Of  menacing  imprecation  from  the  troops 
Arose  ;  for  Orpas,  by  the  Moorish  Chief 
Sent  to  allay  the  storm  his  villainy 
Had  stirr'd,  came  hastening  on  a  milk- 
white  steed,  70 
And  at  safe  distance  having  check' d  the 

rein, 
Beckon' d  for  parley.     'Twas  Oreho 
On    which    he    rode,    Roderick's    own 

battle-horse, 
Who  from  his  master's  hand  had  wont 

to  feed. 
And  with  a  glad  dociUty  obey 
His  voice  familiar.     At  the  sight  the 

Goth 
Started,  and  indignation  to  his  soul 
Brought  back  the  thoughts  and  feeUngs 

of  old  times. 
Suffer  me.  Count,  he  cried,  to  answer 

him. 
And  hold  these  back  the  while !    Thus 

haWng  said,  80 

He  waited  no  reply,  but  as  he  was. 
Bareheaded,  in  his  weeds,  and  all  un- 
arm' d. 
Advanced    toward    the    renegade.     Sir 

Priest, 
Quoth  Orpas  as  he  came,  I  hold  no  talk 
With  thee ;    my  errand  is  with   Gun- 

derick 
And  the  Captains  of  the  host,  to  whom 

I  bring 
Such  hberal  offers  and  clear  proof  .  . 

The  Goth, 
Breaking  with  scornful  voice  his  speech, 

exclaim' d, 
What,  could  no  steed  but  Roderick's 

serve  thy  turn  ? 
I  should  have  thought  some  sleek  and 

sober  mule  90 

Long  train' d  in  shackles  to  procession 

pace. 
More  suited  to  my  lord  of  Seville's  use 


XXV.    RODERICK   IN   BATTLE 


33.*] 


who 


Than  this  good  war-horso.  .  .   1 

never  bore 
A  villain,  until  Orpas  oross'd  his  back  ! . . 
Wretch  !  cried  the  astonish' d  renegade, 

and  stoopt. 
Foaming  with  anger,  from  the  saddle- 
bow 
To  reach   his  weapon.     Ere  the  hasty 

hand 
Trembhng  in  passion  could  perform  its 

will. 
Roderick   had  seized  the  reins.     How 
i  now.  he  cried. 

Orelio !    old  companion,  .   .   ray  good 

horse.  .  .  loo 

Off  witli  tliis  recreant  burthen !  .  .  And 

with  that 
He   raised   his    hand,    and   rear'd   and 

back'd  the  steed, 
To  that  remember' d  voice  and  arm  of 

power 
Obedient.     Down   the   helpless   traitor 

fell 
V^iolently   thrown,   and  Roderick   over 

him 
Thrice  led  with  just  and  unrelenting 

hand 
The  trampling  hoofs.     Go  join  Witiza 

I  now. 

Where  he  lies  howling,  the  avenger  cried, 

And  tell  him  Roderick  sent  thee  ! 

At  that  sight, 

Count  Julian's  soldiers  and  the  Asturian 
host  no 

Set  up  a  shout,  a  joyful  shout,  which 
rung 

Wide  through  the  welkin.     Their  exult- 
ing cry 

With  louder  acclamation  was  renew'd, 

When   from    the   expiring   miscreant's 
neck  they  saw 

That    Roderick    took    the    shield,    and 
round  his  own 

Hung  it,  and  vaulted  in  the  seat.     My 
horse ! 


My  noble  horse!    he  cried,  with  (InftcM- 

ing  hand 
Patting  his  high-arch'd  neck  ?   the  rene- 
gade, 
I    thank    him    for't,    hath    kept    thee 

daintily  ! 
Orelio,  thou  art  in  thy  beauty  still,    120 
Thy   prido   and  strength !     Orelio,    my 

good  horse. 
Once  more  thou  bearest  to  the  field  thy 

Lord, 
He  who  so  oft  hath  fed  and  cherish' d 

thee. 
He  for  whose  sake,  wherever  thou  wert 

seen. 
Thou  wert  by  all  men  honour'd.     Once 

again 
Thou  hast  thy  proper  master!    Do  thy 

part 
As  thou  wert  wont ;  and  bear  him  glori- 

ously. 
My  beautiful  Orelio,  .  .  to  the  last  ,  .  . 
The  happiest  of  his  fields !  .  .  Then  he 

drew  forth 
The  scymitar,  and  waving  it  aloft,      130 
Rode  toward  the  troops;    its  unaccus-     1 

tom'd  shape  I 

Disliked  him  ;    Renegade  in  all  things  ! 

cried 
The  Goth,  and  cast  it  from  him  ;   to  the 

Chiefs 
Then  said.  If  I  have  done  ye  service 

here. 
Help    me,   T    pray    you,    to   a   Spanish 

sword ! 
The  trustiest  blade  that  e'er  in  Bilbilis 
Was  dipt,   would  not  to-day   be  mis- 
bestowed 
On  this  right  hand  !  .  .  Go  some  one, 

Gunderick  cried. 
And  bring  Count  Julian's  sword.    Who-    |. 

e'er  thou  art. 
The    worth    whioli    thou    hast    shown 

avenging  liim  140 

Entitles  thee  to  wear  it.     Rut  thou  LMtcst 


334       RODERICK.  THE   LAST   OF  THE   GOTHS 


For  battle  unequipped;  .  .  baste  there  and 

strip 
Yon  villain  of  bis  armour ! 

Late  be  spake, 
So  fast  the  Moors  came  on.     It  matters 

not. 
Replied    the    Goth ;    there's    many    a 

mountaineer, 
Who  in  no  better  armour  cased  this  day 
Than  bis  wonted  leathern  gipion,  will  be 

found 
In  the  hottest  battle,  yet  bring  off  un- 
touch'd 
The    unguarded    life    he    ventures.  .  . 

Taking  then 
Count  Julian's  sword,  be  fitted  round 

his  wrist  150 

The  chain,  and  eyeing  the  elaborate  steel 
With  stern  regard  of  joy.  The  African 
Under  unhappy  stars  was  born,  be  cried, 
Who  tastes  thy  edge  !  .  .  Make  ready  for 

the  charge  ! 
They  come  .  .  they  come  !  .  .  On,  breth- 
ren, to  the  field  !  .  . 
The  word  is  Vengeance  ! 

Vengeance  was  the  word  ; 
From  man  to  man,  and  rank  to  rank  it 

pass'd, 
By  every  heart  enforced,  by  every  voice 
Sent  forth  in  loud  defiance  of  the  foe. 
The  enemy  in  shriller  sounds  return'd 
Their  Akbar  and  the  Prophet's  trusted 

name.  161 

The  horsemen  lower' d  their  spears,  the 

infantry 
Deliberately  with  slow  and  steady  step 
Advanced ;     the    bowstrings    twang' d, 

and  arrows  hiss'd, 
And   javeUns    hurtled    by.     Anon   the 

hosts 
]\Iet  in  the  shock  of  battle,  horse  and  man 
Conflicting ;    shield  struck  shield,  and 

sword  and  mace 
And   curtle-axe   on   helm   and   buckler 

rfing; 


Armour  was  riven,   and   wounds  were 

interchanged. 
And  many  a  spirit  from  its  mortal  hold 
Hurried  to  bliss  or  bale.     Well  did  the 

Chiefs  171 

Of  Julian's  army  in  that  hour  support 
Their  old  esteem  ;  and  well  Count  Pedro 

there 
Enhanced  his  former  praise  ;  and  by  his 

side, 
Rejoicing  like  a  bridegroom  in  the  strife, 
Alphonso  through  the  host  of  infidels 
Bore  on  his  bloody  lance  dismay  and 

death. 
But  there  was  worst  confusion  and  up- 
roar. 
There    widest    slaughter    and    dismay, 

where,  proud 
Of  his  recovered  Lord,  Orelio  plunged    : 
Through  thickest  ranks,  trampling  he-\ 

neath  his  feet  181 

The  living  and  the  dead.     Where'er  he 

turns 
The  Moors  divide  and  fly.     What  man 

is  this. 
Appall' d  they  say,  who  to  the  front  of  war 
Bareheaded  offers  thus  bis  naked  life  ? 
Replete  with  power  he  is,  and  terrible. 
Like  some  destroying  Angel  !    Sure  his 

lips 
Have  drank  of  Kaf's  dark  fountain,  and 

he  comes 
Strong  in  his  immortality  !    Fly  !   fly  ! 
They  said,  this  is  no  human  foe  !  .  .  Nor 

less  190 

Of  wonder  fill'd  the  Spaniards  when  they 

saw 
How  flight  and  terror  went  before  his 

way. 
And   slaughter   in    his   path.     Behold, 

cries  one. 
With  what  command  and  knightly  ease 

he  sits 
The  intrepid  steed,  and  deals  from  side 

to  side 


XXV.    RODERICK    IN   BATTLE 


33i 


His  dreadful  blows  !  Not  Roderick  in  his 
power 

Bestrode     with     such     command     and 
majesty 

That  noble  war-horse.     His  loose  robe 
this  day 

Is  death's  black  banner,  shaking  from 
its  folds  199 

Dismay  and  ruin.     Of  no  mortal  mould 

Is  ho  who  in  that  garb  of  peace  affronts 

Whole    hosts,    and    sees    them    scatter 
where  he  turns  ! 

Auspicious    Heaven    beholds    us,    and 
some  Saint 

Revisits  earth  ! 

Ay,  cries  another.  Heaven 

Hath  ever  with  especial  bounty  blest 

Above  all  other  lands  its  favour' d  Spain; 

Chusing  her  children  forth  from  all  man- 
kind 

For  its  peculiar  people,  as  of  yore 

Abraham's  ungrateful  race  beneath  the 
Law. 

Who  knows  not  how  on  that  most  holy 
night  210 

When  peace  on  Earth  by  Angels  was 
proclaim' d, 

The  light  which  o'er  the  fields  of  Bethle- 
hem shone, 

Irradiated  whole  Spain  ?    not  just  dis- 
play'd, 

As  to  the  Shepherds,  and  again  with- 
drawn ; 

All  the  long  winter  hours  from  eve  till 
morn 

Her  forests  and  her  mountains  and  her 
plains, 

Her  hills  and  valleys  were  embathed  in 
light, 

A  light  which  came  not  from  the  sun  or 
moon 

Or    stars,    by    secondary    powers    dis- 
pensed. 

But  from  the  fountain-springs  the  Light 
of  Light  220 


Effluent.     And  wherefore  should  \vc  not 

lieliovo 
That  this  may  bo  iconic  Saint  or  Angel, 

charged 
To  lead  us  to  miraculous  victory  ? 
Hath  not  the  Virgin  Mother  oftentimes 
Descending,  clothed  in  glory,  sanctified 
With  feet  adorable  our  happy  soil  ?  .  . 
Mark'd  ye  not,  said  another,  how  ho  cast 
In     wrath     the     unhallow'd    scymitar 

away. 
And  called  for  Christian  weapon  ?    Oh 

be  sure 
This  is  the  aid  of  Heaven  !    On,  com- 


rades, on 


230 


A  miracle  to-day  is  wrought  for  Spain ! 
Victory  and  Vengeance  !    Hew  the  mis- 
creants down, 
And   spare   not !     hew   them   down   in 

sacrifice  ! 
God  is  with  us  !    his  Saints  are  in  the 

field ! 
Victory  !    miraculous  Victory  ! 

Thus  they 
Inflamed  with  wild  belief  the  keen  desire 
Of  vengeance  on  their  enemies  abhorr'd. 
The  Moorish  chief,  meantime,  o'erlook'd 

the  fight 
From    an    eminence,    and    cursed    the 

renegade  l 

Whose  counsels  sorting  to  such  ill  effect    ' 
Had  brought  tliis  danger  on.     Lo,  from 

the  East  241 

Comes  fresh  alarm  !  a  few  poor  fugitives 
Well-nigh  with  fear  exanimate  came  up, 
From  Covadonga  flj-ing,  and  the  rear 
Of  that  destruction,  scarce  with  breath 

to  tell 
Their  dreadful  tale.     When  Abulcacem 

heard,  j- 

Stricken  with  horror,  like  a  man  bereft 
Of    sense,  he    stood.      0    Prophet,    he 

exclaim'd, 
A    hard   and   cruel   fortune    hast    thou 

brought  249 


336      RODERICK,  THE    LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


This  day  upon  thy  servant !  Must  I  then 
Here  with  disgrace  and  ruin  close  a  life 
Of  glorious  deeds  ?    But  how  should  man 

resist 
Fate's  irreversible  decrees,  or  why 
Murmur  at  what  must  be  ?    They  who 

survive 
May   mourn   the   evil    which   tliis   day 

begins  : 
My  part  will  soon  be  done  !  .  .  Grief  then 

gave  way 
To  rage,  and  cursing  Guisla,  he  pursued, 
Oh  that  that  treacherous  woman  were 

but  here  ! 
It  were  a  consolation  to  give  her 
The  evil  death  she  merits  ! 

That  reward 
She   hath   had,   a  Moor   replied.     For 

when  we  reach' d  261 

The  entrance  of  the  vale,  it  was  her 

choice 
There  in  the  farthest  dwellings  to  be 

left, 
Lest  she  should  see  her  brother's  face ; 

but  thence 
We  found  her  flying  at  the  overthrow, 
And  visiting  the  treason  on  her  head. 
Pierced  her  with  wounds.  .  .  Poor  ven- 
geance for  a  host 
Destroyed  !   said  Abulcacem  in  his  soul. 
Howbeit,  resolving  to  the  last  to  do 
His  office,  he  roused  up  his  spirit.     Go, 
Strike    off    Count    Eudon'a    head !     he 

cried  ;   the  fear  271 

Which  brought  him  to  our  camp  will 

bring  him  else 
In  arms  against  us  now  ;   For  Sisibert 
And  Ebba,he  continued  thus  in  thought, 
Their  uncle's  fate  for  ever  bars  all  plots 
Of  treason  on  their  part ;   no  hope  have 

they 
Of  safety  but  with  us.     He  call'd  them 

then 
With  chosen  troops  to  join  him  in  the 

front 


Of  battle,  that  by  bravely  making  head. 
Retreat    might    now    be    won.     Then 

fiercer  raged  280 

The  conflict,  and  more  frequent  cries  of 

death. 
Mingling   with  imprecations   and   with 

prayers, 
Rose  through  the  din  of  war. 

By  this  the  blood 
Which   Deva   down   her  fatal   channel 

pour'd, 
Purpling  Pionia's  course,   had  reach'd 

and  stain'd 
The  wider  stream  of  Sella.     Soon  far  off 
The  frequent  glance  of  spears  and  gleam 

of  arms 
Were    seen,    which    sparkled     to    the 

westering  orb. 
Where  down  the  vale  impatient  to  com- 
plete 
The   glorious    work   so   well   that    daj'' 

begun,  290 

Pelayo  led  his  troops.     On  foot  they 

came, 
Chieftains  and  men  alike ;    the  Oaken 

Cross 
Triumphant    borne    on   high,    precedes 

their  march, 
And  broad  and  bright  the  argent  banner 

shone. 
Roderick,  who  dealing  death  from  side 

to  side, 
Had  through  the  Moorish  army  now 

made  way. 
Beheld  it  flash,  and  judging  well  what 

aid 
Approach' d,  with  sudden  impulse  that 

waj'^  rode. 
To  tell  of  what  had  pass'd, . .  lest  in  the 

strife 
They  should  engage  with  Julian's  men, 

and  mar  300 

The  mighty  consummation.     One  ran  on 
To  meet  him  fleet  of  foot,  and  having 

given 


XXV.    RODERICK   IN   BATTLE 


337 


His   tale   to   this  swift  messenger,    the 

Goth 
Halted  awhile  to  let  Orelio  breathe. 
Siverian,  quoth  Pelayo.  if  mine  eyes 
i  Deceive  me  not,  j'on  horse,  whose  reek- 
ing sides 
Are  red  with  slaughter,  is  the  same  on 

whom 
The  apostate  Orpas  in  his  vauntcry 
Wont  to  parade  the  streets  of  Cordoba. 
But    thou    shouldst    know    him    best ; 

regard  him  well  :  310 

Is't  not  Orelio  ? 

Either  it  is  he. 
The  old  man  replied,  or  one  so  like  to 

him, 
Whom    all    thought    matchless,    that 

similitude 
Would    be    the    greater    wonder.     But 

behold, 
What  man  is  he  who  in  that  disarray 
Doth    with    such    power    and    majesty 

bestride 
The  noble  steed,  as  if  he  felt  himself 
In  his  own  proper  seat  ?    Look  how  he 

leans 
To  cherish  him  ;    and  how  the  gallant 

horse 
Curves  up  his  stately  neck,  and  bends 

his  head,  320 

As  if  again  to  court  that  gentle  touch, 
And  answer  to  the  voice  which  praises 

him. 
Can  it  be  Maccabee  ?  rejoin' d  the  King, 
Or  are  the  secret  wishes  of  my  soul 
Indeed   fulfill' d,    and    hath    the    grave 

given  up 
Its  dead  ?  .  .  So  saying,  on  the  old  man 

he  tum'd 
Eyes  full  of  wide  astonishment,  which 

told 
The  incipient  thought  that  for  incredible 
He  spake  no  farther.     But  enough  had 

pass'd,  329 

For  old  Siverian  started  at  the  words 


Like  one  who  sees  a  spectre,   and  «\-. 

claim'd, 
Blind  that  I  was  to  know  him  not  till 

now  ! 
My  Master,  O  my  Master  ! 

He  meantime 
With  easy  pace  moved  on  to  meet  their 

march. 
King,  to  Pelayo  he  began,  this  day 
By  means  scarce  less  than  miracle,  thy 

throne 
Is  stablish'd,  and  the  wrongs  of  Spain 

revenged. 
Orpas  the  accursed,  upon  yonder  field 
Lies    ready    for    the    ravens.     By    the 

Moors 
Treacherously  slain.  Count  Julian  will 

be  found  340      ,' 

Before  Saint  Peter's  altar  ;   unto  him 
Grace  was  vouchsafed ;     and   by   that 

holy  power 
Which  at  Visonia  from  the  Primate's 

hand 
Of  his  own  proper  act  to  me  was  given, 
Unworthy  as  I  am,  .  .  yet  sure  I  think 
Not  without  mystery  as  the  event  hath 

shown,  .  . 
Did  I  accept  Count  Julian's  penitence. 
And  reconcile  the  dying  man  to  Heaven. 
Beside   him    hath   his   daughter  fallen 

asleep ; 
Deal  honourably  with  his  remains,  and 

let  350 

One  grave  with  Christian  rites  receive 

them  both. 
Is  it  not  written  that  as  the  Tree  falls 
So  it  shall  lie  ? 

In  this  and  all  things  else, 
Pelayo  answer' d,  looking  wistfully 
Upon  the  Goth,  thy  pleasure  shall  be 

done. 
Then  Roderick  saw  that  he  was  known, 

and  turn'd  P 

His  head  away  in  silence.     But  the  old 

man 


338      RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


Laid  bold  upon  his  bridle,  and  look'd  up 
In    bis    master's    face,     weeping    and 

silently. 
Thereat  the  Goth  ^ith  fervent  pressure 

took  360 

His  hand,  and  bending  down  toward  him 

said. 
My  good  Siverian,  go  not  thou  this  day 
To   war !     I   charge   thee  keep   thyself 

from  harm  ! 
Thou  art  past  the  age  for  battles,  and 

with  whom 
Hereafter  should  thy  mistress  talk  of  me 
If  thou  wert  gone  ?  .  .  Thou  seest  I  am 

unarm' d; 
Thus  disarray' d  as  thou  beholdest  me, 
Clean  through  yon  miscreant  army  have 

I  cut 
My  way  unhurt ;    but  being  once  by 

Heaven 
Preserved,  I  would  not  perish  with  the 

guilt  370 

Of  having  wilfully  provoked  my  death. 
Give  me  thy  helmet  and  thy  cuirass  !  .  . 

nay,  .  . 
Thou  wert  not  wont  to  let  me  ask  in 

vain. 
Nor  to  gainsay  me  when  my  will  was 

known ! 
To  thee  methinks  I  should  be  still  the 

King. 

Thus  saying,  they  withdrew  a  little 
way 

Within  the  trees.  Roderick  alighted 
there. 

And  in  the  old  man's  armour  dight  him- 
self. 

Dost  thou  not  marvel  by  what  wondrous 
chance. 

Said  he,  Orelio  to  his  master's  hand  380 

Hath  been  restored  ?  I  found  the 
renegade 

Of  Seville  on  his  back,  and  hurl'd  him 
down 


Headlong    to    the    earth.     The    noble     | 

animal 
Rejoicingly  obey'd  my  hand  to  shake 
His  recreant  burthen  off,  and  trample  out 
The  life  which  once  I  spared  in  evil  hour. 
Now  let  me  meet  Witiza's  viperous  sons 
In  3'onder  field,  and  then  I  may  go  rest 
In  peace,  .  .  my  work  is  done  ! 

And  nobly  done  ! 
Exclaim' d  the  old  man.     Oh  !   thou  art 

greater  now  390 

Than  in  that  glorious  hour  of  victory 
When  grovelling  in  the  dust  Witiza  laj', 
The  prisoner  of  thy  hand  I  .  .  Roderick 

replied, 
0  good  Siverian,  happier  victor}- 
Thy  son  hath  now  achieved !   .   .   the 

victory 
Over  the  world,  his  sins,  and  his  despair. 
If  on  the  field  my  body  should  be  found, 
See  it,  I  charge  thee,  laid  in  Julian's 

grave, 
And  let  no  idle  ear  be  told  for  whom 
Thou  mournest.     Thou  wilt  use  Orelio 
As  doth  beseem  the  steed  which  hath 

so  oft  401 

Carried  a  King  to  battle ;  .  .  he  hath 

done 
Good  service  for  his  rightful  Lord  to- 
day, 
And  better  yet  must  do.     Siverian,  now 
Farewell !    I  tliink  we  shall  not  meet 

again 
Till  it  be  in  that   world  where  never 

change 
Is  known,  and  they  who  love  shall  part 

no  more. 
Commend  me  to  my  mother's  praj-ers, 

and  say 
That  never  man  enjoy'd 

peace 
Than  Roderick  at  this  hour 

friend. 
How  dear  thou  art  to  mo  these  tears 

may  tell  ! 


heavenlier 

0  faithful 
410 


XXV.    RODERICK   IN   BATTLE 


339 


With  that  he  fell  upon  the  old  niaivs 
neck  ; 

Then  vaulted  in  the  saddle,  pave  the 
reins. 

And  soon  rejoin'd  the  host.     On,  com- 
rades, on ! 

Victory  and  Vengeance  !    he  exclaira'd, 
and  took 

The  lead  on  that  good  charger,  he  alone 

Horsed  for  the  onset.     They  with  one 
consent 

Gave  all  their  voices  to  the  inspiring  cry, 

Victory  and  Vengeance  !    and  the  hills 
and  rocks 

Caught  the  prophetic  shout  and  roll'd 
it  round.  420 

Count  Pedro's  people  heard  amid  the 
heat 
f  Of  battle,  and  returned  the  glad  acclaim. 
J  The  astonish' d  Musselmen,  on  all  sides 
charged. 

Hear  that  tremendous  cry ;    yet  man- 
fully 

They  stood,  and  every  wherewith  gallant 
front 

Opposed  in  fair  array  the  shock  of  war. 

Desperately  they  fought,  like  men  ex- 
pert in  arms, 

And  knowing  that  no  safety  could  be 
found, 

Save  from  their  own  right  hands.     No 
former  day  429 

Of  all  his  long  career  had  seen  their  chief 

Approved  so  well ;  nor  had  Witiza's  sons 

Ever  before  this  hour  achieved  in  fight 

Such  feats  of  resolute  valour.     Sisibert 

Beheld  Pelayo  in  the  field  afoot. 

And  twice  essay' d  beneath  his  horse's 
feet 

To  thrust  him  down.     Twice  did  the 
Prince  evade 

The  shock,  and  twice  upon  his  shield 
received 

The  fratricidal   sword.     Tempt   me   no 
more. 


Son  of  Witiza,  cried  the  indignant  chief, 

Lest  I  forget   what   mother  gave  thee 
birth !  440 

Go  meet  thy  death  from  any  hand  but 
mine  ! 

He  said,  and  turn'd  aside.     Fitliest  from 
me  ! 

ExclaimM  a  dreadful  voice,  as  through 
the  throng 

Orelio  forced  his  way  ;    fitliest  from  me 

Receive  the  rightful  death  too  long  with- 
held ! 

'Tis  Roderick  strikes  the  blow  !   And  as 
he  spake. 

Upon  the  traitor's  shoulder   fierce   he 
drove 

The  weapon,  well-bestow'd.     He  in  the 
seat 

Totter' d  and  fell.     The  Avenger  has- 
ten'd  on 

In  search  of  Ebba ;    and  in  the  heat  of 
fight  450 

Rejoicing  and  forgetful  of  all  else. 

Set  up  his  cry  as  he  was  wont  in  youth, 

Roderick  the  Goth  !  .  .  his  war-cry 
known  so  well. 

Pelayo  eagerly  took  up  the  word. 

And  shouted  out  his  kinsman's  name 
beloved, 

Roderick  the  Goth  !   Roderick  and  Vic- 
tory ! 

Roderick  and  Vengeance  !    Odoar  gave 
it  forth  ; 

Urban  repeated  it,  and  through  his  ranks 

Count  Pedro  sent  the  cry.     Not  from 
the  field 

Of  his  great  victory,  when  Witiza  fell. 

With    louder    acclamations    had    that 
name  461 

Been  borne  abroad  upon  the  winds  of 
heaven. 

The  unreflecting  throng,  who  yesterday, 

If  it  had  pass'd  their  lips,  would  with 
a  curse 

Have  clogg'cl  it,  cciioctl  it  as  if  it  came 


340      RODERICK,   THE   LAST  OF  THE   GOTHS 


From  some  celestial  voice  in  the  air, 
reveal' d 

To   be  the  certain   j^ledge   of   all   their 
hopes. 

Roderick  the  Goth  !   Roderick  and  Vic- 
tory ! 

Roderick  and  Vengeance  !  O'er  the  field 
it  spread, 

All  hearts  and  tongues  uniting  in  the 
cry ;  47° 

Mountains    and    rocks    and    vales    re- 
echoed round  ; 

And  he,  rejoicing  in  his  strength,  rode 
on, 

Laying  on  the  Moors  with  that   good 
sword,  and  smote. 

And    overthrew,    and    scatter' d,    and 
destroyed. 

And  trampled  down  ;   and  still  at  every 
blow 

Exultingly  he  sent  the  war-cry  forth, 

Roderick  the  Goth  !   Roderick  and  Vic- 
tory ! 

Roderick  and  Vengeance  ! 

Thus  he  made  his  way, 

Smiting   and  slapng  through  the  as- 
tonish'd  ranks,  479 

Till  he  beheld,  where  on  a  fierj'  barb, 

Ebba,  performing  well  a  soldier's  part, 

Dealt  to  the  right  and  left  his  deadly 
blows. 

With    mutual    rage    they    met.     The 
renegade 

Displays  a  scymitar,  the  splendid  gift 

Of  Walid  from  Damascus  sent ;   its  hilt 

Emboss' d  with  gems,  its  blade  of  perfect 
steel. 

Which,  like  a  mirror  sparkling  to  the 
sun 

With  dazzling  splendour,  flash' d.     The 
Goth  objects 

His  shield,  and  on  its  rim  received  the 
edge 

Driven  from  its  aim  aside,  and  of  it:^ 
force  490 


Diminish' d.     Many  a  frustrate   stroke 

was  dealt 
On  either  part,  and  many  a  foin  and 

thrust 
Aim'd  and  rebated;     many  a   deadly 

blow, 
Straight,     or    reverse,     delivered    and 

repell'd. 
Roderick  at   length   with   l^etter  speed 

hath  reach' d 
The  apostate's  turban,  and  through  all 

its  folds 
The  true  Cantabrian  weapon  making  way 
Attain" d   his   forehead.     Wretch  !     the 

avenger  cried. 
It     comes     from     Roderick's     hand ! 

Roderick  the  Goth, 
Who  spared,  who  trusted  thee,  and  was 

betray' d  !  500 

Go  tell  thy  father  now  how  thou  hast 

sped 
With  all  thy  treasons !    Spying  thus  he 

seized 
The  miserable,  who,  blinded  now  with 

blood, 
Reel'd  in  the  saddle  ;  and  with  sidelong 

step 
Backing  Orelio,  drew  him  to  the  ground. 
He  shrieking,  as  beneath  the  horse's  feet 
He  fell,  forgot  his  late-learnt  creed,  and 

called 
On  Mary's  name.     The  dreadful  Goth 

pass'd  on. 
Still  plunging  through  the  thickest  war, 

and  still 
Scattering,    where'er    he    tum'd,    the 

affrighted  ranks.  5»o 

0  who  could  tell  what   deeds  were 

wrought  that  day  ; 
Or  who  endure  to  hear  the  tale  of  rage. 
Hatred,  and  madness,  and  despair,  and 

fear. 
Horror,   and   wounds,   and  agony,   and 

death, 


XXV.    RODERICK   IN   BATTLE 


341 


The  cries,  the  blasphemies,  the  shrieks, 

and  groans, 
And  prayers,   which  mingled  with  the 

dui  of  arms 
In  one  wild  uproar  of  terrihc  sounds  ; 
While  over  all  predominant  was  heard, 
Reiterate  from  the  coucjuerors  o'er  the 

held, 
Roderick  the  Goth  !   Roderick  and  Vic- 
tory !  520 
Roderick  and  Vengeance  !  .  .  Woo  for 

Africa  ! 
Woe  for  the  circumcised  !    Woe  for  the 

faith 
Of  the  lying  IshmaeUte  that  hour  !  The 

Chiefs 
Have  fallen ;    the  Moors,  confused  and 

captainless, 
And  panic-stricken,  vainly  seek  to  escape 
The  inevitable  fate.     Turn  where  they 

will, 
Strong  in  his  cause,  rejoicing  in  success, 
Insatiate  at  the  banquet  of  revenge, 
The  enemy  is  there ;    look  where  they 

will. 
Death    hath   environed   their    devoted 

ranks :  53° 

Fly  where  they  will,  the  avenger  and  the 

sword 
Await  them,  .  .  wretches  !    whom  the 

righteous  arm 
Hath  overtaken  !  .  .  Join'd  in  bonds  of 

faith 
Accurs'd,  the  most  flagitious  of  mankind 
From  all  j)arts  met  are  here  ;   the  apos- 
tate Greek, 
The  vicious  Syrian,  and  the  sullen  Copt, 
The  Persian  cruel  and  corrupt  of  soul. 
The  Arabian  robber,  and  the  prowling 


Of  Africa,  who  from  their  thirsty  sands 
Pray  that  the  locuata  on  the  jKJopled 

plain  540 

May  settle  and  prepare  their  way.    Cou- 

i  oinod 


Beneath     an     impious     faith,     which 

sanctilics 
To  them  all  deeds  of  wickedness  and 

blood,  .  . 
Yea,  and  halloos  them  on,  .  .  hero  are 

they  met 
To    bo   conjoin' d   in    punishment    this 

hour. 
For  plunder,  violation,  massacre, 
All  hideous,  all  unutterable  things, 
The  righteous,  the  immitigable  sword 
Exacts  due  vengeance  now  !    the  cry  of 

blood 
Is  heard  :  the  measure  of  their  crimes  is 

full ;  550 

Such  mercy  as  the  Moor  at  Auria  gave, 
Such  mercy  hath  ho  found  this  dreadful 

hour  ! 

The  evening  darken' d,  but  the  aveng- 
ing sword 
Turn'd  not  away  its  edge  till  night  had 

closed 
Upon  the  field  of  blood.     The  Chieftains 

then 
Blew  the  recall,  and  from  their  i>erfect 

work 
Return'd  rejoicing,  all  but  he  for  whom 
All  look'd  with  most  expectance.     Ho 

full  sure 
Had  thought  upon  that  held  to  find  his 

end 
Desired,     and    with    Florinda    in    the 

grave  560 

Rest,  in  indissoluble  union  join'd. 
But  still  where  through  the  press  of  war 

he  went 
Half -arm' d,    and   like   a   lover  8eekin{{ 

death. 
The  arrows  pasa'd  him  by  to  right  and 

left. 
The  spear-point  pierced  him   not,   the 

scymitar 
Glanced  from  hia  helmet ;    he,  when  ho 

beheld 


342      RODERICK,  THE   LAST   OF   THE   GOTHS 


The  rout  complete,  saw  that  the  shield 

of  Heaven 
Had  been  extended  over  him  once  more, 
And  bowed  before  its  will.     Upon  the 

banks 
Of  Sella  was  Orelio  found,  his  legs     57° 
And   flanks   incarnadined,    his    poitral 

smeared 
With  froth  and  foam  and  gore,  his  silver 

mane 
Sprinkled  with  blood,  which  hung  on 

every  hair, 
Aspersed    like    dew-drops ;     trembling 

there  he  stood 
From  the  toil  of  battle,  and  at  times 

sent  forth 
His  tremulous  voice  far  echoing  loud 

and  shrill, 
A  frequent  anxious  cry,  with  which  he 

seem'd 


To  call  the  master  whom  he  loved  so 

well, 
And  who  had  thus  again  forsaken  him. 
Siverian's  helm  and  cuirass  on  the  grass 
Lay  near ;    and  Julian's  sword,  its  hilt 

and  chain  581 

Clotted  with  blood  ;   but  where  was  he 

whose  hand 
Had  wielded  it  so  well  that  glorious 

day  V  .  , 

Days,  months,  and  years,  and  genera- 
tions pass'd, 

And  centuries  held  their  course,  before, 
far  off 

Within  a  hermitage  near  Viseu's  walls 

A  humble  tomb  was  found,  which  bore 
inscribed 

In  ancient  characters  King  Roderick's 
name. 


SELECTED   MINOR  POEMS 


THE   HOLLY   TREE 

[First  published  in  The  Morning  Post, 
Deo.  17,  1798,  afterwards  in  The  Annual 
Anthology^  1799, and  \n Metrical  Ta/w,  1805.] 

1 

0  Reader  !   hast  thou  ever  stood  to  sec 

The  Holly  Tree  ? 
The  eye  that  contemplates  it  well  per- 
ceives 
Its  glossy  leaves 
Order  d  by  an  intelligence  so  wise, 
As     might     confound     the     Atheist's 
sophistries. 

2 

Below,  a  circling  fence,  its  leaves  are 

seen 
Wrinkled  and  keen ; 
No  grazing  cattle  through  their  prickly 

round 
Can  reach  to  wound  ;  lo 

But  as  they  grow  where  nothing  is  to 

fear, 
Smooth  and  unarm'd  the  pointless  leaves 

appear. 

3 

1  love  to  view  these  things  with  curious 

eyes, 
And  moralize  : 
And  in  this  wisdom  of  the  Holly  Tree 

Can  emblems  see 
Wherewith  perchance  to  make  a  pleasant 

rhyme. 
One  which  may  profit  in  the  after  time. 


Thus,  though  abroad  perchance  I  might 
appear 
Harsh  and  austere,  20 


To  those  who  on  my  leisure  would  in- 
trude 
Reserved  and  rude. 
Gentle  at  home  amid  my  friends  I'd  be 
Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  Holly 
Tree. 


And  should  my  youth,  as  youth  is  apt 
I  know, 
Some  harshness  show. 
All  vain  asperities  I  day  by  day 

Would  wear  away. 
Till  the  smooth  temper  of  my  age  should 

be 
Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  Holly 
Tree.  30 


And  as  when  all  the  summer  trees  are 
seen 
So  bright  and  green, 
The  Holly  leaves  a  sober  Lae  display 

Less  bright  than  they. 
But  when  the  bare  and  wintry  woods  we 

see. 
What   then   so  cheerful   as   the   Holly 
Tree  ? 


So   serious   should    my    youth    appear 
among 
The  thoughtless  throng, 
So  would  I  seem  amid  the  young  and 

gay 

More  grave  than  they,  40 

That  in  my  age  as  cheerful  I  might  be 
As  the  green  winter  of  the  Holly  Tree. 

Westbury,  1796. 


344 


SELECTED  MINOR  POEMS 


THE  DEAD  FRIEND 

[Published  in  The  Annual  Anthology,  1799, 
and  in  Metrical  Tales,  1805.] 


Not  to  the  grave,  not  to  the  grave,  my 

Soul, 

Descend  to  contemplate 

The  form  that  once  was  dear 

The  Spirit  is  not  there 

Which  kindled  that  dead  eye, 

Which  throbb'd  in  that  cold  heart. 

Which  in  that  motionless  hand 

Hath  met  thy  friendly  grasp. 

The  Spirit  is  not  there  ! 

It  is  but  lifeless  perishable  flesh     lo 

That  moulders  in  the  grave  ; 

Earth,    air,    and    water's    ministering 

particles 

Now  to  the  elements 

Resolved,  their  uses  done. 

Not  to  the  grave,  not  to  the  grave,  my 

Soul, 

Follow  thy  friend  beloved. 

The  spirit  is  not  there  ! 

2 

Often  together  have  we  talk'd  of  death  ; 
How  sweet  it  were  to  see 
All  doubtful  things  made  clear  ;    20 
How  sweet  it  were  with  powers 

Such  as  the  Cherubim, 
To  view  the  depth  of  Heaven ! 
/       0  Edmund  !  thou  hast  first 
/      Begun  the  travel  of  Eternity  ! 
'  I  look  upon  the  stars. 

And  think  that  thou  art  there, 

Unfetter' d  as  the  thought  that  follows 

thee. 


And  we  have  often  said  how  sweet  it 

were 

With  unseen  ministry  of  angel  power  30 

To  watch  the  friends  we  loved. 

Edmimd  !  we  did  not  err  1 


Sure  I  have  felt  thy  presence !    Thou 

hast  given 

A  birth  to  holy  thought. 

Has  kept  me  from  the  world  unstain'd 

and  pure. 

Edmund  !  we  did  not  err  ! 

Our  best  affections  here 

They  are  not  hke  the  toys  of  infancy  ; 

The  Soul  outgrows  them  not ; 

We  do  not  cast  them  off ;  40 

Oh  if  it  could  be  so, 

It  were  indeed  a  dreadful  thing  to  die  ! 

4 

Not  to  the  grave,  not  to  the  grave,  my 

Soul, 

Follow  thy  friend  beloved  ! 

But  in  the  lonely  hour. 

But  in  the  evening  walk. 

Think  that  he  companies  thy  solitude ; 

Think  that  he  holds  with  thee 
y  Mysterious  intercourse ; 

And  though  remembrance  wake  a  tear, 
There  will  be  joy  in  grief.  51 

Westbury,  1799. 


TO  lyiARY 

[First  published  in  The  Morning  Post, 
Oct.  20,  1803,  under  the  title:  'Stanzas 
MTitten  after  a  Long  Absence.'] 

Mary  !    ten  chequer'd  years  have  past 
Since  we  beheld  each  other  last ; 
Yet,  Mary,  I  remember  thee. 
Nor  canst  thou  have  forgotten  me. 

The  bloom  was  then  upon  thy  face. 
Thy  form  had  every  youthful  grace  ; 
I  too  had  then  the  warmth  of  youth, 
And  in  our  hearts  was  all  its  truth. 

We  conversed,  were  there  others  by. 
With  common  mirth  and  random  eye  ; 
But  when  escaped  the  sight  of  men,     u 
I  How  serious  was  oui*  converse  then  ! 


TO   MARY 


345 


Our  talk  was  then  of  years  to  come, 
Of  hopes  which  ask'd  a  humble  doom, 
Themes  which  to  loving  thoughts  might 

move. 
Although  we  never  spake  of  love. 

At  our  last  meeting  sure  thy  heart 
Was  even  as  loth  as  mine  to  jmrt  ; 
And  yet  we  little  thought  that  then 
We  parted  .  .  not  to  meet  again.  20 

Long,  Mary  !    after  that  adieu, 
Mv  dearest  day-dreams  were  of  you  ; 
In  sleep  I  saw  you  still,  and  long 
Made  you  the  theme  of  secret  song. 

When  manhood  and  its  cares  came  on, 
The  humble  hopes  of  youth  were  gone ; 
And  other  hopes  and  other  fears 
Effaced  the  thoughts  of  happier  years. 

Meantime  through  many  a  varied  year 
Of  thee  no  tidings  did  I  hear,  30 

And  thou  hast  never  heard  my  name 
Save  from  the  vague  reports  of  fame. 

But  then  I  trust  detraction's  lie 
Hath  kindled  anger  in  thine  eye  ; 
And  thou  my  praise  wert  proud  to  see, .  . 
My  name  should  still  be  dear  to  thee. 

Ten  years  have  held  their  course  ;   thus 

iate 
I  learn  the  tidings  of  thy  fate ; 
A  Husband  and  a  Father  now. 
Of  thee,  a  Wife  and  Mother  thou.      40 

And,  Mary,  as  for  thee  I  frame 

A  prayer  which  hath  no  selfish  aim. 

No  happier  lot  can  I  wish  thee 

Than  such  as  Heaven  hath  granted  me. 

London,  1802. 


FUNERAL  SONG,  FOR  THE 

PRINCESS  CHARLOITE 

OF   WALES 

[Published   in   The  Annual   Register   for 
1827  and  in  Friendship's  Offering  for  182b.J 

In  its  summer  pride  array'd. 

Low  our  Tree  of  Hope  is  laid  ! 

Low  it  lies :  .  .  in  evil  hour. 

Visiting  the  bridal  bower, 

Death  hath  levcU'd  root  and  flower. 

Windsor,  in  thy  sacred  shade, 

(This  the  end  of  pomp  and  power  !) 

Have  the  rites  of  death  been  paid  : 

Windsor,  in  thy  sacred  shade 

Is  the  Flower  of  Brunswick  laid  !         10 

Ye  whose  relics  rest  around. 
Tenants  of  this  funeral  ground  ! 
Know  ye,  »Spirits,  who  is  come, 
By  immitigable  doom 
Summon'd  to  the  untimely  tomb  ? 
Late  with  youth  and  splendour  crown' d. 
Lute  in  beauty's  vernal  bloom. 
Late  with  love  and  joyaunce  blest ! 
Never  more  lamented  guest 
Was  in  Windsor  laid  to  rest.  20 

Henry,  thou  of  saintly  worth, 
Thou,  to  whom  thy  Windsor  gave 
Nativity  and  name,  and  grave  ; 
Thou  art  in  this  hallowed  earth 
Qadled  for  the  immortal  birth ; 
Heavily  upon  his  head 
Ancestral  crimes  were  visited  : 
He,  in  spirit  like  a  child, 
Meek  of  heart  and  undefiled. 
Patiently  his  crown  resign'd,  30 

And  fix'd  on  heaven  his  heavenly  mind. 
Blessing,  while  he  kiss'd  the  roti, 
His  Redeemer  and  his  God. 

Now  may  ho  in  realms  of  bliss       ^ 

(Jrcet  a  .soul  as  pure  as  his. 


346 


SELECTED   MINOR   POEMS 


Passive  as  that  humble  spirit, 
Lies  his  bold  dethroner  too  ; 
A  dreadful  debt  did  he  inherit 
To  his  injured  lineage  due  ; 
111- Starr' d  prince,  whose  martial  merit  40 
His  own  England  long  might  rue  ! 
Mournful  was  that  Edward's  fame, 
Won  in  fields  contested  well. 
While  he  sought  his  rightful  claim  : 
Witness  Aire's  imhappy  water. 
Where  the  ruthless  Chfford  fell ; 
And     when    Wharfe     ran     red     with 

slaughter. 
On  the  day  of  Towton's  field. 
Gathering,  in  its  guilty  flood. 
The  carnage  and  the  ill-spilt  blood      50 
That  forty  thousand  lives  could  yield. 
Cressy  was  to  this  but  sport,  .  . 
Poictiers  but  a  pageant  vain  ; 
And  the  victory  of  Spain 
Seem'd  a  strife  for  pastime  meant, 
And  the  work  of  Agincourt 
Only  like  a  tournament ; 
Half  the  blood  which  there  was  spent. 
Had  sufficed  again  to  gain 
Anjou  and  ill-yielded  Maine,  60 

Normandy  and  Aquitaine, 
And  Our  Lady's  ancient  towers, 
Maugre  all  the  Valois'  powers. 
Had  a  second  time  been  ours.  .  . 
A  gentle  daughter  of  thy  line, 
Edward,  lays  her  dust  with  thine. 

Thou,  Elizabeth,  art  here  ; 
Thou  to  whom  all  griefs  were  known  ; 
Who  wert  placed  upon  the  bier 
In  happier  hour  than  on  the  throne.    70 
Fatal  daughter,  fatal  mother. 
Raised  to  that  ill-omen'd  station, 
Father,  uncle,  sons,  and  brother, 
Mourn' d  in  blood  her  elevation  ! 
Woodville,  in  the  realms  of  bliss, 
To  thine  offspring  thou  may'st  say, 
Early  death  is  happiness  ; 
And  favour  d  in  their  lot  are  they 


Who  are  not  left  to  learn  below 
That  length  of  Ufe  is  length  of  woe. 
Lightly  let  this  ground  be  prest ; 
A  broken  heart  is  here  at  rest. 


80 


But  thou,  Seymour,  with  a  greeting, 
Such  as  sisters  use  at  meeting, 
Joy,  and  sympathy,  and  love. 
Wilt  hail  her  in  the  seats  above. 
Like  in  loveliness  were  ye, 
By  a  like  lamented  doom. 
Hurried  to  an  early  tomb. 
While  together,  spirits  blest,  90 

Here  your  earthly  relics  rest. 
Fellow  angels  shall  ye  be 
In  the  angelic  company. 

Henry,  too,  hath  here  his  part ; 
At  the  gentle  Seymour's  side. 
With  his  best  beloved  bride. 
Cold  and  quiet,  here  are  laid 
The  ashes  of  that  fiery  heart. 
Not  with  his  tyrannic  spirit. 
Shall  our  Charlotte's  soul  inherit ;      100 
No,  by  Fisher's  hoary  head, — 
By  More,  the  learned  and  the  good,— 
By   Katharine's   wrongs   and   Boleyn's 

blood, — 
By  the  life  so  basely  shed 
Of  the  pride  of  Norfolk's  line, 
By  the  axe  so  often  red. 
By  the  fire  with  martyrs  fed. 
Hateful  Henry,  not  with  thee 
May  her  happy  spirit  be !  109 

And  here  Hes  one  whose  tragic  name 
A  reverential  thought  may  claim  ; 
That    murder' d    Monarch,    whom    the 

grave. 
Revealing  its  long  secret,  gave 
Again  to  sight,  that  we  might  spy 
His  comely  face  and  waking  eye ! 
There,  thrice  fifty  years,  it  lay. 
Exempt  from  natural  decay. 
Unclosed  and  bright,  as  if  to  say, 


FUNERAL   SONG 


347 


A  plague,  of  bloodier,  baser  birth,      1x9 
Than  that  beneath  whose  rage  he  bled, 
Was  loose  upon  our  guilty  earth  ; — 
iSuch  awcful  warning  from  the  dead, 
Was  given  by  that  portentous  eye  ; 
Then  it  closed  eternally. 

Ye  whoso  relics  rest  around, 
Tenants  of  this  funeral  ground  ; 
Even  in  your  immortal  spheres, 
What  fresh  yearnings  will  ye  feel, 
When  this  earthly  guest  appears  ! 
Us  she  leaves  in  grief  and  t<?ars  ;         130 
But  to  you  will  she  reveal 
Tidings  of  old  England's  weal ; 
Of  a  righteous  war  pursued, 
Long,  through  evil  and  through  good, 
With  unshaken  fortitude ; 
Of  peace,  in  battle  twice  achieved  ; 
Of  her  fiercest  foe  subdued, 
And  Europe  from  the  yoke  rclievM, 
Upon  that  Brabantine  plain  ! 
i:>uch  the  proud,  the  virtuous  story,  140 
8uch  the  great,  the  endless  glory 
Of  her  father's  splendid  reign  ! 
He  who  wore  the  sable  mail, 
Might  at  this  heroic  tale. 
Wish  himself  on  earth  again. 

One  who  reverently,  for  thee, 
Raised  the  strain  of  bridal  verse, 
Flower  of  Brunswick  !   mournfully 
Lays  a  garland  on  thy  herse. 


MY  DAYS  AMONG  THE  DEAD  ARE 
■ —        PAST 

Mv  days  among  the  Dead  are  past ; 

Around  me  I  behold. 
Where'er  these  casual  eyes  are  cast, 

The  mighty  minds  of  old  ; 
My  never-failing  friends  are  they. 
With  whom  I  converse  day  by  day. 


With  them  I  take  delight  in  weal, 

And  seek  relief  in  woo  ; 
And  while  I  understand  and  feel 

How  much  to  them  1  owe,  10 

My  checks  have  often  been  bcdew'd 
With  tears  of  thoughtful  gratitude. 

3 

^ly  thoughts  are  with  the  Dead,  with 
them 

I  live  in  long-past  years, 
Their  virtues  love,  their  faults  condemn. 

Partake  their  hopes  and  fears. 
And  from  their  lessons  seek  and  find 
Instruction  with  an  humble  mind. 


My  hopes  are  with  the  Dead,  anon 
My  place  with  them  will  be, 

And  I  with  them  shall  travel  on 
Through  all  Futurity  ; 

Yet  leaving  here  a  name,  I  trust, 

That  will  not  perish  in  the  dust. 

Ke^icick,  1818. 


imTATED  FROM  THE  PERSL^N 

[First  published  in  The  Bijou  for  1828.] 

Lord  !  who  art  merciful  as  well  as  just. 
Incline  thine  ear  to  me,  a  child  of  dust! 
Not  what  I  would,  0  Lord  !  I  offer  thee, 
Alas  !  but  what  I  can.  [man, 
Father  Almighty,  who  hast  made  me 
And  bade  me  look  to  Heaven,  for  Thou 

art  there, 
Accept  my  sacrifice  and  humble  prayer. 
Four  things  which  arc  not  in  thy 
treasury, 
I  lay  before  thee.  Lord,  with  this  peti- 
tion :  .  . 
My  nothingness,  my  wants,         10 
My  sins,  and  my  contrition. 

Lou. till r  Castle,  1828. 


348 


SELECTED   MINOR   POEMS 


And  through  the  wood-shelter. 

Among  crags  in  its  flurry,          40 
Helter-skelter, 

THE  CATARACT  OF  LODORE 

DESCRIBED  IN  RHYMES  FOR  THE  NURSERY 

Hurry-scurry. 

[Published  in  Joanna  Baillie's  A  Collection 

Here  it  comes  sparkling. 

of  Poems,  chiefly  Manuscript,  1823.] 

And  there  it  lies  darkling  ; 

'  How  does  the  Water 

Now  smoaking  and  frothing 

Come  down  at  Lodore  ? ' 

Its  tumult  and  wrath  in, 

My  little  boy  ask'd  me 

Till  in  this  rapid  race 
On  which  it  is  bent, 

Thus,  once  on  a  time  ; 
And  moreover  he  task'd  me 

It  reaches  the  place 

To  tell  him  in  rhyme. 

Of  its  steep  descent.              50 

Anon  at  the  word, 

The  Cataract  strong 

There  first  came  one  daughter 

Then  plunges  along. 

And  then  came  another. 

Striking  and  raging 

To  second  and  third               lo 

As  if  a  war  waging 

The  request  of  their  brother, 

Its  caverns  and  rocks  among  : 

And  to  hear  how  the  water 

Rising  and  leaping, 

Comes  down  at  Lodore, 

Sinking  and  creeping. 

With  its  rush  and  its  roar, 

Swelling  and  sweeping. 

As  many  a  time 

Showering  and  springing. 

They  had  seen  it  before. 

Flying  and  flinging,               Co 

So  I  told  them  in  rhyme, 

Writhing  and  ringing. 

For  of  rhymes  I  had  store  : 

Eddying  and  whisking. 

And  'twas  in  my  vocation 

Spouting  and  frisking, 

For  their  recreation               20 

Turning  and  twisting. 

That  so  I  should  sing  ; 

Around  and  around 

Because  I  was  Laureate 

With  endless  rebound ! 

To  them  and  the  King. 

Smiting  and  fighting. 

From  its  sources  which  well 
In  the  Tarn  on  the  fell ; 

A  sight  to  delight  in  ; 
Confounding,  astounding. 

From  its  fountains 

Dizzying  and  deafening  the  ear  with  its 
sound.                          70 

In  the  mountains. 

Its  rills  and  its  gills  ; 

Collecting,  projecting, 

Through  moss  and  through  brake, 

Receding  and  speeding, 

It  runs  and  it  creeps              30 

And  shocking  and  rocking, 

For  awhile,  till  it  sleeps 

And  darting  and  parting. 

In  its  own  little  Lake. 

And  threading  and  spreading, 

And  thence  at  departing, 

And  whizzing  and  hissing. 

Awakening  and  starting, 

And  dripping  and  skipping. 

It  runs  through  the  reeds 

And  hitting  and  splitting. 

And  away  it  proceeds, 

And  shining  and  twining, 

Through  meadow  and  glade. 

And  rattling  and  battling.            So 

In  sun  and  in  shade. 

And  shaking  and  quaking. 

THE   CATARACT   OF   LODORE 


349 


And  pouring  and  roaring, 

And  waving  and  raving. 

And  tossing  and  crossing. 

And  flowing  and  going. 

And  running  and  stunning. 

And  foaming  and  roaming. 

And  dinning  and  spinning. 

And  dropping  and  hopping. 

And  working  and  jerking,  90 

And  guggling  and  struggling. 

And  heaving  and  cleaving, 

And  moaning  and  groaning  ; 

And  glittering  and  frittering, 
And  gathering  and  feathering. 
And  whitening  and  brightening. 
And  quivering  and  shivering, 
And  hurrying  and  skurrying, 
And  thundering  and  floundering  ; 

Dividing  and  gliding  and  sliding,  100 
And  falling  and  brawling  and  sprawling, 
And  driving  and  riving  and  striving. 
And  sprinkling  and  twinkling  and  wrink- 
ling, [rounding, 
And  sounding  and  bounding  and 
And     bubbling     and     troubling     and 

doubling. 
And     grumbling    and    rumbling    and 
tumbling,  [tering ; 

And  clattering  and  battering  and  shat- 

Retreating  and  beating  and  meeting  and 
sheeting,  [spraying, 

Delaying  and  straying  and  playing  and 

Advancing  and  prancing  and  glancing 
and  dancing,  110 

Recoiling,  turmoiling  and  toiling  and 
boiling, 

And  gleaming  and  streaming  and  steam- 
ing and  beaming. 

And  rushing  and  flushing  and  brushing 
and  gushing. 

And  flapping  and  rapping  and  clapping 
and  slapping,  [and  twirling, 

And  curling  and  whirling  and  purling  j 


And  thunij)ing  and  plumping  hiuI  bump- 
ing ami  jumj)ing. 

And  dashing  and  flashing  and  splashing 
and  clashing  ; 

And     so     never    ending,     but     always 
descending. 

Sounds  and  motions  for  ever  and  ever 
are  blending. 

All  at  once  and  all  o'er,'  with  a  mighty 
uproar,  120 

And  this  way  the  Water  comes  down  at 
Lodore. 
KeswicJi,  1820. 


SONNETS 

[The  two  follewing  Sonnets  were  numlierotl 
V  and  XV  respectively  among  the  Sonnets 
as  printed  in  the  collected  edition  of  1837- 
1838.  The  first  was  published  in  Poems, 
1797;  the  second  in  The  Annual  Anthology, 
1800.] 

(1)    THE  EVENING  RAINBOW 

[Published  in  Poema,  1797.] 

^IiLD  arch  of  promise,  on  the  evening  sky 

Thou  shinest  fair  with  many  a  lovely  ray 

Each  in  the  other  melting.     Much  mine 

eye 
Delights  to  linger  on  thee  ;   for  the  day. 
Changeful  and  many- weather' d,  seem'd 

to  smile 
Flashing   brief  splendour   through   the 

clouds  awhile,  [rain  : 

Which  deejien'd  dark  anon  and  fell  in 
But  pleasant  is  it  now  to  pause,  and  view 
Thy  various  tints  of  frail  and  watery  hue, 
And  think  the  storm  shall  not  return 

again.  10 

Such  is  the  smile  that  Piety  bestows 
On  the  good  man's  pale  cheek,  when  he, 

in  peace 
Departing  gently  from  a  world  of  woes. 
Anticipates   the    world    where   eorrowa 


1794. 


350 


SELECTED   MINOR  POEMS 


(2)    WINTER 

[Published  in  The  Annual  Anthology^  1800.] 

A  WRINKLED,  crabbed  man  they  picture 

thee, 
Old  Winter,  with  a  rugged  beard  as  grey 
As  the  long  moss  upon  the  apple-tree  ; 
Blue-lipt,  an  ice-drop  at  thy  sharp  blue 

nose, 
Close  muffled  up,  and  on  thy  dreary  way, 
Plodding  alone  through  sleet  and  drift- 
ing snows. 
They  should  have  drawn  thee  by  the 

high-heapt  hearth, 
Old  Winter  !   seated  in  thy  great  arm'd 

chair, 
Watching  the  children  at  their  Christ- 
mas mirth  ; 
Or  circled  by  them  as  thy  lips  declare  lo 
Some  merry  jest  or  tale  of  murder  dire, 
Or  troubled  spirit  that  disturbs  the  night. 
Pausing  at  times  to  rouse  the  mouldering 

fire, 
Or  taste  the  old   October  brown  and 
bright. 
Westbury,  1799. 


INSCRIPTIONS 

[This  and  the  four  following  inscriptions 
were  numbered  respectively  XI,  XVIII, 
XXX,  XXXIII,  and  XXXVIII  in  the 
Inscriptions  as  published  in  the  collected 
edition  of  1837-1838.] 

(1)    IN  A  FOREST 

[First  published  in  The  Morning  Post, 
April  13,  1799,  afterwards  in  The  Annual 
Anthology,  1799,  and  \n Metrical  Tales,  1805.] 

Stranger  !    whose  steps  have  reach'd 

this  solitude. 
Know  that  this  lonely  spot  was  dear  to 

one 
Devoted  with  no  unrequited  zeal 
To    Nature.     Hero,    delighted    he    has 

heard 


The  rustling  of  these  woods,  that  now 

perchance 
Melodious  to  the  gale  of  summer  move  ; 
And   underneath   their   shade   on   yon 

smooth  rock. 
With  grey  and  yellow  lichens  overgrown, 
Often  reclined  ;  watching  the  silent  flow 
Of  this  perspicuous  rivulet,  that  steals  lo 
Along  its  verdant  course,   .  .   till  all 

around 
Had  fiU'd  his  senses  with  tranquillity. 
And  ever  soothed  in  spirit  he  return' d 
A  happier,  better  man.    Stranger !  per- 
chance, 
Therefore  the  stream   more  lovely   to 

thine  eye 
Will  glide  along,  and  to  the  summer  gale 
The     woods     wave     more     melodious. 

Cleanse  thou  then 
The  weeds  and  mosses  from  this  letter'd 

stone. 
Westbury,  1798. 

(2)    EPITAPH 

Here  in  the  fruitful  vales  of  Somerset 
Was  Emma  born,  and  here  the  Maiden 

grew 
To  the  sweet  season  of  her  womanhood 
Beloved  and  lovely,  like  a  plant  whose 

leaf 
And  bud  and  blossom  all  are  beautiful. 
In  peacefulness  her  virgin  years  were 

past ; 
And  when  in  prosperous  wedlock  she 

was  given, 
Amid  the  Cumbrian  mountains  far  away 
She   had   her   summer   Bower.     'Twas 

like  a  dream 
Of  old  Romance  to  see  her  when  she 

plied  10 

Her  little  skiff  onDerwent's  glassy  lake; 
The  roseate  evening  resting  on  the  hills, 
The  lake  returning  back  the  hues  of 

heaven, 


EPITAPH 


351 


^Fountains    and    valea    and    waters    all 

imbued 
With  beauty,  and  in  quietness  ;  and  she, 
Nymph-like,  amid  that  glorious  solitude 
A  heavenly  presence,  gliding  in  her  joy. 
But  soon  a  wasting  malady  began 
To  prej'  upon  her,  frequent  in  attack. 
Yet   with   such   flattering   intervals   as 

mock  20 

The  hopes  of  anxious  love,  and  most  of  all 
The     sufferer,     self-deceived.     During 

those  days 
Of   treacherous  respite,    many   a   time 

hath  he, 
Who  leaves  this  record  of  his  friend, 

drawn  back 
Into  the  shadow  from  her  social  board, 
Because  too  surely  in  her  cheek  he  saw 
The    insidious    bloom    of   death ;     and 

then  her  smiles 
And  innocent  mirth  excited  deeper  grief 
Than  when  long-look' d-f or  tidings  came 

at  last, 
That,  all  her  sufferings  ended,  she  was 

laid  30 

Amid  Madeira's  orange  groves  to  rest. 
0  gentle  Emma  !  o'er  a  lovelier  form 
Than  thine,  Earth  never  closed ;    nor 

e'er  did  Heaven 
Receive  a  purer  spirit  from  the  world. 
Keswick,  1810. 

(3)    AT  BARROSA 

Though  the  four  quarters  of  the  world 

have  seen 
The  British  valour  proved  triumphantly 
Upon  the  French,  in  many  a  field  far- 
famed. 
Yet  may  the  noble  Island  in  her  rolls 
Of   glory   write   Barrosa's   name.     For 

there, 
Not  by  the  issue  of  deliberate  plans 
Consulted  well,  was  the  fierce  conflict 
won, 


Nor  by  the  leader's  eye  intuitive. 
Nor  force  of  either  arm  of  war,  nor  art 
Of  skill'd  nrtillerist,  nor  the  discipline  10 
Of  troops  to  absolute  obedience  train'd  ; 
But  by  the  spring  and  impulse  of  the 

heart. 
Brought  fairly  to  the  trial,  when  all  else 
Seem'd,     like     a     wrestler's     garment, 

thrown  aside  ; 
By  individual  courage  and  the  sense 
Of    honour,    their   old    country's,    and 

their  own. 
There  to  be  forfeited,  or  there  upheld;  .  . 
This  warm'd  the  soldier's  soul,  and  gave 

his  hand 
The  strength  that  carries  with  it  victory. 
]\Iore  to  enhance  their  praise,  the  day 

was  fought  20 

Against  all  circumstance ;     a   painful 

march. 
Through  twenty  hours  of  night  and  day 

prolong'd, 
Forespent  the  British  troops  ;  and  hope 

del  ay' d 
Had  left  their  spirits  pall'd.     But  when 

the  word 
Was  given  to  turn,  and  charge,  and  win 

the  heights. 
The  welcome  order  came  to  them,  like 

rain 
Upon  a  traveller  in  the  thirsty  sands. 
Rejoicing,   up  the  ascent,   and  in   the 

front 
Of    danger,     they    with    steady    step 

advanced, 
And  with  the  insupportable  bayonet  30 
Drove  down  the  foe.     The  vanquished 

Victor  saw 
And  thought  of  Talavera,  and  deplored 
His  eagle  lost.  But  England  saw  well- 
pleased 
Her  old  ascendency  that  day  sustain'd  ; 
And  Scotland,  shouting  overall  her  hills. 
Among    her    worthies    rank'd    another 

Graham. 


352 


SELECTED    MINOR   POEMS 


(4)    EPITAPH 

[Published  in  The  Literary  Souvenir,  1827, 
under  the  title  of  '  A  Soldier's  Epitaph  '.] 

Steep  is  the  soldier's  path  ;  nor  are  the 

heights 
Of  glory  to  be  won  without  long  toil 
And  arduous  eflforts  of  enduring  hope  ; 
Save  when  Death  takes  the  aspirant  by 

the  hand, 
And  cutting  short  the  work  of  years,  at 

once 
Lifts  him  to  that  conspicuous  eminence. 
Such  fate  was  mine. — The  standard  of 

the  Buffs 
I  bore  at  Albuhera,  on  that  day 
When,  covered  by  a  shower,  and  fatally 
For    friends     misdeem' d,     the     Polish 

lancers  fell  lo 

Upon  our  rear.     Surrounding  me,  they 

claim' d 
My   precious  charge. — '  Not   but   with 

life  ! '    I  cried. 
And  life  was  given  for  immortality. 
The  flag  which  to  my  heart  I  held,  when 

wet 
With    that    heart's    blood,    was    soon 

victoriously 
Regain' d  on  that  great  day.     In  former 

times, 
Marlborough  beheld  it  borne  at  Rami- 

lies  ; 
For  Brunswick  and  for  liberty  it  waved 
Triumphant  at  Culloden  ;  and  hath  seen 
The  lilies  on  the  Caribbean  shores      20 
Abased   before  it.      Then    too   in    the 

front 
Of  battle  did  it  flap  exultingly, 
When  Douro,  with  its  wide  stream  inter- 
posed. 
Saved  not  the  French  invaders  from 

attack, 
Discomfiture,  and  ignominious  rout. 
My  name  is  Thomas :  undisgraced  have  I 


Transmitted   it.     He   who   in   days    to 

come 
May  bear  the  honour' d  banner  to  the 

field, 
Will  think  of  Albuhera,  and  of  me. 


(5)     EPITAPH 

[First  published  in  The  Literary  Souvenir, 
1828.] 

Time  and  the  world,  whose  magnitude 

and  weight 
Bear  on  us  in  this  Now,  and  hold  us 

here 
To  earth  enthrall'd,  .  .  what  are  they  in 

the  Past  ? 
And  in  the  prospect  of  the  immortal  Soul 
How    poor    a    speck !     Not    here    her 

resting-place. 
Her  portion  is  not  here ;    and  happiest 

they 
Who,  gathering  early  all  that  Earth  can 

give. 
Shake  off  its  mortal  coil,  and  speed  for 

Heaven. 
Such  fate  had  he  whose  relics  moulder 

here. 
Few  were  his  years,  but  yet  enough  to 

teach  10 

Love,    duty,    generous    feelings,    high 

desires. 
Faith,  hope,  devotion  :    and  what  more 

could  length 
Of   days   have   brought   him  ?     What, 

but  vanity, 
Jovs  frailer  even  than  health  or  human 

life; 
Temptation,  sin  and  sorrow,  both  too 

sure. 
Evils  that  wound,  and  cares  that  fret 

the  heart. 
Repine  not,  therefore,  ye  who  love  the 

dead. 


DEDICATION   OF   'COLLOQUIES* 


363 


DEDICATION  OF  THE  AUTHOR'S 
COLLOQUIES  ON  THE  PRO- 
GRESS AND  PROSPECTS  OF 
SOCIETY 

TO  THE 

MEMORY  OF  THE  REVEREND 
IIERDERT  HILL, 

Formerly  Student  of  Christ  Church,  Oxford  ; 
successively  Chaplain  to  the  British  Fac- 
tories at  Porto  and  at  Lisbon  ;  and  late 
Rector  of  Streatham  ;  who  was  released 
from  this  life,  Sept.  19,  1828,  in  the  80th 
year  of  his  age. 

Not  upon  marble  or  sepulchral  brass 
Have   I    the   record  of   thy  worth  in- 
scribed, 
Dear  Uncle  !  nor  from  Chantrey's  chisel 

ask'd 
A  monumental  statue,  which  might  wear 
Through   many  an  age  thy   venerable 

form. 
Such  tribute,  were  I  rich  in  this  world's 

wealth. 
Should  rightfully  bo  rendered,  in  dis- 
charge 
Of  grateful  duty,  to  the  world  evinced 
When  testifying  so  by  outward  sign 
Its  deep  and  inmost  sense.     But  what 
I  can  10 

Is  rendered  piously,  prefixing  here 
Thy  perfect  lineaments,  two  centuries 
Before  thy  birth  by  Holbein's  happy 

hand 
Prefigured  thus.     It  is  the  portraiture 
Of  More,  the  mild,  the  learned,  and  the 

good; 
Traced  in  that  better  stage  of  human 

life, 
When     vain     imaginations,     troublous 

thoughts. 
And   hopes  and  fears   have  had   their 

course,  and  left 
The  intellect  composed,  the  heart   at 
rest. 


Nor  yet  decay  hath  touch'd  our  mortal 

frame.  20 

Such   was   the   man    whom   Henry,   of 

desert 
Apprcciant    alway,    chose    for    highest 

trust  ; 
Whom  England  in  that  eminence  ap- 
proved ; 
Whom  Europe  honoured,  and  Erasmus 

loved. 
Such     was     he     ere     heart- hardening 

bigotry 
Obscured    his    spirit,    made    him    with 

himself 
Discordant,   and   contracting   then   his 

brow, 
With  sour  defeature  marr'd  liis  counten- 
ance. 
What  he  was,  in  his  l^st  and  happiest 

time, 
Even  such  wert  thou,  dear  L'ncle  !  such 

thy  look  30 

Benign    and     thoughtful ;      such     thy 

placid  mien ; 
Thine  eye  serene,  significant  and  strong. 
Bright  in  its  quietness,  yet  brightening 

oft 
With  quick  emotion  of  benevolence. 
Or  flash  of  active  fancy,  and  that  mirth 
Which    aye    with    sober    wisdom    well 

accords. 
Nor  ever  did  true  Nature,  with   more 

nice 
Exactitude,  fit  to  the  inner  man 
The    fleshly    mould,    than    when    slie 

stampt  on  thine 
Her  best  credentials,  and  bestow'd  on 

thee  40 

An  aspect,  to  whose  sure  benignity 
Beasts  with  instinctive  confidence  could 

trust, 
Which  at  a  glance  obtain'd  respect  from 

men. 
And  won  at  once  good  will  from  all  the 

good. 


N 


354 


SELECTED   MINOR   POEMS 


Such  as  in  semblance,  such  in  word 

and  deed 
Lisbon  beheld  him,  when  for  many  a  year 
The  even  tenour  of  his  spotless  life 
Adorn' d   the   English   Church,   .    .    her 

minister 
In  that  strong  hold  of  Rome's  Idolatry, 
To    God    and    man    approved.     What 

Englishman,  50 

Who  in  those  peaceful  days  of  Portugal 
Resorted  thither,  curious  to  observe 
Her  cities,  and  the  works  and  ways  of 

men, 
But  sought  him,  and  from  his  abundant 

stores 
Of  knowledge  profited  ?     What  stricken 

one, 
Sent  thither  to  protract  a  living  death, 
Forlorn  perhaps,  and  friendless  else,  but 

found 
A  friend  in  him  ?     What  mourners,  .  . 

who  had  seen 
The  object  of  their  agonizing  hopes 
In  that  sad  cypress  ground  deposited,  60 
Wherein  so  many  a  flower  of   British 

growth, 
Untimely  faded  and  cut  down,  is  laid. 
In  foreign  earth  compress' d,  .  .  but  bore 

away 
A  life-long  sense  of  his  compassionate 

care. 
His  Christian  goodness  ?    Faithful  shep- 
herd he, 
And  vigilant  against  the  wolves,  who 

there. 
If    entrance    might    be    won,     would 

straight  beset 
The  dying  stranger,  and  with  merciless 

zeal 
Bay  the  death- bed.     In  every  family 
Throughout  his  fold  was  he  the  welcome 

guest,  70 

Alike  to  every  generation  dear. 
The  children's  favourite,  and  the  grand- 
sire's  friend, 


Tried,  trusted  and  beloved.     So  liberal 

too 
In    secret    alms,  even    to    his  utmost 

means. 
That  they  who  served  him,  and  who 

saw  in  part 
The  channels  where  his  constant  bounty 

ran, 
Maugre  their  own  uncharitable  faith, 
Believed  him,  for  his  works,  secure  of 

Heaven. 
It  would  have  been  a  grief  for  me  to 

think 
The     features,     which     so     perfectly 

express' d  80 

That     excellent     mind,     should     irre- 
trievably 
From  earth  have  pass'd  away,  existing 

now 
Only  in  some  few  faithful  memories 
Insoul'd,  and  not  by  any  limner's  skill 
To   be   imbodied   thence.      A   blessing 

then 
On  him,  in  whose  prophetic  counterfeit 
Preserved,  the  children  now,  who  were 

the  crown 
Of   his  old  age,  may  see  their  father's 

face. 
Here    to    the  very  life  pourtray'd,  as 

when 
Spain's  mountain  passes,  and  her  ilex 

woods,  90 

And  fragrant  wildernesses,  side  by  side. 
With  him  I  traversed,  in  my  morn  of 

youth. 
And  gather' d  knowledge  from  his  full 

discourse. 
Often  in  former  years  I  pointed  out, 
Well-pleased,  the  casual  portrait,  which 

so  well 
Assorted  in  all  points  ;  and  haply  since. 
While    lingering    o'er    this    meditative 

work. 
Sometimes    that   likeness,    not   uncon- 
sciously, 


DEDICATION   OF   'COLLOQUIES' 


355 


Hath  tinged  the  strain  ;   and  therefore, 

for  tho  sake 
Of  thia  resemblance,  arc  these  volumes 

now  100 

Thus  to  his  memory  properly  inscribed. 

0  friend  !  0  more  than  father  !  whom 

I  foiuid 
Forbearing     alway,    alway     kind  ;     to 

whom 
No  gratitude  can  speak  the  debt  I  owe  ; 
Far  on  tiieir  earthly  pilgrimage  advanced 
Are  they  who  knew  thee  when  we  drew 

the  breath 
Of  that  delicious  clime  !    Tlie  most  are 

gone  ; 
And  whoso  yet  survive  of  those  who  then 
Were  in  their  summer  season,  on  the 

tree 
Of  life  hang  here  and  there  like  wintry 

leaves,  no 

Which  the  first  breeze  will  from   the 

bough  bring  do\^Ti. 
I,  too,  am  in  the  sear,  the  yellow  leaf. 
And  yet,  (no  wish  is  nearer  to  my  heart,) 
One  arduous  labour  more,  as  unto  thee 
In  duty  bound,  full  fain  would  I  com- 
plete, 
(So  Heaven  permit,)  recording  faithfully 
The  heroic  rise,  the  glories,  the  decline, 
Of    that   fallen    country,    dear    to    us, 

wherein 
The   better  portion   of   thy   days   was 

pasa'd  ; 
And  where,  in  fruitful  intercourse  with 

thee,  120 

My  intellectual  life  received  betimes 
The  bias  it  hath  kept.     Poor  Portugal, 
In  us  thou  harbouredst  no  ungrateful 

guests  ! 
We  loved  thee  well ;   Mother  magnani- 
mous 
Of  mighty  intellects  and  faithful  hearts,. . 
For  such  in  other  times  thou  wert,  nor 

yot 


To  bo  despair'd   of,   for  not   yrt,    me- 

thinks, 
Degenerate  wholly,  ,   .   yes,   we  loved 

thee  well  1 
And  in  thy  moving  story,  (so  but  life 
Bo  given   me   to   mature   tho  gathered 

store  130 

Of  thirty  years,)  poet  and  politick. 
And  Cliristian  sage,  (only  philosopher 
Who    from    the   Well    of    living   water 

drinks 
Never  to  thirst  again,)  shall  find,  I  ween. 
For  fancy,  and  for  profitable  thought, 
Abundant  food. 

Alas  !  should  this  be  given. 
Such  consummation  of  my  work  will 

now 
Be  but  a  mournful  close,  the  one  being 

gone. 
Whom  to  have  satisfied  was  still  to  mo 
A    pure    reward,    outweighing    far    all 

breath  140 

Of  public  praise.     0  friend  revered,  O 

guide 
And  fellow-labourer  in  this  ample  field. 
How   large  a  portion   of   myself  hath 

pass'd 
With  thee,  from  earth  to  Heaven  ! .  . 

Thus  they  who  reach 
Grey  hairs  die  piecemeal.     But  in  good 

old  age 
Thou   hast  departed ;    not   to   be   be- 

wail'd, .  . 
Oh  no  !    The   promise  on   the  Mount 

vouchsafed. 
Nor  abrogate  by  any  later  law 
Reveal'd  to  man,  .  .  that  promise,  as  by 

thee 
Full  piously  deserved,  was  faithfully  150 
In  thee  fulfiU'd,  and   in  the  land  thy 

days 
Were  long.     I  would  not,  as  I  saw  thee 

last. 
For  a  king's  ransom,  have  detain' d  theo 

here, . . 


356 


SELECTED   MINOR  POEMS 


Bent,  like  the  antique  sculptor's  limb- 
less trunk. 
By  chronic  pain,  yet  with   thine  eye 

unquench'd, 
The  ear  undimm'd,  the  mind  retentive 

still, 
The  heart  unchanged,  the  intellectual 

lamp 
Burning  in  its  corporeal  sepulchre. 
No  ;  not  if  human  wishes  had  had  power 
To  have  suspended  Nature's  constant 

work,  1 60 

Would    they    who    loved    thee    have 

detain' d  thee  thus, 
Waiting  for  death. 

That  trance  is  over.     Thou 
Art  enter' d  on  thy  heavenly  heritage ; 
And  I,  whose  dial  of  mortality 
Points  to  the  eleventh  hour,  shall  follow 

soon. 
Meantime,    with    dutiful    and    patient 

hope, 
I  labour  that  our  names  conjoin' d  may 

long 
Survive,  in  honour  one  day  to  be  held 
Where  old  Lisboa  from  her  hills  o'er- 

looks 
Expanded    Tagus,    with    its    populous 

shores  170 

And  pine  woods,  to  Palmella's  crested 

height : 
Nor  there  alone;    but  in  those  rising 

realms 
Where  now  the  offsets  of  the  Lusian  tree 
Push  forth   their  vigorous  shoots,   .   . 

from  central  plains, 
Whence  rivers  flow  divergent,   to  the 

gulph 
Southward,  where  wild  Parana  disem- 
bogues 
A  sea-like  stream  ;    and  northward,  in 

a  world 
Of  forests,  where  huge  Orellana  clips 
His  thousand  islands  with  his  thousand 

arms. 


LITTLE  BOOK,  IN  GREEN  AND 
GOLD 

[Printed  by  Southey's  cousin  and  son-in- 
law,  Herbert  Hill,  in  Oliver  Newman  :  With 
Other  Poetical  Remains,  in  1845.] 

Little  Book,  in  green  and  gold, 

Thou  art  thus  bedight  to  hold 

Robert  Southey's  Album  Rhymes, 

Wrung  from  him  in  busy  times : 

Not  a  few  to  his  vexation. 

By  importune  application ; 

Some  in  half-sarcastic  strain, 

More  against  than  with  the  grain ; 

Other  some,  he  must  confess. 

Bubbles  blown  in  idleness ;  10 

Some  in  earnest,  some  in  jest. 

Good  for  little  at  the  best : 

Yet,  because  his  Daughter  dear 

Would  collect  them  fondly  here. 

Little  Book,  in  gold  and  green. 

Thou  art  not  unfitly  seen 

Thus  apparell'd  for  her  pleasure, 

Like  the  casket  of  a  treasure. 

Other  owner,  well  I  know. 

Never  more  can  prize  thee  so.  20 

Little  Book,  when  thou  art  old. 

Time  will  dim  thy  green  and  gold. 

Little  Book,  thou  wilt  outlive 

The  pleasure  thou  wert  made  to  give : 

Dear  domestic  recollections. 

Home-born  loves,  and  old  affections. 

Incommunicable  they : 

And  when  these  have  past  away. 

As  perforce  they  must,  from  earth, 

Where  is  then  thy  former  worth  ?       30 

Other  value,  then,  I  ween. 

Little  Book,  may  supervene. 

Happily  if  unto  some 

Thou  in  due  descent  shouldst  come. 

Who  would  something  find  in  thee 

Like  a  relic's  sanctity, 


LITTLE   BOOK,   IN   GREEN  AND   GOLD       357 


And  in  whom  thou  may'st  awake, 

For  thy  former  owner's  sake, 

A  pious  thought,  a  natural  sigh, 

A  feeling  of  mortality.  40 

When  those  feelings,  and  that  race. 
Have  in  course  of  time  given  place. 
Little  worth,  and  little  prized, 
Disregarded  or  despised. 
Thou  wilt  then  be  bought  and  sold. 
In  thy  faded  green  and  gold. 
Then,  unless  some  curious  eye 
Thee  upon  the  shelf  should  spy, 
Dust  will  gather  on  thee  there. 
And  the  worms,  that  never  spare,       50 
Feed  their  till  within,  and  hide, 
Burrowing  safely  in  thy  side, 
Till  transfigured  out  they  come 
From  that  emblem  of  the  tomb  : 
Or,  by  mould  and  damp  consumed, 
Thou  to  perish  may'st  be  doom'd. 

But  if  some  collector  find  thee, 
He  will,  as  a  prize,  re-bind  thee ; 
And  thou  may'st  again  be  seen 
Gayly  drest  in  gold  and  green.  60 

m  September,  1831. 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  THE  ALBUM 
OF  ROTHA  QUILLINAN 

[Printed,  Uke  the  preceding  poem,  with 
Oliver  Newman,  in  1845]. 

RoTiiA,  after  long  delays. 

Since  thy  book  must  cross  the  Raise, 

Down  I  sit  to  turn  a  stave, 

Be  it  gay  or  be  it  grave. 

Wiser  wish  than  what  thy  name 
Prompts  for  thee  I  cannot  frame  ; 
No  where  find  a  better  theme 
Than  thy  native  namesake  stream. 
LoveUer  river  is  there  none 
Underneath  an  English  sun  ;  10 


From  its  source  it  issues  bright 

Upon  hoar  Hellvcllyn's  height. 

Flowing  where  its  summer  voice 

Makes  the  mountain  lierds  rejoice ; 

Down  the  dale  it  issues  then, 

Not  polluted  there  by  men  ; 

While  its  lucid  waters  take 

Their  pastoral  course  from  lake  to  lake, 

Please  the  eye  in  every  part. 

Lull  the  ear,  and  soothe  the  heart,     20 

Till  into  Windermere  sedate 

They  flow  and  uncontaminate. 

Rotha,  such  from  youth  to  ago 

Be  thy  mortal  pilgrimage  ; 

Thus  in  childhood  blithe  and  free, 

Thus  in  thy  maturity, 

Blest  and  blessing,  may  it  be ; 

And  a  course,  in  welfare  past. 

Thus  serenely  close  at  last. 


ODE 

WRITTEN  DURING  THE  NEGOTIATIONS 
WITH  BUONAPARTE,  IN  JANUARY, 
1814 

[First  published  in  The  Courier,  Feb.  3, 
1814,  with  a  number  of  slight  variations 
from  the  present  text.  Republished  in  The 
Times,  April  21,  1814,  in  its  present  form.] 


Who  counsels  peace  at  this  momentous 

hour. 

When  God  hath  given  deliverance  to 

the  oppress' d. 

And  to  the  injured  power  ? 

Who  counsels  peace,  when  Vengeance 

like  a  flood 

Rolls  on,  no  longer  now  to  be  rcpress'd  ; 

When  innocent  blood 

From  the  four  corners  of  the  world 

cries  out 

For  justice  upon  one  accursed  head  ; 

When  Freedom  hath  her  holy  banners 

spread  9 


358 


SELECTED  MINOR   POEMS 


Over  all  nations,  now  in  one  just  cause 

Foremost  the  resolute  adventurer  stood; 

United  ;   when  with  one  sublime  accord 

And  when,  by  many  a  battle  won, 

Europe  throws  off  the  yoke  abhorr'd, 

He  placed  upon  his  brow  the  crown,  40 

And  Loyalty  and  Faith  and  Ancient  Laws 

Curbing  delirious  France  beneath  his 

Follow  the  avenging  sword  ! 

sway. 

Then,  like  Octavius  in  old  time, 

2 

Fair  name  might  he  have  handed  down, 

Woe,  woe  to  England  !   woe  and  endless 

Effacing  many  a  stain  of  former  crime. 

shame, 

Fool !    should  he  cast  away  that 

If  this  heroic  land, 

bright  renown  ! 

False  to  her  feelings  and  unspotted  fame, 

Fool  !    the  redemption  proffer' d  should 

Hold  out  the  olive  to  the  Tyrant's  hand ! 

he  lose  ! 

Woe  to  the  world,  if  Buonaparte's  throne 

When  Heaven  such  grace  vouchsafed 

Be  suffer' d  still  to  stand  !          20 

him  that  the  way 

For  by  what  names  shall  Right  and 

To  Good  and  Evil  lay 

Wrong  be  known,  .  . 

Before  hira,  which  to  choose. 

What  new  and  courtly  phrases  must 

we  feign 

4 

For  Falsehood,  Murder,  and  all  mon- 

But Evil  was  his  Good,           50 

strous  crimes, 

For  all  too  long  in  blood  had  he  been 

If  that  perfidious  Corsican  maintain 

nurst, 

Still  his  detested  reign, 

And  ne'er  was  earth  with  verier  tyrant 

And  France,  who  yearns  even  now  to 

curst. 

break  her  chain, 

Bold  man  and  bad. 

Beneath  his  iron  rule  be  left  to  groan  ? 

Remorseless,  godless,  full  of  fraud 

No  !   by  the  innumerable  dead, 

and  lies. 

Whose  blood  hath  for  his  lust  of  power 

And  black  with  murders  and  with 

been  shed. 

perjuries. 

Death  only  can  for  his  foul  deeds  atone  ; 

Himself  in  Hell's  whole  panoply  he  clad; 

That  peace  which  Death  and  Judgement 

No  law  but  his  own  headstrong  will 

can  bestow,                      31 

he  knew. 

That  peace  be  Buonaparte's,  .   .   that 

No  counsellor  but  his  own  wicked  heart. 

alone  ! 

From  evil  thus  portentous  strength 

he  drew. 

3 

And  trampled  under  foot  all  human  ties, 

For  sooner  shall  the  Ethiop  change  his 

skin, 

Or  from  tlie  Leopard  shall  her  spots 

All  holy  laws,  all  natural  charities.  61 

5 

depart. 

0  France  !    beneath  this  fierce  Bar- 

Than this  man  change  his  old  flagitious 

barian's  sway 

heart. 

Disgraced  thou  art  to  all  succeeding 

Have  ye  not  seen  him  in  the  balance 

times ; 

weigh' d, 

Rapine,  and  blood,  and  fire  have  mark'd 

And  there  found  wanting  ?     On  the 

thy  way, 

stage  of  blood 

All  loathsome,  all  unutterable  crimes. 

ODE   WRITTEN   DURING   NEGOTIATIONS      369 


A  curse  is  on  thee,  France  !    from  far 

The  dreadful  armies  of  the  North 

and  wide 

advance ; 

It  hath  gone  up  to  Heaven.     All  lands 

^^'hile  England,  Portugal,  and  S^min 

have  cried 

combined, 

For  vengeance  uiK>n  thy  detested  head  ! 

Give  their  triumphant  banners  to  the 

All  nations  curse  thee,  France  !    for 

wind, 

wheresoe'er 

And  stand  victorious  in  the  fields  of 

In  peace  or  war  thy  banner  hath 

France. 

been  spread,                     70 

All  forms  of  human  woe  have  follow'd 

7 

there. 

One  man  hath  been  for  ten  long 

The  Living  and  the  Dead 

wretched  years 

Cry  out  alike  against  thee  !     They  who 

The  cause  of  all  tliis  blood  and  all  these 

bear, 

tears ; 

Crouching  beneath  its  weight,  thine 

One  man  in  this  most  aweful  point 

iron  yoke. 

of  time 

Join  in  the  bitterness  of  secret  prayer 

Draws  on  thy  danger,  as  he  caused  thy 

The  voice  of  that  innumerable  throng, 

crime. 

Whose  slaughter' d  spirits  day  and 

Wait  not  too  long  the  event,     100 

night  invoke 

For  now  whole  Europe  comes  against 

The  Everlasting  Judge  of  right  and 

thee  bent. 

wrong. 

His  wiles  and  their  own  strength  the 

How  long,  0  Lord  !    Holy  and  Just, 

nations  know  : 

how  long  ! 

Wise  from  past  wrongs,  on  future  peace 

intent. 

6 

The  People  and  the  Princes,  with  one 

A  merciless  oppressor  hast  thou  been,  80 

mind. 

Thyself  remorselessly  oppress' d 

From  all  parts  move  against  the  general 

meantime ; 

foe: 

Greedy  of  war,  when  all  that  thou 

One  act  of  justice,  one  atoning  blow. 

couldst  gain 

One  execrable  head  laid  low. 

Was  but  to  dye  thy  soul  with  deejjer 

Even  yet,  0  France  I    averts  thy 

crime. 

punishment. 

And  rivet  faster  round  thyself  the  chain. 

Open  thine  eyes  !    too  long  hast  thou 

0  blind  to  honour,  and  to  interest 

been  blind  ; 

blind, 

Take  vengeance  for  thyself,  and  for 

When  thus  in  abject  servitude  resign' d 

mankind!                    no 

To  this  barbarian  upstart,  thou 

couldst  brave 

8 

God's  justice,  and  the  heart  of  human 

France  !   if  thou  lovest  thine  ancient 

kind  ! 

fame. 

Madly  thou  thoughtest  to  enslave  the 

Revenge  thy  sufferings  and  thy 

world. 

shame  I 

Thyself  the  while  a  miserable  slave.  90 

By  the  bones  which  bleach  on  Jaffa's 

Behold  the  flag  of  vengeance  is  unf  url'd.' 

beach ; 

360 


SELECTED   MINOR  POEMS 


By  the  blood  which  on  Domingo's  shore 

Hath  clogg'd  the  carrion-birds  with 

gore ; 

By  the  flesh  which  gorged  the  wolves 

of  Spain, 

Or  stiffen' d  on  the  snowy  plain 

Of  frozen  Moscovy  ; 

By  the  bodies  which  lie  all  open  to  the 

sky, 

Tracking  from  Elbe  to  Rhine  the 

Tyrant's  flight :  120 

By  the  widow's  and  the  orphan's  cry  ; 

By  the  childless  parent's  misery  ; 

By  the  lives  which  he  hath  shed  ; 

By  the  ruin  he  hath  spread  ; 

By  the  prayers  which  rise  for  curses  on 

his  head ; 

Redeem,  0  France  !  thine  ancient 

fame. 

Revenge  thy  sufferings  and  thy 

shame. 

Open  thine  eyes !  ,  .  too  long  hast  thou 

been  blind  ; 

Take  vengeance  for  thyself,  and  for 

mankind  ! 

9 

By  those  horrors  which  the  night  130 
Witness'd,  when  the  torches'  light 
To  the  assembled  murderers  sliow'd 
Where  the  blood  of  Conde  flow'd  ; 
By  thy  murder' d  Pichegru's  fame  ; 
By   murder' d   Wright,   .    .    an   English 

name  ; 
By  murder'd  Palm's  atrocious  doom  ; 

By  murder'd  Hofer's  martyrdom  ; 

Oh  !    by  the  virtuous  blood  thus  vilely 

spilt. 

The  Villain's  own  peculiar  private 

guilt. 

Open  thine  eyes  !    too  long  hast  thou 

been  blind  !  140 

Take  vengeance  for  thyself  and  for 

mankind  ! 
Keswick. 


BALLADS  AND  METRICAL 
TALES 

THE  MARCH  TO  MOSCOW 

[First  published  in  The  Courier,  June  23, 
1814,  and  afterwards  in  1837-1838,  among 
the  Ballads  and  Metrical  Tales.] 

1 

The  Emperor  Nap  he  would  set  off 

On  a  summer  excursion  to  Moscow ; 

The  fields  were  green,  and  the  sky  was 

blue, 

Morbleu  !   Parbleu ! 

What  a  pleasant  excursion  to  Moscow  ! 

2 

Four  hundred  thousand  men  and  more 

Must  go  with  him  to  Moscow : 

There  were  Marshals  by  the  dozen, 

And  Dukes  by  the  score  ; 

Princes  a  few,  and  Kings  one  or  two  ;   10 

While  the  fields  are  so  green,  and  the 

sky  so  blue, 

Morbleu  !   Parbleu  ! 

What  a  pleasant  excursion  to  Moscow  ! 

3 

There  was  Junot  and  Augereau, 

Heigh-ho  for  Moscow  ! 

Dombrowsky  and  Poniatowskj', 

Marshal  Ney,  lack- a- day  ! 

General  Rapp  and  the  Emperor  Nap ; 

Nothing  would  do 

While  the  fields  were  so  green,  and  the 

sky  so  blue,  20 

Morbleu  !   Parbleu  ! 

Nothing  would  do 

For  the  whole  of  this  crew. 

But  they  must  be  marching  to  Moscow. 

4 
The  Emperor  Nap  he  talk'd  so  big 

That  he  frighten' d  Mr.  Roscoe. 

John  Bull,  he  cries,  if  you'll  be  ^nse, 

Ask  the  Emperor  Nap  if  he  will  please 

To  grant  you  peace  upon  your  knees, 

Because  he  is  going  to  Moscow  !     30 


THE   MARCH  TO   MOSCOW 


361 


He'll  make  all  the  Poles  come  out    of 

their  holes. 

And  beat  the  Russians  and  eat  the 

Prussians, 

For  the  fields  arc  green,  and  the  sky  is 

biue, 

Morbleu  !   Parbleu  ! 

And  he'll  certainly  march  to  Moscow  ! 

5 

And  Counsellor  Brougham  was  all  in 

a  fume 

At  the  thought  of  the  march  to  Moscow  : 

The  Russians,  he  said,  they  were  undone, 

And  the  great  Fee-Faw-Fum 

Would  presently  come  40 

With  a  hop,  step,  and  jump  unto  Loudon. 

For  as  for  his  conquering  Russia, 
However  some  persons  might  scoflf  it. 

Do  it  he  could,  and  do  it  he  would. 

And  from  doing  it  nothing  would  come 

but  good, 

And  nothing  could  call  him  ofT  it. 

Mr.  Jeffrey  said  so,  who  must  certainly 

know, 

For  he  was  the  Edinburgh  Prophet. 

They  all  of  them  knew  Mr.   Jeffrey's 

Review, 

Which  with  Holy  Writ  ought  to  be 

reckon' d :  50 

It  was  through  thick  and  thin  to  its 

party  true ; 

Its  back  was  buff, and  its  sides  were  blue, 

Morbleu  !    Parbleu  !  [too. 

It  served  them  for  Law  and  for  Gospel 

6 
But  the  Russians  stoutly  they  turncd-to 

Upon  the  road  to  Moscow. 
Nap  had  to  fight  his  way  all  through  ; 
They  could  fight,  though  they  could  not 

parlez-vous. 

But  the  fields  were  green,  and  the  sky 

was  blue, 

Morbleu  !    Parbleu  !  60 

And  so  he  got  to  Moscow. 


7 

He  found  the  place  too  warm  for  him. 

For  they  set  fire  to  Moscow. 

To  get  there  had  cost  him  much 

ado. 

And  then  no  better  course  he 

knew, 

^^'llile  the  fields  were  green,  and  the  sky 

was  blue, 

Morbleu  !   Parbleu  ! 

But  to  march  back  again  from 

Moscow. 

8 

The  Russians  they  stuck  close  to  liim 

All  on  the  road  from  Moscow.      70 

There  was  Tormazow  and  Jemalow 

And  all  the  others  that  end  in  ow  ; 

Milarodovitch  and  Jaladovitch 

And  Karat schkowitch, 

And  all  the  others  that  end  in  itch  ; 

Schamscheff,  Souchosaneff, 

And  Schepaleff, 

And  all  the  others  that  end  in  eff ; 

Wasiltschikoff,  Kostomaroff, 

And  TchoglokofT,  80 

And  all  the  others  that  end  in  off ; 

Rajeffsky  and  Novereffsky 

And  RiefTsky, 

And  all  the  others  that  end  in  efTsky  ; 

OscharofTsky  and  RostolYskv. 
And  all  the  others  that  end  in  otTsky ; 

And  Platod  he  play'd  them  of!, 

And  Shouvalof!  he  shovell'd  them  off. 

And  Markoff  he  mark'd  them  off. 

And  Krosnoff  he  cross' d  them  off,    90 

And  Tuchkoff  he  touch'd  them  off. 

And  Boroskoff  he  bored  them  off. 

And  Kutousoff  he  cut  them  o<T, 

And  Parcnzoflf  he  pared  them  otT, 

And  WorronzofT  he  worried  them  off, 

And  Doctoroff  he  doctor'd  them  off. 

And  Rodionoff  he  flogg'd  them  off. 

And  last  of  all  an  Admiral  came, 

A  terrible  man  with  a  terrible  name, 


362 


SELECTED  MINOR   POEAIS 


A  name  which  you  all  know  by  sight 

very  well ;  loo 

But  which  no  one  can  speak,  and  no  one 

can  spell.  [might, 

They  stuck  close  to  2sap  with  all  their 

They  were  on  the  left  and  on  the  right, 

Behind  and  before,  and  by  day  and  by 

night, 

He  would  j-ather  parlez-vous  than  fight ; 

But  he  look'd  white  and  he  look'd  blue, 

rJorbleu  !    Parbleu  ! 

When  parlez-vous  no  more  would  do. 

For  they  remember' d  Moscow. 

9 

And  then  came  on  the  frost  and  snow 

All  on  the  road  from  Moscow,     iii 

The  wind  and  the  weather  he  found  in 

that  hour 

Cared  nothmg  for  him  nor  for  all 

bis  power ; 

For  bim  who,  while  Europe  crouch' d 

under  his  rod. 

Put  his  trust  in  his  fortune,  and  not  in 

his  God. 

AN'orse  and  worse  every  day  the 

elements  grew,        [so  blue, 
The  fields  were  so  white  and  the  sky 
Sacrebleu  !  Veutrebleu  ! 
"What  a  horrible  journey  from  Moscow  ! 

10 

What  then  thought  the  Emperor  Nap 
Upon  the  road  from  Moscow  ?     121 
Why,  I  ween  he  thought  it  small  delight 
To  fight  all  day,  and  to  freeze  all  night : 
iind  he  was  besides  in  a  very  great  fright, 
For  a  whole  skin  he  liked  to  be  in  ; 
And  so,  not  knowing  what  else  to  do. 
When  the  fields  were  so  white  and  the 
sky  so  blue, 
Morbleu  !   Parbleu  ! 
He  stole  away,  I  tell  you  true. 
Upon  the  road  from  Moscow.      130 
'Tis  myself,  quoth  he,  I  must  mind  most; 
So  the  Devil  may  take  the  hindmost. 


11 

Too  cold  upon  the  road  was  he, 

Too  hot  had  he  been  at  Moscow  ; 

But  colder  and  hotter  he  may  be, 

For  the  grave  is  colder  than  I\Iuscovy  : 

And  a  place  there  is  to  be  kept  in  view 

\\'here  the  fire  is  red  and  the  brimstone 

blue, 

Morbleu  !  Parbleu ! 

Which  he  must  go  to,  140 

If  the  Pope  say  true, 

If  he  does  not  in  time  look  about  liim  ; 

Where  his  namesake  almost 

He  may  have  for  his  Host, 

He  has  reckon'd  too  long  without  liim; 

If  that  host  get  him  in  Purgatory, 

He  won't  leave  him  there  alone  with  his 

glory  ; 

But  there  he  must  stay  for  a  very 

long  day. 
For  from  thence  there  is  no  steaUng 
away  149 

As  there  was  on  the  road  from  Moscow. 

Ke^uick,  1813. 


LORD  WILLIA3I 

[First  published  m  The  Morning  Post, 
March  16,  1798,  with  the  omission  of 
Stanza  23  ;  afterwards  in  Poems,  vol.  ii, 
1799.] 

No  eye  beheld  when  William  plunged 
Young  Edmund  in  the  stream. 

No  human  ear  but  William's  heard 
Young  Edmund's  drownmg  scream. 

Submissive  all  the  vassals  own'd 
The  murderer  for  their  Lord, 

And  he  as  rightful  heir  possess'd 
The  house  of  Erlingford. 

The  ancient  house  of  Erlingford 

Stood  in  a  fair  domain,  10 

And  Severn's  ample  waters  near 
Roll'd  through  the  fertile  plain. 


LORD  WILLIAM 


363 


And  often  tho  way-faring  man 

Would  love  to  linger  there, 
Forgetful  of  his  onward  road, 

To  gaze  on  scenes  so  fair. 

But  never  could  Lord  William  dare 
To  gaze  on  Severn's  stream  ; 

In  every  wind  that  swept  its  waves 
He  heard  young  Edmund's  scream.  20 

In  vain  at  midnight's  silent  hour 
Sleep  closed  the  murderer's  eyes, 

In  every  dream  the  murderer  saw 
Young  Edmund's  form  arise. 

In  vain  by  restless  conscience  driven 

Lord  William  left  his  home, 
Far  from  the  scenes  that  saw  his  guilt, 

In  pilgrimage  to  roam  ; 

To  other  climes  the  pilgrim  fled, 

But  could  not  fly  despair  ;  30 

He  sought  his  home  again,  but  peace 
Was  still  a  stranger  there. 

Slow  were  the  passing  hours,  yet  swift 
The  months  appear' d  to  roll ; 

And  now  the  day  return'd  that  shook 
With  terror  William's  soul ; 

A  day  that  William  never  felt 

Return  without  dismay, 
For  well  had  conscience  kalendar'd 

Young  Edmund's  dying  day.  40 

A  fearful  day  was  that ;   the  rains 

Fell  fast  with  tempest  roar. 
And  the  swoln  tide  of  Severn  spread 

Far  on  the  level  shore. 

In  vain  Lord  William  sought  the  feast. 
In  vain  he  quaff'd  the  bowl, 

And  strove  with  noisy  mirth  to  drown 
The  anguish  of  his  soul. 

The  tempest,  as  its  sudden  swell 

In  gusty  bowlings  came,  50 

With  cold  and  death-like  feeling  seem'd 

To  thrill  his  shuddering  frame. 


Reluctant  now,  as  night  came  on, 

His  lonely  couch  he  prcst  ; 
And,  wearied  out,  he  sunk  to  sleep,  .  . 

To  sleep  .  .  but  not  to  rest. 

Beside  that  couch  his  brother's  form, 
Lord  Edmund,  seem'd  to  stand. 

Such  and  so  pale  as  when  in  death 
He  grasp' d  his  brother's  hand  ;         (0 

Such  and  so  pale  his  face  &8  when 
With  faint  and  faltering  tongue, 

To  William's  care,  a  dying  charge, 
He  left  his  orphan  son. 

'  I  bade  thee  with  a  father's  love 
My  orphan  Edmund  guard  ;  .  . 

Well,  William,  hast  thou  kept  thy  charge 
Take  now  thy  due  reward.' 

He  started  up,  each  limb  convulsed 
With  agonizing  fear  ;  7° 

He  only  heard  the  storm  of  night,  .  . 
'Twas  music  to  his  ear. 

When  lo  !   the  voice  of  loud  alarm 

His  inmost  soul  appals  ; 
'  What  ho  !  Lord  William,  rise  in  haste  ! 

The  water  saps  thy  walls  ! ' 

He  rose  in  haste,  beneath  the  walls 
He  saw  the  flood  appear  ;  [now. 

It  hemm'd  him  round,  'twas  midnight 
No  human  aid  was  near.  80 

He  heard  a  shout  of  joy,  for  now 
A  boat  approach' d  the  wall, 

And  eager  to  the  welcome  aid 
They  crowd  for  safety  all. 

'  My  boat  is  small,'  the  boatman  cried, 
'  'Twill  bear  but  one  away  ; 

Come  in,  Lord  William,  and  do  ye 
In  God's  protection  stay.' 

Strange  feeling  fill'd  them  at  his  voice 
Even  in  that  hour  of  woe,  90 

That,  save  their  Lord,  there  was  not  one 
Who  wish'd  with  him  to  go. 


364 


SELECTED   MINOR   POEMS 


But  William  leapt  into  the  boat, 

His  terror  was  so  sore  ; 
f  Thou  shalt  have  half  my  gold,'  he  cried, 

*  Haste  .  .  haste  to  yonder  shore.' 

The  boatman  plied  the  oar,  the  boat 
Went  light  along  the  stream  ; 

Sudden  Lord  William  heard  a  cry 
Like  Edmund's  drowning  scream.  loo 

The  boatman  paused, 'Methought  I  heard 

A  child's  distressful  cry  ! ' 
' '  Twas  but  the  howling  wind  of  night,' 

Lord  William  made  reply. 

'  Haste  .  .  haste  .  .  ply  swift  and  strong 
the  oar ; 

Haste  .  .  haste  across  the  stream  ! ' 
Again  Lord  William  heard  a  cry 

Like  Edmund's  drowning  scream. 

'I  heard  a  child's  distressful  voice,' 
The  boatman  cried  again.  no 

*  Nay,  hasten  on  .  .  the  night  is  dark  .  . 

And  we  should  search  in  vain.' 

*  0  God  !  Lord  William,  dost  thou  know 

How  dreadful  'tis  to  die  ? 
And  canst  thou  without  pity  hear 
A  child's  expiring  cry  ? 

*  How  horrible  it  is  to  sink 

Beneath  the  closing  stream. 
To  stretch  the  powerless  arms  in  vain, 
In  vain  for  help  to  scream  ! '  120 

The  shriek  again  was  heard  :    it  came 
More  deep,  more  piercing  loud ; 

That  instant  o'er  the  flood  the  moon 
Shone  through  a  broken  cloud ; 

And  near  them  they  beheld  a  child ; 

Upon  a  crag  he  stood, 
A  little  crag,  and  all  around 

Was  spread  the  rising  flood. 

The  boatman  plied  the  oar,  the  boat 
Approach' d  his  resting-place  ;  130 

The  moon-beam  shone  upon  the  child, 
And  show'd  how  pale  his  face. 


'  Now  reach  thine  hand  ! '  the  boatman 
cried, 

'  Lord  William,  reach  and  save  ! ' 
The  child  stretch' d  forth  his  little  hands 

To  grasp  the  hand  he  gave. 

Then  William  shriek' d ;    the  hands  he 
felt 

Were  cold  and  damp  and  dead  ! 
He  held  young  Edmund  in  his  arms 

A  heavier  weight  than  lead.  140 

The  boat  sunk  down,  the  murderer  sunk 
Beneath  the  avenging  stream  ; 

He  rose,  he  shriek' d,  no  human  ear 
Heard  Wilham's  drowning  scream. 
Westbury,  1798. 


THE  WELL  OF  ST.  KEYNE 

[First  published  in  The  Morniiig  Post, 
Dec.  3, 1798-;  afterwards  in  The  Annual  An- 
thology, 1799,  and  in  Metrical  Tales,  1805.] 

'  I  know  not  whether  it  be .  worth  tlie 
reporting,  that  there  is  in  Cornwall,  near  the 
parish  of  St.  Neots,  a  Well,  arched  over  with 
the  robes  of  four  kinds  of  trees,  withy,  oak, 
elm,  and  ash,  dedicated  to  St.  Keyne.  The 
reported  virtue  of  the  water  is  this,  that 
whether  husband  or  wife  come  first  to  drink 
thereof,  they  get  the  mastery  thereby.' — 
Fuller. 

This  passage  in  one  of  the  folios  of  the 
Worthy  old  Fuller,  who,  as  he  says,  knew 
not  whether  it  were  worth  the  •  reporting, 
suggested  the  following  Ballad  :  and  the 
Ballad  has  produced  so  many  imitations 
that  it  may  be  prudent  here  thus  to  assert 
its  originality,  lest  I  should  be  accused  here- 
after of  having  committed  the  plagiarism 
which  has  been  practised  upon  it. 

A  Well  there  is  in  the  west  country, 
And  a  clearer  one  never  was  seen  ; 

There  is  not  a  wife  in  the  west  country 
But  has  heard  of  the  well  of  St.  Keyne. 

An  oak  and  an  elm-tree  stand  beside. 
And  behind  doth  an  ash- tree  grow, 

And  a  willow  from  the  bank  above 
Droops  to  the  water  below. 


THE   WELL   OF   ST.  KEYNE 


.305 


A  traveller  came  to  t  ho  Well  of  St.Keyne; 

Joyfully  he  drew  nii^h,  lo 

For  from  cock-crow  lie  had  been  travel- 


ing, 


And  there  was  not  a  cloiul  in  the  sky^ 

He  drank  of  the  water  so  cool  and  clear. 

For  tiiirsty  ami  hot  was  he. 
And  he  sat  down  upon  the  bank 

Under  the  willow- tree. 

There  came  a  man  from  the  house  hard 
by 

At  the  Well  to  fill  his  pail ; 
On  the  Well-side  he  rested  it. 

And  he  bade  the  Stranger  hail.         20 

Now  art  thou  a  bachelor,  Stranger  ? ' 
quoth  he, 
'  For  an  if  thou  hast  a  wife, 
Tlie  happiest  draught  thou  hast  drank 
this  day 
That  ever  thou  didst  in  thy  life. 

'  Or  has  thy  good  woman,  if  one  thou 
hast. 

Ever  here  in  Cornwall  been  ? 
For  an  if  she  have,  I'll  venture  my  life 

She  has  drank  of  the  Well  of  St.  Keyne.' 

'  I  have  left  a  good  woman  who  never 
was  here,' 
The  Stranger  he  made  reply,  30 

'  But  that  my  draught  should  be  the 
better  for  that, 
I  pray  you  answer  me  why  ?  ' 

'  St.   Keyne,'    quoth   the   Cornish- man, 
'  many  a  time 

Drank  of  this  crystal  Well, 
And  before  the  Angel  summon'd  her. 

She  laid  on  the  water  a  spell. 

*  If  the  Husband  of  this  gifted  Well 

Shall  drink  before  hia  W^ife, 
A  happy  man  thenceforth  is  he. 

For  he  shall  be  Master  for  life.  40 


'  But  if  the  Wife  should  drink  of  it  first, . . 

(!od  help  the  Husband  then  !' 
The  Stranger  stoopt  to  the  Well  of  St. 
Keyne, 

And  drank  of  the  water  again. 

'  You  drank  of  the  Well  I  warrant  be- 
times ? ' 
Ho  to  the  Cornish-man  said  : 
But    the    Cornish- man    smiled    as    the 
Stranger  spake. 
And  sheepishly  shook  his  head. 

'  I  hasten'd  as  soon  as  the  wedding  was 
done. 

And  left  my  Wife  in  the  porch  ;  50 
But  i'  faith  she  had  been  wiser  than  me, 

For  she  took  a  bottle  to  Church.' 

Westhiry,  1798. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  BLENHEIM 

[First  published  in  The  Morning  Post, 
August  9,  1798;  afterwards  in  The  Annual 
Anthology,  1800,  and  in  Metrical  Ja/f5,1605.J 

1 
It  was  a  summer  evening. 

Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done, 
And  ho  before  his  cottage  door 

Was  sitting  in  the  sun. 
And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 
His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine. 

2 
She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 

Roll  something  large  and  round. 
Which  he  beside  the  rivulet 

In  playing  there  had  found  ;  10 

He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found, 
Tliat  was  so  large,  and  smooth,  and  round. 

3 
Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy. 

Who  stood  exjx^ctant  by  ; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head, 

And,  with  a  natural  sigh, 
"Tifl  some  poor  fellow's  skull,'  said  he, 
'  Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 


366 


SELECTED  MINOR   POEMS 


! 


'  I  find  them  in  the  garden. 

For  there's  many  here  about ;  20 

And  often  when  I  go  to  plough, 

The  ploughshare  turns  them  out ! 
For  many  thousand  men,'  said  he, 

'  Were  slain  in  that  great  victory.' 

5 

*  Now  tell  us  what  'twas  all  about,' 

Young  Peterkin,  he  cries  ; 

And  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up 

With  wonder- waiting  eyes; 

*  Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war, 

And  what  they  fought  each  other  for.'  30 

6 

*  It  was  the  English,'  Kaspar  cried, 

'  Who  put  the  French  to  rout ; 
But  what  they  fought  each  other  for, 

I  could  not  well  make  out ; 
But  every  body  said,'  quoth  he, 
'  That  'twas  a  famous  victory. 

7 

*  My  father  Hved  at  Blenheim  then. 

Yon  little  stream  hard  by  ; 
They  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground. 

And  he  was  forced  to  fly  ;  40 

So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled. 
Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 

8 
'  With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 

Was  wasted  far  and  wide, 
And  many  a  childing  mother  then, 

And  new-born  baby  died  ; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victor}'. 

9 

'  They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight 
After  the  field  was  won  ;  50 

For  many  thousand  bodies  here 
Lay  rotting  in  the  sun  ; 

But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 

After  a  famous  victory. 


10 
'  Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlbro'  won, 

And  our  good  Prince  Eugene.' 
'  Why  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing  ! ' 
,    Said  little  Wilhelmine. 
'  Nay  .  .  nay  .  .  my  little  girl,'  quoth  he, 
'  It  was  a  famous  victory.  60 

11 

'  And  every  body  praised  the  Duke 
Who  this  great  fight  did  win.' 

'  But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last  ? ' 
Quoth  little  Peterkin. 

'  Why  that  I  cannot  tell,'  said  he 

'  But  'twas  a  famous  victory.' 
Westburij,  1798. 


THE  OLD  WOMAN  OF  BERKELEY, 
A  BALLAD, 

SHEWING  HOW  AN  OLD  WOMAN  RODE 
DOUBLE,  AND  WHO  RODE  BEFORE 
HER. 

[Published  in  Poems,  vol.  ii,  1799.  The 
history  of  this  ballad  is  described  by  Southey 
in  the  Preface  to  the  Sixth  Volume  of  the 
Collected  Edition  of  his  Poems  (vide  pp.  13, 
14).] 

'  A.D.  852.  Circa  dies  istos,  mulier  quae- 
dam  malefica,  in  villa  quae  Berkeleia  dicitur 
degens,  gulae  amatrix  ac  petulantiae, 
flagitiis  modum  usque  in  senium  et  auguriis 
non  ponens,  usque  ad  mortem  impudicaper- 
mansit.  Haec  die  quadam  cum  sederet  ad 
prandium,  cornicula  quam  pro  delitiis  pasce- 
bat,  nescio  quid  garrire  coepit ;  quo  audito, 
mulieris  cultellus  de  manu  excidit,  simul  et 
facies  pallescere  coepit,  et  emisso  rugitu, 
Hodif,  inquit,  accipiam  grande  incommo- 
dum,  hodieque  ad  sulcum  ultimum  meum 
pervenit  aratrum.  Quo  dicto,  nuncius 
doloris  intravit ;  muliere  vero  percunctata 
ad  quid  veniret,  AfTero,  inquit,  tibi  filii  tui 
obitum  et  totius  familiae  ejus  ex  subita 
ruina  interitum.  Hoc  quoque  dolore  mulier 
permota,  lecto  protinus  decubuit  graviter 
infirmata  ;  sentiensque  morbum  subrepere 
ad  vitalia,  liberos  quos  habuit  superstites, 
monachum  videlicet  et  monacham,  per 
epistolam  invitavit ;  advenientes  autem 
voce  singultiente  alloquitur.  Ego,  inquit, 
0  pueri,  meo  miserabili  fato  daemoniacis 


THE    OLD   WOMAN    OF   BERKELEY 


36: 


sompor  artibus  insorvivi ;  ego  oniiuiiin 
vitioruin  soiitina,  epo  ilKvobrarum  onmiuin 
fui  inaijistra.  l>at  tainen  inilii  inter  liaoc 
mala  spes  vestrae  religionis,  quae  nieam 
solidaret  animain  desperatatu  ;  vas  expec- 
tabam  propugnatores  contra  daemones, 
tutorcs  contra  saevissinios  hostos.  Nunc 
igitur  qnoniain  ad  finem  vitae  porveni,  ropo 
vos  por  inatcma  ubora,  ut  inoa  tontotis 
alleviare  tonnonta.  Insuite  me  defiinctam 
in  corio  cervino,  ac  deinde  in  sarcophago 
lapideo  supponite,  operculunique  ferro  et 
pluinbo  constrinsite,  ac  demum  lapidoni 
trihus  cathenis  ferreis  et  fortissiniis  circun- 
dant(\^,  cloriros  qiiinqua<i;inta  psahnoruni 
cantorcs,  et  tot  per  tres  dies  presbyteros 
missarum  celebratores  applicate,  qui  feroces 
lenigent  adversariorum  incursus.  Ita  si 
tribus  noctibus  secura  jacuero,  quarta  die 
me  infodite  humo. 

'  Factumque  est  ut  praeceperat  illis.  Sed, 
proh  dolor  !  nil  preces,  nil  lacryniae,  nil 
demum  valuere  cathenae.  Primis  enim 
duabus  noctibus,  cum  chori  psallentium 
corpori  assistebant,  advenientes  Daemones 
ostium  ecclesiae  confregerunt  ingenti  obice 
clausum,  extremasque  cathenas  negotio  levi 
dirumpunt ;  media  autem  quae  fortior  erat, 
illibata  manebat.  Tertia  autem  nocte,  circa 
gallicinium,  strepitu  hostium  adventantium, 
omne  monasterium  visum  est  a  fundamento 
moveri.  Unus  ergo  daemonum,  et  vultu 
caeteris  terribilior  et  statura  eminentior, 
januiis  ecclesiae  impetu  violento  concussas 
in  fragmenta  dejecit.  Divexerunt  clerici 
cum  laicis,  metu  steterunt  omnium  capilli, 
et  psalmorum  concentus  defeiit.  Daemon 
ergo  gestu  ut  videbatur  arroganti  ad  sepul- 
chrum  accedens,  et  nomen  muiieris  modicum 
ingeminans,  surgere  imperavit.  Qua  respon- 
dente,  quod  nequiret  pro  vinculis,  Jam  malo 
tuo,  inquit,  solveris  ;  et  protinus  cathenam 
quae  caeterorum  ferocium  daemonum  delu- 
serat,  velut  stuppeum  vinculum  rumpebat. 
Operculum  etiam  sepulchri  pede  depellens, 
mulierem  palam  omnibus  ab  ecclesia  ex- 
traxit,  ubi  prae  foribus  niger  equus  superbe 
hinniens  videbatur,  uncis  ferreis  et  davis 
undique  confixus,  super  quem  misera  mulier 
projecta,  ab  oculis  assistentium  evanuit. 
Audiebantur  tamen  clamores  per  quatuor 
fere  miliaria  horribiles,  auxilium  postulantes. 

'  Ista  itaque  quae  retuli  incredibilia  non 
erunt,  si  legatur  beati  Gregorii  dialogus,  in 
quo  refert,  hominem  in  ecclesia  sepultum, 
a  dnemonibus  foras  ejectum.  Et  apud 
Francos  Carolus  Martellus  insignis  vir  forti- 
tudinis,  qui  Saracenos  Galliam  ingressos, 
Hispaniam  redire  compulit,  exactis  vitae 
suae  diebus,  in  ecclesia  beati  Dionysii  legit ur 


fuisse  sepidtus.  SihI  quia  patrimonia,  c\un 
dociiiUH  omuiuin  fere  tH.clrsiarum  (iailiae, 
})ro  stipendio  comniilitonuru  suorum  nuiti- 
laverat,  niiserabiliter  a  malignis  spiritibns 
de  sepulchro  corporalitcr  avulsus,  usque  in 
hodiernuui  diem  nusquam  coniparuit.'  — 
Matthew  of  U'estmiustrr. 

This  storv  is  also  related  by  Olaus  Magnus, 
and  in  the  Xurewbenj  Chronicle.  Hut 
^^■illiam  of  Malmesi)ury  seems  to  have  been 
the  original  authority,  and  he  had  the  story 
from  an  eye-^vitness".  '  When  I  sliall  havo 
relate<l  it,*  he  says,  '  the  credit  of  the  narra- 
tive uill  not  be  shaken,  though  tiie  iniiuls  of 
the  hearers  should  be  incredulous,  for  I  havo 
heard  it  from  a  man  of  such  character  uhn 
U'ovhl  sicear  he  had  seen  it,  that  I  should 
blush  to  disbelieve.' — Sharpk,  William,  of 
Maimesbury,  p.  2G4. 

The  Raven  croak'd  as  she  sate  at  her 
meal, 
And  the  Old  Woman  knew  what  l.o 
said, 
And  she  grew  pale  at  the  Raven's  tale. 
And  sicken' d  and  went  to  her  bed. 

*  Now  fetch  me  my  children,  and  fetch 
them  with  speed,' 
The  Old  Woman  of  Berkeley  said, 
'  The  Monk  my  son,  and  my  daughter 
the  Nun, 
Bid  them  hasten  or  I  shall  be  dead.' 

The  Monk  her  son,  and  her  daughter  the 
Nun, 
Their  way  to  Berkeley  went,  lo 

And    they    have    brought    with    pious 
thought 
The  holy  sacrament. 

The  Old  Woman  shriek' d  as  they  cnter'd 
her  door. 

And  she  cried  with  a  voice  of  despair, 
'  Now  take  away  the  sacrament. 

For  its  presence  I  cannot  bear  ! ' 

Her  lip  it  trembled  with  agony, 
The  sweat  ran  down  her  brow, 

'  I  have  tortures  in  store  for  evermoro. 
But  spare  me,  my  children,  now  ! '  20 


368 


SELECTED   MINOR   POEMS 


Away  they  sent  the  saorament, 

The  fit  it  left  her  weak, 
She  look'd  at  her  children  with  ghastly 
eyes. 

And  faintly  struggled  to  speak. 

•  All  kind  of  sin  I  have  rioted  in. 

And  the  judgement  now  must  be, 
But  I  secured  my  children's  souls, 
Oh  !  pray,  my  children,  for  me  ! 

^  I  have  'nointed  myself  with  infant's  fat, 

The  fiends  have  been  my  slaves,      30 

From  sleeping  babes  I  have  suck'd  the 

breath. 
And  breaking  by  charms  the  sleep  of 
death, 
I   have  call'd  the  dead  from   their 
graves. 

f  And  the  Devil  will  fetch  me  now  in  fire, 
'■•  My  witchcrafts  to  atone  ; 
And  I  who  have  troubled  the  dead  man's 
grave 
Shall  never  have  rest  in  my  own. 

•  Bless,  I  entreat,  my  winding  sheet, 

My  children,  I  beg  of  you  ; 
And  with  holy  water  sprinkle  my  shroud, 
And  sprinkle  my  coffin  too.  41 

^  And  let  me  be  chain' d  in  my  coffin  of 
stone, 

And  fasten  it  strong,  I  implore. 
With  iron  bars,  and  with  three  chains, 

Chain  it  to  the  church  floor. 

'  And  bless  the  chains  and  sprinkle  them, 
And  let  fifty  Priests  stand  round. 

Who  night  and  day  the  mass  may  say 
Where  I  lie  on  the  ground. 

•  And  see  that  fifty  Choristers  50 

Beside  the  bier  attend  me. 
And  day  and  night  by  the  tapers'  light, 
With  holy  hymns  defend  me. 


*  Let  the  church  bells  all,  both  great  and 
small, 
Be  toll'd  by  night  and  day. 
To  drive  from  thence  the  fiends  who 
come 
To  bear  my  body  away. 

'  And  ever  have  the  church  door  barr'd 

After  the  even-song  ; 
And  I  beseech  you,  children  dear,        60 

Let  the  bars  and  bolts  be  strong. 

'  And  let  this  be  three  days  and  nights 
My  WTetched  corpse  to  save ; 

Till  the  fourth  morning  keep  me  safe. 
And  then  I  may  rest  in  my  grave.' 

The  Old  Woman  of  Berkeley  laid  her 
down, 
And  her  eyes  grew  deadly  dim. 
Short  came  her  breath,  and  the  struggle 
of  death 
Did  loosen  every  limb. 

They  blest  the  old   woman's   winding 
sheet  70 

With  rites  and  prayers  due, 
With   holy    water    they   sprinkled   her 
shroud. 
And  they  sprinkled  her  coffin  too. 

And  they  chain' d  her  in  her  coffin  of 
stone. 
And  with  iron  barr'd  it  down. 
And  in  the  church  with  three  strong 
chains 
They  chain' d  it  to  the  ground. 

And  they  blest  the  chains  and  sprinkled 
them, 

And  fifty  Priests  stood  round. 
By  night  and  day  the  mass  to  say        80 

Where  she  lay  on  the  ground. 

And  fifty  sacred  Choristers 

Beside  the  bier  attend  her, 
Who  day  and  night  by  the  tapers'  light 

Should  with  holy  hymns  defend  her. 


THE   OLD   WOMAN   OF   BERKELEY 


369 


To  see  the  Priests  and  Choristers 

It  waa  a  goodly  sight. 
Each  holding,  as  it  were  a  staff, 

A  tajx^r  burning  brigiit. 

And  the  cluireh  bells  all,  both  great  and 
small,  90 

Did  toll  so  loud  and  long  ; 
And  they  have  barr'd  the  church  door 
hard. 
After  the  even-song. 

And  the  first  night  the  tapers'  light 

Burnt  steudily  and  clear. 
But  they  without  a  hideous  rout 

Of  angry  fiends  could  hear  ; 

A  hideous  roar  at  the  church  door 

Like  a  long  thunder  peal ; 
And  the  Priests  they  pray'd,  and  the 
Choristers  sung  100 

Louder  in  fearful  zeal. 

Loud  toU'd  the  bell,  the  Priests  pray'd 
well. 
The  tapers  they  burnt  bright, 
The  Monk  her  son,  and  her  daughter  the 
Nun, 
They  told  their  beads  all  night. 

The  cock  he  crew,  the  Fiends  they  flew 
From  the  voice  of  the  morning  away  ; 

Then  undisturb'd  the  Choristers  sing, 
And  the  fifty  Priests  they  pray  ; 

As  they  had  sung  and  pray'd  all  night, 
They  pray'd  and  sung  all  day.         iii 

The  second  night  the  tapers'  light 

Burnt  dismally  and  blue. 
And  every  one  saw  his  neighbour's  face 

Like  a  dead  man's  face  to  view. 

And  yells  and  cries  without  arise 

That  the  stoutest  heart  might  shock, 

And  a  deafening  roaring  like  a  cataract 
pouring 
Over  a  mountain  rock. 


The    Monk    and    Nun    they    told    tluir 
beads  120 

As  fast  as  they  could  toll. 
And  aye  as  louder  grow  the  noihO 

The  faster  wont  tlir  boll. 

Louder  and  louder  the  Choristers  sung 
As  they  trembled  more  and  more. 

And  the  Priests  as  they  pray'd  to  heaven 
for  aid. 
They  smote  their  breasts  full  sore. 

The  cock  he  crew,  the  Fiends  they  flew 
From  the  voice  of  the  morning  away  ; 

Then  undisturb'd  the  Choristers  sing,  130 
And  the  fifty  Priests  they  pray  ; 

As  they  had  sung  and  pray'd  all  night, 
They  pray'd  and  sung  all  day. 

The  third  night  came,  and  the  tapers' 
flame 
A  frightful  stench  did  make ; 
And  they  burnt  as  though  they  had  been 
dipt 
In  the  burning  brimstone  lake. 

And  the  loud  commotion,  like  the  rush- 
ing of  ocean. 

Grew  momently  more  and  more ; 
And  strokes  as  of  a  battering  ram     140 

Did  shake  the  strong  church  door. 

The  bellmen,  they  for  very  fear 
Could  toll  the  bell  no  longer  ; 

And  still  as  louder  grew  the  strokes. 
Their  fear  it  grew  the  stronger. 

The  Monk  and  Nun  forgot  their  beads. 
They  fell  on  the  ground  in  dismay  ; 

There  was  not  a  single  Saint  in  heaven 
To  whom  they  did  not  pray. 

And  the  Choristers'  song,  which  late  was 
so  strong,  150 

Falter'd  with  consternation. 
For  the  church  did  rock  as  an  earth- 
quake shook 
I'plifted  its  foundation. 


370 


SELECTED   MIXOR   POEMS 


And  a  sound  was  heard  like  the  trum- 
pet's blast, 
That  shall  one  day  wake  the  dead ; 
The  strong  church  door  could  bear  no 
more. 
And  the  bolts  and  the  bars  they  fled  ; 

And  the  tapers'  light  was  extinguish' d 
quite, 
And  the  choristers  faintly  sung. 
And  the  Priests  dismay' d,  panted  and 
pray'd,  i6o 

And  on  all  Saints  in  heaven  for  aid 
They  call'd  with  trembling  tongue. 

And  in  He  came  with  eyes  of  flame, 
The  Devil  to  fetch  the  dead, 

And  all  the  church  with  his  presence 
glow'd 
Like  a  fiery  furnace  red. 

He  laid  his  hand  on  the  iron  chains. 
And  like  flax  they  moulder' d  asunder, 

And  the  coffin  lid,  which  was  barr'd  so 
firm. 
He  burst  with  his  voice  of  thunder. 

And  he  bade  the  Old  Woman  of  Berkeley 
rise,  171 

And  come  with  her  Master  away ; 
A  cold  sweat  started  on  that  cold  corpse, 

At  the  voice  she  was  forced  to  obey. 

She  rose  on  her  feet  in  her  winding  sheet, 
Her  dead  flesh  quiver' d  with  fear, 

And  a  groan  like  that  which  the  Old 
Woman  gave 
Never  did  mortal  hear. 

She  follow'd  her  Master  to  the  church 
door. 

There  stood  a  black  horse  there  ;  180 
His  breath  was  red  like  furnace  smoke, 

His  eyes  like  a  meteor's  glare. 

The  Devil  he  flung  her  on  the  horse. 
And  he  leapt  up  before,  [went, 

And  away  like  the  lightning's  speed  they 
And  she  was  seen  no  more. 


They  saw  her  no  more,  but  her  cries 

For  four  miles  round  they  could  hear, 
And  children  at  rest  at  their  mothers' 
breast 
Started,  and  scream' d  with  fear.     190 
Hereford,  1798. 


GOD'S  JUDGEMENT  ON  A  WICKED 
BISHOP 

[First  published  in  The  Morning  Post, 
Nov.  27,  1799;  afterwards  in  The  Annual 
Anthology,  1800,  and  in  Metrical  Tales,  1805.] 

'  Here  followeth  the  History  of  HATTO, 
Archbichop  of  Mentz. 

'  It  hapned  in  the  year  914,  that  there 
was  an  exceeding  great  famine  in  Germany, 
at  what  time  Otho,  surnamed  the  Great,  was 
Emperor,  and  one  Hatto,  once  Abbot  of 
Fulaa,  was  Archbishop  of  Mentz,  of  the 
Bishops  after  Crescens  and  Crescent ius  the 
two  and  thirtieth,  of  the  Archbishops  after 
St.  Bonifacius  the  thirteenth.  This  Hatto, 
in  the  time  of  this  great  famine  afore-men- 
tioned, when  he  saw  the  poor  people  of  the 
country  exceedingly  oppressed  with  famine, 
assembled  a  great  company  of  them  together 
into  a  Barne,  and,  like  a  most  accurst  and 
mercilesse  caitiffe,  burnt  up  those  poor 
innocent  souls,  that  were  so  far  Trom 
doubting  any  such  matter,  that  they  rather 
hoped  to  receive  some  comfort  and  relief  at 
his  hands.  The  reason  that  moved  the 
prelat  to  commit  that  execrable  impiety 
was,  because  he  thought  the  famine  would 
the  sooner  cease,  if  those  unprofitable  beg- 
gars that  consumed  more  bread  than  they 
were  worthy  to  eat,  were  dispatched  out  of 
the  world.  For  he  said  that  those  poor  folks 
were  like  to  Mice,  that  were  good  for  nothing 
but  to  devour  corne.  But  God  Almighty, 
the  just  avenger  of  the  poor  folks  quarrel, 
did  not  long  suffer  this  hamous  tyranny,  this 
most  detestable  fact,  unpunished.  For  he 
mustered  up  an  army  of  Mice  against  the 
Archbishop,  and  sent  them  to  per.secute  him 
as  his  furious  Alastors,  so  that  they  afflicted 
him  both  day  and  night,  and  would  not 
sufTer  b.im  to  take  his  rest  in  any  place. 
Whereupon  the  Prelate,  thinking  'that  he 
should  be  secure  from  the  injury  of  Mice  if 
he  were  in  a  certain  tower,  that'standeth  in 
the  Bhine  near  to  the  towne,  betook  liimself 
unto  the  said  tower  as  to  a  safe  refuge  and 


GOD'S  JIJDGEMEXT  ON  A  WICKED  BISHOP     371 


sanctuiiry  from  his  enemios,  and  locke<l  him- 
self in.  "  But  the  innumerable  troupes  of 
Mice  chased  him  continually  very  eii^erly, 
and  s\Mimme  unto  him  upon  the  toj)  of  the 
water  to  exet-ute  the  just  judgment  of  (lotl, 
and  so  at  hist  he  was  most  miserably  de- 
voured by  those  sillie  creatures  ;  who  pur- 
sued him  with  such  bitter  hostility,  that  it 
is  nvorded  they  scraped  and  knawed  out 
liis  very  name  from  the  walls  and  tapistry 
wherein  it  was  written,  after  they  had  so 
cruelly  devoured  his  body.  Wherefore  the 
tower"  wherein  he  was  eaten  up  by  the  Mice 
is  shewn  to  this  day,  for  a  perpetual  monu- 
ment to  all  succeeding  ages  of  the  barbarous 
and  inhimian  tyranny  of  this  impious  Pre- 
late, being  situate  in  a  little  green  Island 
in  the  midst  of  the  Rhine  near  to  the 
towne  of  Bingen,  and  is  conmionly  calle<l  in 
the  German  Tongue  the  Mowsk-turn'.' — 
CoryaVs  Crudities,  pp.  571,  572. 

Other  authors  who  record  this  tale  say 
that  the  Bishop  was  eaten  by  Kats. 

The  summer  and  autumn  had  been  so 

wet, 
That  in  winter  the  corn  was  growing  yet, 
Twas  a  piteous  sight  to  see  all  around 
The  grain  lie  rotting  on  the  ground. 

Every  day  the  starving  poor 
Crowded  around  Bishop  Hatto's  door, 
For  he  had  a  plentiful  last-year's  store, 
And  all  the  neighbourhood  could  tell 
His  granaries  were  furnish' d  well. 

At  last  Bishop  Hat  to  appointed  a  day  lo 
To  quiet  the  poor  without  delay  ; 
He  bade  them  to  his  great  Barn  repair, 
And  they  should  have  food  for  the  winter 
there. 

Rejoiced  such  tidings  good  to  hear. 
The  poor  folk  flock' d  from  far  and  near  ; 
The  great  Barn  was  full  as  it  could  hold 
Of  women  and  children,  and  young  and 
old. 

Tlien  when  he  saw  it  could  hold  no  more, 
Bishop  Hat  to  he  made  fast  the  door ; 
And  while  for  mercy  on  Christ  they  call. 
He  set  fire  to  the  Barn  and  burnt  them 
all.  31 


*  I'faith    'tis    an    excellent     bonlire ! ' 

quoth  ho, 
'  And  the  country  is  greatly  obliged  to 

mo. 
For  ridding  it  in  these  times  forlorn 
Of  Rats  that  only  consume  the  corn.' 

So  then  to  his  palace  returned  ho. 
And  ho  sat  down  to  supper  merrily, 
And  he  slept  that  night  like  an  innocent 

man  ; 
But  Bishop  Hatto  never  slept  again. 

In  the  morning  as  he  enter'd  the  hall  30 
Where  his  picture  hung  against  the  wall, 
A  sweat  like  death  all  over  him  came. 
For  the  Rats  had  eaten  it  out  of  the 
frame. 

As  he  look'd  there  came  a  man  from  his 

farm — 
He  had  a  countenance  white  with  alarm; 
'  My  Lord,  I  open'd  your  granaries  this 

morn. 
And  the  Rats  had  eaten  all  your  corn.' 

Another  came  running  presently. 
And  he  was  pale  as  pale  could  be, 
'  Fly  !    my  Lord  Bishop,  fly,'  quoth  he, 
'  Ten   thousand   Rats  are  coming  this 
way,  .  .  41 

The  Lord  forgive  you  for  yesterday  ! ' 

'  I'll   go  to   my  tower  on  the  Rhine,* 

replied  he, 
'  'Tis  the  safest  place  in  Germany  ; 
The  walls  are  high  and  the  shores  are 

steep. 
And  the  stream  is  strong  and  the  water 

deep.' 

Bishop  Hatto  fearfully  hasten'd  away. 
And  he  crost  the  Rhine  without  delay. 
And  reach'd  his  tower,  and  barr'd  with 

care 
All  the  windows,  doors,  and  loop-holea 

there.  5° 


372 


SELECTED  MINOR   POEMS 


He  laid  him  do^\^l  and  closed  his  eyes  ; . . 
But  soon  a  scream  made  him  arise, 
He  started  and  saw  two  eyes  of  flame 
On  his  pillow  from  whence  the  screaming 
came. 

He  listen'd  and  look'd ;   .  .  it  was  only 

the  Cat ; 
But  the  Bishop  he  grew  more  fearful  for 

that, 
For  she  sat  screaming,  mad  with  fear 
At  the  Army  of  Rats  that  were  drawing 

near. 

For  they  have  swoim  over  the  river  so 

deep. 
And  they  have   climb' d  the  shores  so 

steep,  60 

And  up  the  Tower  their  way  is  bent, 
To  do  the  work  for  which  they  were  sent. 

They  are  not  to  be  told  by  the  dozen  or 

score, 
By  thousands  they  come,  and  by  myriads 

and  more. 
Such  numbers  had  never  been  heard  of 

before. 
Such    a    judgement    had    never    been 

witness' d  of  yore. 

Do\\Ti  on  his  knees  the  Bishop  fell. 
And  faster  and  faster  his  beads  did  he 

tell, 
As  louder  and  louder  drawing  near     69 
The  gnawing  of  their  teeth  he  could  hear. 

And  in  at  the  windows  and  in  at  the 

door, 
And    through    the    walls   helter-skelter 

they  pour, 
And    dowTi   from   the   ceiling    and    up 

through  tlie  floor. 
From  the  right  and  the  left,  from  behind 

and  before. 
From  within  and  without,  from  above 

and  below. 
And  all  at  once  to  the  Bishop  they  go. 


They  have  whetted  their  teeth  against 

the  stones, 
And  now  they  pick  the  Bishop's  bones  ; 
They  gnaw'd  the  flesh  from  every  limb. 
For  they  were  sent  to  do  judgement  on 

him !  80 

Wesibury,  1799. 

THE  INCHCAPE  ROCK 

[First  published  in  The  Morning  Post, 
Oct.  19,  1803.  The  Ballad  was  reprinted, 
with  a  number  of  unauthorized  variations, 
in  The  Edinburgh  Annual  Register  for  1810, 
without  Southey's  knowledge  or  consent.] 

An  old  %vriter  mentions  a  curious  tradition 
which  may  be  worth  quoting.  '  By  east  the 
Isle  of  May,'  says  he,  '  twelve  miles  from  all 
land  in  the  German  seas,  lyes  a  great  hidden 
rock,  called  Inchcape,  very  dangerous  for 
navigators,  because  it  is  overflowed  everie 
tide.  It  is  reported  in  old  times,  upon  the 
saide  rock  there  was  a  bell,  fixed  upon  a  tree 
or  timber,  which  rang  continually,  being 
moved  by  the  sea,  giving  notice  to  the  saylers 
of  the  danger.  This  bell  or  clocke  was  put 
there  and  maintained  by  the  Abbot  of 
Aberbrothok,  and  being  taken  down  by  a 
sea  pirate,  a  yeare  therafter  he  perished  upon 
the  same  rocke,  with  ship  and  goodes,  in  the 
righteous  judgement  of  God.' — Stodd.\rt, 
Remarks  on  Scotland. 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea. 
The  ship  was  still  as  she  could  be, 
Her  sails  from  heaven  received  no  mo- 
tion. 
Her  keel  was  steady  in  the  ocean. 

Without  either  sign  or  sound  of  their 

shock 
The   waves   flow'd   over   the   Inchcape 

Rock; 
So  little  they  rose,  so  little  they  fell, 
They  did  not  move  the  Inchcape  Bell. 

The  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok 

Had  placed  that  bell  on  the  Inchcape 

Rock ;  10 

On  a  buoy  in  the  storm  it  floated  and 

swung. 
And  over  the  waves  its  warning  rung. 


THE   INCHCAPE   ROCK 


373 


When  the  Rock  was  hid  by  the  surge's 

swell, 
The  mariners  licard  the  warning  bell ; 
And    then    they    knew    the     perilous 

Rock, 
And  ble^t  the  Abbot  of  Abcrbrothok. 

The  Sun  in  heaven  was  shining  gay, 
All  things  were  joyful  on  that  day  ; 
The  sea-birds  scream' d  as  they  wheel' d 
round,  19 

And  there  wsis  joyauncc  in  their  sound. 

The   buoy   of    the  luchcapc  Bell   was 

seen 
A  darker  speck  on  the  ocean  green  ; 
Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  walk'd  his  deck. 
And   he   fixed   his  eye  on   the   darker 

speck. 

He  felt  the  cheering  power  of  spring, 
It    made    him   whistle,   it    made    him 

sing; 
His  heart  was  mirthful  to  excess, 
But  the  Rover's  mirth  was  wickedness. 

His  eye  was  on  the  Inchcape  float ; 
Quoth    he,    '  My    men,    put    out    the 

boat,  30 

And  row  me  to  the  Inchcajx}  Rock, 
And  I'll    plague   the  Abbot    of    Aber- 

brothok.' 

The  boat  is  lower'd,  the  boatmen  row, 
And  to  the  Inchcape  Rock  they  go ; 
Sir  Ralph  bent  over  from  the  boat,  . 
And  he  cut  the  Bell  from  the  Inchcape 
float. 

Down  sunk  the  Bell   with  a  gurgling 

sound, 
Tlie  bubbles  rose  and  burst  around  ; 
Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  '  The  next  who  comes 

to  the  Rock  39 

Won't  bless  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok.' 


Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  sail'd  away. 
He  scour'd  the  seas  for  many  a  day  ; 
And   now   grown    rich    with    plundcr'd 

store, 
Ho  steers  hia  course  for  Scotland's  shore. 

So  thick  a  haze  o'erspreads  the  sky 
They  cannot  sec  the  Sun  on  high  ; 
Tlie  wind  hath  blown  a  gale  all  day, 
At  evening  it  hath  died  away. 

On  the  deck  the  Rover  takes  liis  stand, 
So  dark  it  is  they  see  no  land.  50 

Quoth  Sir  Ralph,   '  It   will   be  lighter 

soon. 
For   there  is   the   dawn   of   the   rising 

Moon.' 

'  Canst  hear,'   said  one,   '  the  breakers 

roar  ? 
For  methinks  we  should  be  near  the 

shore.' 
'  Now  where  we  are  I  cannot  tell. 
But  I  wish  I  could  hear  the  Inchcape 

Bell.' 

They  hear  no  sound,  the  swell  is  strong  ; 
Though  the  wind  hath  fallen  they  drift 

along. 
Till  the  vessel  strikes  with  a  shivering 

shock, — 
'  Oh  Christ !  it  is  the  Inchcape  Rock  ! ' 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  tore  his  hair ;     61 
He  curst  himself  in  his  despair ; 
The  waves  rush  in  on  every  side, 
The  ship  is  sinking  beneath  the  tide. 

But  even  in  his  dying  fear 

One  dreadful  sound  could   the  Rover 

hear, 
A  sound  as  if  with  the  Inchcape  Bell, 
The  Devil  below  was  ringing  his  knell. 

Bristol,  1802. 


374 


SELECTED   MINOR   POEMS 


QUEEN  ORRACA 

AND 

THE  FIVE  MARTYRS  OF  MOROCCO 

[First  published  in  The  Morning  Post, 
Sept  .1, 1803.  Afterwards  published  in  The 
Edinburgh  Annual  Register  for  1808,  and  in 
Ballantyne's  English  Minstrelsy,  1810.J 

This  Legend  is  related  in  the  Chronicle  of 
AfTonso  11,  and  in  the  Historia  Serafica  of 
Fr.  Manoel  da  Esperanga. 


The  Friars  five  have  girt  their  loins, 

And  taken  staff  in  hand ; 
And  never  shall  those  Friars  again 

Hear  mass  in  Christian  land. 

They  went  to  Queen  Orraca, 

To  thank  her  and  bless  her  then ; 

And  Queen  Orraca  in  tears 
Knelt  to  the  holy  men. 

•  Three  things,  Queen  Orraca, 

We  prophesy  to  you  :  lo 

Hear  us,  in  the  name  of  God  ! 
For  time  will  prove  them  true. 

'  In  Morocco  we  must  martyr' d  be ; 

Christ  hath  vouchsafed  it  thus : 
We  shall  shed  our  blood  for  Him 

Who  shed  his  blood  for  us. 

'  To     Coimbra    shall    our    bodies    be 
brought, 

Such  being  the  will  divine  ; 
That  Christians  may  behold  and  feel 

Blessings  at  our  shrine.  20 

*  And  when  unto  that  place  of  rest 

Our  bodies  shall  draw  nigh, 
Who  sees  us  first,  the  King  or  you, 
That  one  that  night  must  die. 

'  Fare  thee  well.  Queen  Orraca  ! 

For  thy  soul  a  mass  we  will  say, 
Every  day  as  long  as  we  live. 

And  on  thy  dying  day.' 


The  Friars  they  blest  her,  one  by  one. 
Where  she  knelt  on  her  knee,  30 

And  they  departed  to  the  land 
Of  the  Moors  beyond  the  sea. 

2 
'  What  news,  0  King  Affonso, 

What  news  of  the  Friars  five  ? 
Have  they  preach' d  to  the  Miramamolinj 

And  are  they  still  alive  ? ' 

'  They  have  fought  the  fight,  0  Queen  ! 

They  have  run  the  race  ; 
In  robes  of  white  they  hold  the  palm 

Before  the  throne  of  Grace.  40 

'  All  naked  in  the  sun  and  air 

Their  mangled  bodies  lie ; 
What  Christian  dared  to  bury  them. 

By  the  bloody  Moors  would  die.' 


'  What  news,  0  King  Affonso, 
Of  the  Martyrs  five  what  news  ? 

Doth  the  bloody  I\Iiramamolin 
Their  burial  still  refuse  ? ' 

'  That  on  a  dunghill  they  should  rot. 
The  bloody  Moor  decreed  ;  50 

That  their  dishonour' d  bodies  should 
The  dogs  and  vultures  feed  : 

'  But  the  thunder  of  God  roll'd  over 
them, 

And  the  lightning  of  God  flash' d  round; 
Nor  thing  impure,  nor  man  impure. 

Could  approach  the  holy  ground. 

'  A  thousand  miracles  appall' d 

The  cruel  Pagan's  mind ; 
Our  brother  Pedro  brings  them  here, 

In  Coimbra  to  be  shrined.'  60 


Every  altar  in  Coimbra 
Is  drest  for  the  festival  day  ; 

All  the  people  in  Coimbra 
Are  dight  in  their  richest  array  ; 


QUEEN   ORRACA 


375 


Every  bell  in  Coimbia 

Doth  merrily,  merrily,  ring; 

The  Clergy  and  the  Knigliis  await, 
To  go  forth  with  the  Queen  and  the 
King. 

'  Come  forth,  come  forth.  Queen  Orraca  ! 

We  make  the  procession  stay.'  70 

'  I  beseech  thee,  King  Affonso, 

Go  you  alone  to-day. 

*  I  have  pain  in  my  head  this  morning, 

I  am  ill  at  heart  also  : 
Uo  without  me,  Iving  Allonso, 

For  I  am  too  faint  to  go.' 

'  The  relics  of  the  Martyrs  tive 

All  maladies  can  cure  ; 
They  will  requite  the  charity 

You  shew'd  them  once,  be  sure  :      80 


'  Come  forth  then.  Queen  Orraca  1 
You  make  the  procession  stay : 

It  were  a  scandal  and  a  sin 
To  abide  at  home  to-day.' 

Upon  her  palfrey  she  is  set. 
And  forward  then  they  go  ; 

And  over  the  long  bridge  they  pass, 
And  up  the  long  hill  wind  slow. 

'  Prick  forward.  King  Affonso, 

And  do  not  wait  for  me  ;  90 

To  meet  them  close  by  Coimbra, 
It  were  discourtesy  ; 

*  A  little  while  I  needs  must  wait, 
Till  this  sore  pain  be  gone  ;  .  . 

I  will  proceed  the  best  I  can. 

But  do  you  and  your  Knights  prick 
on.' 

The  King  and  his  Knights  prick' d  up 
the  hill 
Faster  than  before ; 
The  King  and  his  Knights  have  topt  the 
hill. 
And  now  they  arc  seen  no  more.     100 


As  the  King  and  his  Knights  wont  down 
the  hill 
A  wild  boar  cro.st  the  way  ; 
*  Follow  him  !   follow  him  !  '   cried  the 
King  ; 
'  We  have  time  by  the  Queen's  delay  I " 

A-hmiting  of  the  boar  astray 

Is  King  Alfonso  gone  : 
Slowly,  slowly,  but  straight  the  while. 

Queen  Orraca  is  coming  on. 

^Vnd  winding  now  the  train  appears 
Between  the  olive-trees  :  no 

Queen  Orraca  alighted  then, 
And  fell  upon  her  knees. 

The  Friars  of  Alanquer  came  tirst, 
And  next  the  relics  past ;  .  . 

Queen  Orraca  look'd  to  see 

The  King  and  his  Knights  come  last. 

She  heard  the  horses  tramp  behind  ; 

At  that  she  turn'd  her  face  : 
King  Alfonso  and  his  Knights  came  up 

All  panting  from  the  chase.  120 

'  Have  pity  upon  my  poor  soul. 
Holy  Martyrs  five  ! '  cried  she  : 

'  Holy  Mary,  Mother  of  Cod, 
Virgin,  pray  for  me  ! ' 


That  day  in  Coimbra 

Many  a  heart  was  gay  ; 
But  the  heaviest  heart  in  Coimbra, 

Was  that  poor  Queen's  that  day. 


The  festival  is  over, 

The  sun  hath  sunk  in  the  west  ; 
All  the  people  in  Coimbra 

Have  betaken  themselves  to  rest. 

Queen  Orraca' a  Father  Confessor 

At  midnight  is  awake  ; 
Kneeling  at  the  Martyr's  shrine, 

And  praying  for  her  sake. 


130 


376 


SELECTED  MINOR   POEMS 


Just  at  the  midnight  hour,  when  all 

Was  still  as  still  could  be, 
Into  the  Church  of  Santa  Cruz, 

Came  a  saintly  company  :  140 

All  in  robes  of  russet  grey, 

Poorly  were  they  dight ; 
Each  one  girdled  with  a  cord, 

Like  a  Friar  Minorite. 

But  from  those  robes  of  russet  grey. 

There  flow'd  a  heavenly  light ; 
For  each  one  was  the  blessed  soul 

Of  a  Friar  Minorite. 
Brighter  than  their  brethren. 

Among  the  beautiful  band  ;  150 

Five  were  there  who  each  did  bear 

A  palm  branch  in  his  hand. 
He  who  led  the  brethren, 

A  living  man  was  he  ; 
And  yet  he  shone  the  brightest 

Of  all  the  company. 

Before  the  steps  of  the  altar. 

Each  one  bow'd  his  head ; 
And  then  with  solemn  voice  they  sung 

The  Service  of  the  Dead.  160 

*  And  who  are  ye,  ye  blessed  Saints  ? ' 

The  Father  Confessor  said ; 
'  And  for  what  happy  soul  sing  ye 
The  Service  of  the  Dead  ? ' 

*  These  are  the  souls  of  our  brethren  in 

bliss. 
The  Martyrs  five  are  we  : 
And  this  is  our  father  Francisco, 
Among  us  bodily  ! 

*  We  are  come  hither  to  perform 

Our  promise  to  the  Queen ;  170 

Go  thou  to  King  Afifonso, 

And  say  what  thou  hast  seen.' 

There  was  loud  knocking  at  the  door, 
As  the  heavenly  vision  fled ; 

And  the  porter  called  to  the  Confessor, 
To  tell  him  the  Queen  was  dead. 
Bristol,  1803. 


BROUGH  BELLS 

'  The  church  at  Brough  is  a  pretty  large 
handsome  ancient  building.  The  steeple  is 
not  so  old,  having  been  built  about  the  year 
1513,  under  the  direction  of  Thomas  Blen- 
kinsop,  of  Helbeck,  Esq.  There  are  in  it 
four  excellent  bells,  by  much  the  largest  in 
the  county,  except  the  great  bell  at  Kirkby 
There.  Concerning  these  bells  at  Brough, 
there  is  a  tradition  that  they  were  given  by 
one  Brunskill,who  lived  upon  Stanemore,  in 
the  remotest  part  of  the  parish,  and  had 
a  great  many  cattle.  One  time  it  happened 
that  his  Bull  fell  a  bellowing,  which  in  the 
dialect  of  the  country  is  called  cruning,  this 
being  the  genuine  Saxon  word  to  denote  that 
vociferation.  Thereupon  he  said  to  one  of 
bis  neighbours,  "  Hearest  thou  how  loud 
this  bull  cranes  ?  If  these  cattle  should  all 
crune  together,  might  they  not  be  heard 
from  Brough  hither  ? "  He  answered, 
"  Yea."  "  Well,  then,"  says  Brunskill, 
"  I'll  make  them  all  crune  together."  And 
he  sold  them  all,  and  Mith  the  price  thereof 
he  bought  the  said  bells  (or  perhaps  he  might 
get  the  old  bells  new  cast  and  made  larger). 
There  is  a  monument  in  the  body  of  the 
church,  in  the  south  wall,  between  the 
highest  and  second  window,  and  in  which  it 
is  said  the  said  Brunskill  was  the  last  that 
was  interred.' — Nicolson  and  Burii's  History 
and  Antiquities  of  Westmoreland  and  Cumber- 
land, vol.  i,  p.  571. 

One  day  to  Helbeck  I  had  stroll' d 

Among  the  Crossfell  hills, 
And  resting  in  its  rocky  grove 

Sat  listening  to  the  rills ; 

The  while  to  their  sweet  undersong 
The  birds  sang  blithe  around. 

And  the  soft  west  wind  awoke  the  wood 
To  an  intermitting  sound. 

Louder  or  fainter  as  it  rose, 

Or  died  away,  was  borne  10 

The  harmony  of  merry  bells. 

From  Brough  that  pleasant  morn. 

'  Why  arc  the  merry  bells  of  Brough, 

My  friend,  so  few  ? '  said  I, 
'  They  disappoint  the  expectant  ear. 

Which  they  should  gratify. 


BROUGH   BELLS 


377 


'  One,  two,  tlirec,  four  ;  one,  two,  three, 
four; 

'Tia  still  one,  two,  three,  four. 
Mellow  and  silvery  are  the  tones  ; 

But  I  wish  the  bells  were  more  ! '    20 

'  What  !    art  thou  critical  ? '  quoth  he  ; 

'  Eschew  that  heart's  disease 
That  seeketh  for  displeasure  where 

The  intent  hath  been  to  please. 

'  By  those  four  bells  there  hangs  a  tale. 

Which  being  told,  I  guess, 
Will  make  thee  hear  their  scanty  peal 

With  proper  thankfulness. 

*  Not  by  the  Cliffords  were  they  given,    | 

Nor  by  the  Tuf tons'  line  ;  30  \ 

Thou  hearest  in  that  peal  the  crune 
Of  old  John  Brunskill's  kine. 

'  On  Stanemore's  side  one  summer  eve, 

John  Brunskill  sate  to  see 
His  herds  in  yonder  Borrodale 

Come  winding  up  the  lea. 

'  Behind  them  on  the  lowland's  verge. 

In  the  evening  light  serene, 
Brough's  silent  tower,  then  newly  built 

By  Blenkinsop,  was  seen.  40 

*  Slowly  they  came  in  long  array. 

With  loitering  pace  at  ^vill ; 
At  times  a  low  from  them  was  heard, 
Far  off,  for  all  was  still. 

'  The  hills  return' d  that  lonely  sound 

Upon  the  tranquil  air ; 
The  only  sound  it  was,  which  then 

Awoke  the  echoes  there. 

'  "  Thou  hear' St  that  lordly  Bull  of 
mine. 

Neighbour,"  quoth  Brunskill  then  ;  50 
"  How  loudly  to  the  hills  he  cruncs, 

That  crune  to  him  again. 


'  "  Think' Bt  thou  if  yon  whole  herd  at 

once 

Their  voices  should  combine, 
Were  they  at  Brough,  that  we  might  not 
Hear  plainly  from  this  upland  spot 

That  cruning  of  the  kine  ? " 

'  "  That  were  a  crune,  indeed,'  replied 
His  comrade,  "  which,  I  ween, 

Might  at  the  Spital  well  be  heard,         60 
And  in  all  dales  between. 

'  "  Up  Mallerstang  to  Eden's  springs 
The  eastern  wind  upon  its  wings 

The  mighty  voice  would  bear ; 
And  Appleby  would  hear  the  sound, 

Methinks,  when  skies  arc  fair." 

'  "  Then  shall  the  herd,"  John  Brunskill 
cried, 

"  From  yon  dumb  steeple  crune. 
And  thou  and  I,  on  this  hill-side, 

Will  listen  to  their  tunc.  70 

'  "  80  while  the  merry  Bells  of  Brough 

For  many  an  age  ring  on, 
John  Brunskill  will  remember' d  be, 

When  he  is  dead  and  gone  ; 


'  "  As  one  who  in  his  latter  years, 

Contented  with  enough. 
Gave  freely  what  he  well  could  spare 

To  buy  the  Bells  of  Brough." 

'  Thus  it  hath  proved  :    tliree  hundred 
years 

Since  then  have  pass'd  away, 
And  Brunskill's  is  a  living  name 

Among  us  to  this  day.' 

'  More  pleasure,'  I  replied,  *  shall  I 
From  this  time  forth  partake, 

When  I  remember  Helbcck  woods. 
For  old  John  Brunskill's  sake. 


£0 


'  He  knew  how  wholesome  it  would  be. 
Among  these  wild  wide  fells, 

And  upland  vales,  to  catch,  at  times, 
The  sound  of  Christian  bells ;  90 


378 


SELECTED   MINOR   POEMS 


*  What  feelings  and  what  impulses 
Their  cadence  might  convey, 

To  herdsman  or  to  shepherd  boy, 

Whiling  in  indolent  employ 
The  solitary  day ; 

'  That  when  his  brethren  were  convened 

To  meet  for  social  prayer, 
He,  too,  admonish' d  by  the  call, 

In  spirit  might  be  there. 

'  Or  when  a  glad  thanksgiving  sound,  loo 
Upon  the  winds  of  Heaven, 

Was  sent  to  speak  a  Nation's  joy, 
For  some  great  blessing  given — 

'  For  victory  by  sea  or  land. 
And  happy  peace  at  length  ; 

Peace  by  his  country's  valour  won, 
And  'stablish'd  by  her  strength  ; 

'  When  such  exultant  peals  were  borne 

Upon  the  mountain  air, 
The  sound  should  stir  his  blood,  and 
give  110 

An  English  impulse  there.' 

Such  thoughts  were  in  the  old  man's 
mind. 

When  he  that  eve  look'd  down 
From  Stanemore's  side  on  Borrodale, 

And  on  the  distant  tov^n. 

And  had  I  store  of  wealth,  methinks, 

Another  herd  of  kine, 
John  Brunskill,  I  would  freely  give. 

That  they  might  crune  with  thine. 

Keswick,  1828. 


INSCRIPTION   FOR   A 
COFFEE-POT 

[Printed  in  a  not€  in  Selections,  From  the 
Letters  of  Robert  Southey,  ed.  J.  \\.  Waiter, 
vol.  iv,  pp.  203,  204.] 

A  GOLDEN'  medal  was  voted  to  me 
By  a  certain  Royal  Society  ; 
'Twas  not  a  thing  at  which  to  scoff. 
For  fifty  guineas  was  the  cost  thereof : 
On  one  side  a  head  of  the  king  you 

might  see, 
And  on  the  other  was  Mercury  ! 
But  I  was  scant  of  worldly  riches, 
And    moreover    the    Mercury    had    no 

breeches ; 
So,    thinking    of    honour    and    utihty 

too. 
And  having  modesty  also  in  view,        lo 
I  sold  this  medal,  (why  should  I  not  ?) 
And    with    the    money    which    for    it 

I  got, 
I  purchased  this  silver  cofifee-pot : 
Which  I  trust  my  son  will  preserve  with 

care. 
To  be  handed  down  from  heir  to  heir. 
These  verses  are  engraven  here, 
That    the    truth   of    the    matter    may 

appear. 
And    I    hope    the   society    will    be   so 

wise, 
As  in  future  to  dress  their  Mercuries  ! 


SONNETS 


[As  two  of  the  Sonnets  have  been  inserted 
among  the  Selected  Minor  Poems  (pp.  319, 
350),  and  three  of  those  pubhshed  in  lb37- 
lb38  have  been  omitted,  ithas  been  necessary 
tc  make  some  alteration  in  the  numbering 
of  those  here  printed,  ^\■here  this  has  been 
done  the  number  in  brackets  (  )  at  the 
head  of  a  sonnet  denott.'S  its  number  in  the 
edition  of  1837-lt>38. 

Of  the  Sonnets  printed  below,  numbers 
I  to  IV  inclusive  (as  numbered  in  the 
present  edition)  were  published  in  I'ocnis, 
1797  ;  the  remainder  were  published  in 
Metrical  l\iles,  1805.  Soimets  V,  VI,  VII, 
Vill,  and  XII  were  included  in  TheAnnual 
Anthology,  1799  ;  Sonnets  IX,  X,  XI,  XIV, 
X^^  appeared  iii  The  Annual  Anthology, 
1800.] 

I  (IV)  CORSTON 

As  thus  I  stand  beside  the  murmuring 

stream 
And  watch  its  current,  memory  here 

pour  trays 
Scenes  faintly  form'd  of  half -forgotten 

days, 
Like  far-off  woodlands  by  the  moon's 

bright  beam 
Dimly    descried,    but   lovely.     I    have 

worn 
Amid  these   haunts   the   heavy  hours 

away, 
When    childhood    idled    through    the 

Sabbath-day  ; 
Risen  to  my  tasks  at  winter's  earliest 

morn ; 
And  when  the  summer  twilight  darken'd 

here, 
Thinking  of  home,  and  all  of  heart  for- 
lorn, 10 
Have  sigh'd  and  shed  in  secret  many  a 

tear. 
Dream-like  and  indistinct  those  days 

appear. 
As  the  faint  sounds  of  this  low  brooklet, 

borne 
Upon  the  breeze,  reach  fitfully  the  ear. 
1794. 


11  (VI) 
WiTU  many  a  weary  step,  at  length  I  gain 
Thy  summit,  Lansdowu  ;    and  the  cool 

breeze  plays 
Gratefully  round  my    brow,   as  hcnco 

I  gaze 
Back   on   the  fair  expanse  of  yonder 

plain.  [eye 

'Twas  a  long  way  and  tedious ;    to  the 
Though  fair  the  extended  vale,  and  fair 

to  view 
The  autumnal  leaves  of  many  a  faded 

hue, 
That  eddy  in  the  wild  gust  moaning  by. 
Even  so  it  fared  with  life  :  in  discontent 
Restless    through    Fortime'a    mingled 

scenes  I  went .  .  lo 

Yet  wept  to  think  they  would  return  no 

more. 
But   cease,    fond   heart,    in   such   sad 

thoughts  to  roam  ; 
For  surely  thou  ere  long  shalt  reach  thy 

home. 
And  pleasant  is  the  way  that  lies  before. 
1794. 

Ill  (VII) 

Fair  is  the  rising  morn  when  o'er  the  sky 
The  orient  sun  expands  his  roseate  ray, 
And  lovely  to  the  musing  poet's  eye 
Fades  the  soft  radiance  of  departing  day; 
But  fairer  is  the  smile  of  one  we  love, 
Than  all  the  scenes  in  Nature's  ample 

sway, 
And  sweeter  than  the  music  of  the  grove. 
The  voice  that  bids  us  welcome.     Such 

delight, 
Edith  !   is  mine,  escaping  to  thy  sight 
From  the  cold  converse  of  the  indiflcrent 

throng :  »<> 

Too  swiftly  then  toward  the  silent  night, 
Ye  hours  of  hap))ines.s,  ye  si>eed  along, 
^Vhilst  I,  from  all  the  world  s  dull  carea 

apart,  f  heart. 

Pour  out  the  fcehugs  of  my  burthcu'd 
1794. 


380 


SONNETS 


IV  (VIII) 

How  darkly  o'er  yon  far-ofif  mountain 
frowns 

The  gather' d  tempest !   from  that  lurid 
cloud 

The  deep-voiced  thunders  roll,  aweful 
and  loud 

Though  distant ;   while  upon  the  misty 
downs  [rain. 

Fast  falls  in  shadowy  streaks  the  pelting 

I  never  saw  so  terrible  a  storm  ! 

Perhaps   some    way-worn   traveller   in 
vain 

Wraps    his    thin    raiment    round    his 
shivering  form, 

Cold  even  as  hope  within  him.     I  the 
while 

Pause  here  in  sadness,  though  the  sun- 
beams smile  10 

Cheerily  round  me.     Ah  !  that  thus  my 
lot  [sign'd, 

Might  be  with  Peace  and  Solitude  as- 

Where  I  might  from  some  little  quiet  cot 

Sigh  for  the  crimes  and  miseries  of  man- 
kind. 
1794. 

V  (IX) 

[First  published   in  The  Morning  Post, 
May  29,  1799.] 

0  THOU  sweet  Lark,  who  in  the  heaven 

so  high  [fully. 

Twinkling  thy  wings  dost  sing  so  joy- 

1  watch  thee  soaring  with  a  deep  delight, 
And  when  at  last  I  turn  mine  aching  eye 
That  lags  below  thee  in  the  Infinite, 
Still  in  my  heart  receive  thy  melody. 

O  thou  sweet  Lark,  that  I  had  wings 

like  thee  ! 
Not  for  the  joy  it  were  in  yon  blue  light 
Upward     to     mount,    and    from     my 

heavenly  height 
Gaze  on  the  creeping  multitude  below  ; 
But  that  I  soon  would  wing  my  eager 

flight  1 1 

To  that  loved  home  where  Fancy  even 

now 
Hath    fled,    and    Hope   looks    onward 

through  a  tear,  [here. 

Counting  the  weary  hours  that  hold  her 
1798. 


VI  (X) 

[First  published   in   The  Morning  Post, 
May  21,  1799.] 

Thou  lingerest.  Spring  !    still  wintry  is 

the  scene,  [wear ; 

The  fields  their  dead  and  sapless  russet 
Scarce  doth  the  glossy  celandine  appear 
Starring  the  sunny  bank,  or  early  green 
The  elder  yet  its  circling  tufts  put  forth. 
The  sparrow  tenants  still  the  eaves-built 

nest  [breast 

Where  we  should  see  our  martin's  snowy 
Oft  darting  out.     The  blasts  from  the 

bleak  north  [blow. 

And  from  the  keener  east  still  frequent 
Sweet  Spring,  thou  lingerest ;    and  it 

should  be  so,  .  .  lo 

Late  let  the  fields  and  gardens  blossom 

out !  [is  drest, 

Like  man  when  most  with  smiles  thy  face 
'Tis  to  deceive,  and  he  who  knows  ye 

best,  [doubt. 

When  most  ye  promise,  ever  most  must 
Westbury,  1799. 

VII  (XI) 

[First  published   in   The  Morning  Post, 
November  23,  1798.] 

Beware  a  speedy  friend,  the  Arabian 

said, 
And  wisely  was  it  he  advised  distrust : 
The  flower  that  blossoms  earliest  fades 

the  first.  [head. 

Look  at  yon  Oak  that  lifts  its  stately 
And  dalUes  with  the  autumnal  storm, 

whose  rage  [it  rose, 

Tempests  the  great  sea- waves  ;  slowly 
Slowly  its  strength  increased  thi'ough 

many  an  age, 
And  timidly  did  its  light  leaves  disclose, 
As  doubtful  of  the  spring,  their  palest 

green. 
They  to  the  summer  cautiously  expand, 
And  by  the  warmer  sun  and  season 

bland  ii 

Matured,  their  foliage  in  the  grove  is  seen, 
When  the  bare  forest  by  the  wintry  blast 
Is  swept,  still  lingering  on  the  boughs 

the  last. 

1798. 


SONNETS 


381 


VIII  (XII)  TO  A  GOOSE^ 

[First  published   in   The  Morning  Post, 
January  10,  1199.] 

If  thou  didst  feed  on  western  plains  of 

yore  ; 
Or  waddle  wide  with  flat  and  flabby  feet 
Over  some  Cambrian  mountain's  plash}' 

moor ; 
Or  find  in  farmer's  yard  n  safe  retreat 
From  gipsy  thieves,  and  foxes  sly  and 

fleet ;  [trace 

If  thy  grey  quills,  by  lawyer  guided, 
Deeds  big  with  ruin  to  some  wretched 

race,  [sweet, 

Or    love-sick    poet's    sonnet,    sad    and 
Wailing  the  rigour  of  his  lady  fair  ; 
Or  if,  the  drudge  of  housemaid's  daily 

toil,  10 

Cobwebs  and  dust  thy  pinions  white 

besoil,  [care. 

Departed  Goose  !    I  neither  know  nor 
But  this  I  know,  that  we  pronounced 

thee  fine,  [wine. 

Season' d  with  sage  and  onions,  and  port 

London,  1798. 


IX  (XIII) 

I  MARVEL  not,  0  Sun  !  that  unto  thee 
In  adoration  man  should  bow  the  knee. 
And  pour  his  prayers  of  mingled  awe 

and  love ; 
For  like  a  God  thou  art,  and  on  thy  way 
Of  glory  sheddest  with  benignant  ray, 
Beauty,    and   life,    and   joyance   from 


above. 


[shroud, 


No  longer  let  these  mists  thy  radiance 

These  cold  raw  mists  that  chill  the  com- 
fortless day  ; 

But  shed  thy  splendour  through  the 
opening  cloud 

And  cheer  the  earth  once  more.  The 
languid  flowers  lo 

Lie  scentless,  beaten  down  with  heavy 
rain ; 

Earth  asks  thy  presence,  saturate  with 
showers  ; 

0  Lord  of  Light !  put  forth  thy  beams 
again,  [hours. 

For  damp  and  cheerless  are  the  gloomy 
Westbury,  1798. 


X  (XIV) 

[First  publishod    in    The   Morning   Tost 
Decembor  28,  17'J8.] 

Fair  be  thy  fortunes  in  the  distant  land. 
Companion    of    my    earlier   years    and 

friend  ! 
Go  to  the  Eastern  world,  and  may  the 

hand  (.send. 

Of  Heaven  its  blessing  on  thy  labour 
And  may  I,  if  we  over  more  should  meet. 
See  thco  with  aflluence  to  thy  native 

shore  [greet 

Return'd  :  . .  I  need  not  pray  that  1  may 
The  same  untainted  goodness  as  before. 
Long  years  must  intervene  before  that 

day; 
And  what  the  changes  Heaven  to  each 

may  send,  lo 

It   boots  not  now   to  bode :     0  early 

friend  ! 
Assured,  no  distance  e'er  can  wear  away 
Esteem    long   rooted,    and   no   change 

remove  [love. 

The  dear  remembrance  of  the  friend  wo 


m 


XI  (XVI) 


[First  published   in   The  Morning  Post, 
August  26,  1799.] 

PoRLOCK,  thy  verdant  vale  so  fair  to 

sight, 
Thy  lofty  hills  which  fern  and  furze 

embrown, 
The  waters  that  roll  musically  down 
Thy   woody  glens,    the   traveller   with 

delight  [grey 

Recalls  to  memory,   and  the  channel 
Circling  its  surges  in  thy  level  bay. 
Porlock,  I  also  shall  forget  thee  not, 
Here  by  the  unwelcome  summer  rain 

confined ; 
But  often  shall  hereafter  call  to  mind 
How  here,  a  patient  prisoner,  'twas  my 

lot  »o 

To  wear  t  he  lonely,  lingering  close  of  day. 
Making  my  Sonnet  by  the  alehou.se  fire. 
Whilst  Idleness  and  Solitude  inspire 
Dull   rliymcs  to  pass  the  duller  hours 

away. 
AugnslO,  1799. 


382 


SONNETS 


XII  (XVII) 

[First  published   in   The  Morning  Post, 
December  14,  1798.] 

Stately  yon  vessel  sails  adown  the  tide, 
To  some  far  distant  land  adventurous 

bound ; 
The  sailors'  busy  cries  from  side  to  side 
Pealing  among   the  echoing  rocks  re- 
sound : 
A  patient,  thoughtless,  much-enduring 

band, 
Joyful  they  enter  on  their  ocean  way, 
With  shouts  exulting  leave  their  native 

land,  [day. 

And  know  no  care  beyond  the  present 
But  is  there  no  poor  mourner  left  behind, 
Who  sorrows  for  a  child  or  husband 

there  ?  lo 

Who  at  the  howling  of  the  midnight 

wind  [prayer  ? 

Will  wake  and  tremble  in  her  boding 
So  may  her  voice  be  heard,  and  Heaven 

be  kind  !  [fair  ! 

Go,  gallant  Ship,  and  be  thy  fortune 
Wesibury,  1799. 

XIII  (XVIII) 

[First  published   in   The  Morning  Post, 
December  1,  1798.] 

O  God  !    have  mercy  in  this  dreadful 

hour 
On  the  poor  mariner  !   in  comfort  here 
Safe  sheltered  as  I  am,  I  almost  fear 
The    blast    that    rages    with    resistless 

power.  [waves, 

What  were  it  now  to  toss  upon  the 
The    madden'd   waves,    and   know   no 

succour  near  ; 
The  howling  of  the  storm  alone  to  hear. 
And  the  wild  sea  that  to  the  tempest 

raves ; 
To  gaze  amid  the  horrors  of  the  night 
And  only  see  the  billow's  gleaming  light ; 
Then  in  the  dread  of  death  to  think  of 

her  II 

Who,  as  she  listens  sleepless  to  the  gale, 
Puts    up   a   silent   prayer   and   waxes 

pale  ?  .  . 
O  God  !   have  mercy  on  the  mariner  ! 
Westbury,  1799. 


XIV  (XIX) 

[First  published   in   The  Morning  Post, 
August  9,  1799.] 

She  comes  majestic  with  her  swelling 
sails,  [way 

The  gallant   Ship ;     along   her  watery 
Homeward  she  drives  before  the  favour- 
ing gales  ; 
Now  flirting  at  their  length  the  streamers 
play,  [breeze. 

And  now  they  ripple  with  the  ruffling 
Hark  to  the  sailors'  shouts  !    the  rocks 
rebound,  [sound. 

Thundering    in    echoes    to    the    joyful 
Long  have  they  voyaged  o'er  the  distant 
seas,  [last. 

And  what  a  heart-delight  they  feel  at 
So  many  toils,  so  many  dangers  past,  lo 
To  view  the  port  desired,  he  only  knows 
Who  on  the  stormy  deep  for  many  a  day 
Hath  tost,  aweary  of  his  watery  way, 
And  watch' d,  all  anxious,  every  wind 
that  blows. 

Westbury,  1799. 


.        XV  (XX) 

Farewell    my    home,    my    home    no 

longer  now, 
Witness  of  many  a  calm  and  happy  day  ; 
And  thou  fair  eminence,  upon  whose 

brow  [ray. 

Dwells  the  last  sunshine  of  the  evening 
Farewell !    These  eyes  no  longer  shall 

pursue 
The  western  sun  beyond  the  farthest 

height,  [light. 

When  slowly  he  forsakes  the  fields  of 
No  more  the  freshness  of  the  falling  dew. 
Cool  and  deUghtful,  here  shall  bathe  my 

head, 
As  from  this  western  window  dear,  I 

lean,  lo 

Listening,  the  while  I  watch  the  placid 

scene,  [shed. 

The  martins  twittering  underneath  tlie 
Farewell,  dear  home  !    where  many  a 

day  has  past 
In  joys  whose  loved  remembrance  long 

shall  last. 

Westbury,  1799. 


LYRIC   POEMS 


TO  CONTEMPLATION 
[Published  in  Poems,  1797.] 

*A  TfpTTfi  ifo<p(Oi(Ta  Tuv  dypiKui',  ovx^^ 

rapdaad.  MosCHUS. 

Faint    gleams    the    evening    radiance 

through  the  sky, 
The  sober  twiUght  dimly  darkens 

round ; 
In  short  quick  circles  the  shrill  bat 

flits  by,  [ground. 

And  the  slow  vapour  curls  along  the 

Now  the  pleased  eye  from  yon  lone  cot- 
tage sees 
;  On  the  green  mead  the  smoke  long- 
shadowing  play ;  [spray 
The  Red-breast  on  the  blossom' d 
Warbles  wild  her  latest  lay  ; 
And  lo  !  the  Rooks  to  yon  high-tufted 
trees 
Wing  in  long  files  vociferous  their 
way.  10 
Calm  Contemplation,  'tis  thy  favourite 
hour ! 
Come,  tranquillizing  Power  ! 

I  view  thee  on  the  calmy  shore 
When  Ocean  stills  his  waves  to  rest; 
Or  when  slow-moving  on  the  surges 
hoar 
Meet  with  deep  hollow  roar 
And  whiten  o'er  his  breast ; 
And  when  the  Moon  with  softer  radiance 
gleams,  [beams. 

And  lovelier  heave  the  billows  in  her 

When  the  low  gales  of  evening  moan 

along,  20 

I  love  with  thee  to  feel  the  calm  cool 

breeze,  [among. 

And  roam  the  pathless  forest  wilds 

Listening  the  mellow  murmur  of  the 

trees  [on  high, 

Full-foliaged,  as  they  wave  their  heads 

And  to  the  winds  respond  in  symphony. 


Or  lead  mc  where  amid  the  tranquil 
vale 
The  broken  streamlet  flows  in  silver 
light ; 
And   I   will   linger   where   the 

gale 
O'er  the  bank  of  violets  sighs, 
Listening  to  hear  its  soften' d  sounds 
arise ;  30 

And  hearken  the  dull  beetle's  drowsy 
flight. 
And    watch' d    the    tube-eyed 
snail 
Creep  o'er  his  long  moon-glittering 

trail, 
And  mark  where  radiant  through  the 
night 
Shines  in  the  grass-green  hedge  the  glow- 
worm's Uving  light. 

Thee,  meekest  Power  !    I  love  to 
meet. 
As  oft  with  solitary  pace 
The   ruin'd   Abbey's   hallowed   rounds 
I  trace. 
And  listen  to  the  echoings  of  my 
feet. 
Oron  somehalf-demolish'dtomb. 
Whose    warning    texts    anticipate    my 
doom,  41 

Mark  the  clear  orb  of  night 
Cast  through  the  ivy'd  arch  a  broken 
Ught. 

Nor  will  I  not  in  some  more  gloomy 
hour 
Invoke  with  fearless  awe  thine  holier 
power. 
Wandering  beneath  the  sacred 
pile 
When  the  blast  moans  along  the  dark- 
some aisle, 
And     clattering     patters     all 
around 
The  midnight  shower  with  dreary 
sound. 


384 


LYRIC   POEMS 


But  sweeter  'tis  to  wander  wild  50 
By  melancholy  dreams  beguiled, 
While  the  summer  moon's  pale  ray 
Faintly  guides  me  on  my  way 
To  some  lone  romantic  glen 
Far  from  all  the  haunts  of  men  ; 
Where  no  noise  of  uproar  rude 
Breaks  the  calm  of  solitude  ; 
But  soothing  Silence  sleeps  in  all, 
Save  the  neighbouring  waterfall, 
Whose  hoarse  waters  falling  near  60 
Load  with  hollow  sounds  the  ear, 
And  with  down-dasht  torrent  white 
Gleam  hoary  through  the  shades  of 
night. 

Thus  wandering  silent  on  and  slow, 
I'll  nurse  Reflection's  sacred  woe. 
And  muse  upon  the  happier  day 
When  Hope  would  weave  her  visions 

gay. 
Ere  Fancy,  chill' d  by  adverse  fate, 
Left  sad  ReaHty  my  mate. 

0  Contemplation  !  when  to  Memory's 
eyes  70 

The  visions  of  the  long-past  days 
arise, 

Thy  holy  power  imparts  the  best  relief. 

And  the  caim'd  Spirit  loves  the  joy  of 
grief. 

Bristol  1792. 


REMEMBRANCE 

[First  published  in  The  Morning  Post, 
May  26,  1798  :  afterwards  in  The  Annual 
Anthology,  1799.] 

The  remembrance  of  Youth  is  a  sigh. 

All 

Man  hath  a  weary  pilgrimage 
As  through  the  world  he  wends, 
On  every  stage  from  youth  to  age 
Still  discontent  attends ; 
With  heaviness  he  casts  his  eye 

L'pon  the  road  before. 

And  still  remembers  with  a  sigh 

The  days  that  are  no  more. 


To  school  the  little  exile  goes, 
Torn  from  his  mother's  arms,  .  .  10 
What    then    shall    soothe    his    earliest 
woes. 
When  novelty  hath  lost  its  charms  ? 
Condemn'd  to  suffer  through  the  day 
Restraints  which  no  rewards  repay, 
And  cares  where  love  has  no  concern, 
Hope  lengthens  as  she  counts  the  hours 
Before  his  wish'd  return. 
From  hard  controul  and  tyrant  rules. 
The  unfeeling  discipline  of  schools. 

In  thought  he  loves  to  roam,        20 
And  tears  will  struggle  in  his  eye 
While  he  remembers  with  a  sigh 
The  comforts  of  his  home. 

Youth  comes  ;  the  toils  and  cares  of  life 

Torment  the  restless  mind ; 
Where  shall  the  tired  and  harass' d  heart 
Its  consolation  find  ? 
Then  is  not  Youth,  as  Fancy  tells. 

Life's  summer  prime  of  joy  ? 
Ah  no  !  for  hopes  too  long  delay'd  30 
And  feelings  blasted  or  betray' d, 

Its  fabled  bliss  destroy  ; 
And  Youth  remembers  with  a  sigh 
The  careless  days  of  Infancy. 

Maturer  Manhood  now  arrives. 

And  other  thoughts  come  on. 
But  with  the  baseless  hopes  of  Youth 

Its  generous  warmth  is  gone  ; 
Cold  calculating  cares  succeed, 
The  timid  thought,  the  wary  deed,  40 

The  dull  realities  of  truth  ; 
Back  on  the  past  he  turns  his  eye. 
Remembering  with  an  envious  sigh 

The  happy  dreams  of  Y'outh. 

So  reaches  he  the  latter  stage 

Of  this  our  mortal  pilgrimage. 
With  feeble  step  and  slow  ; 

New  ills  that  latter  stage  await, 
And  old  Experience  learns  too  late 

That  all  is  vanity  below.  50 

Life's  vain  delusions  are  gone  by 

Its  idle  hopes  are  o'er. 
Yet  age  remembers  with  a  sigh 

The  days  that  are  no  more. 

Westbury,  1798. 


THE   WIDOW 


386 


THE  WIDOW 

SAPPHICS 

[Published  in  Poems,  1797.] 

O^LD  was  the  night  wind,  drifting  fast 

the  snow  fell, 
Wide  were  the  downs  and  shelterless  and 

naked. 
When  a  poor  Wanderer  struggled  on  her 

journey. 
Weary  and  way-sore. 

Drear  were  the  downs,  more  dreary  her 

reflections ; 
Cold  was  the  night -wind,  colder  was  her 

bosom  : 
She  had   no  home,   the  world  was  all 

before  her. 
She  had  no  shelter. 

Fivst  o'er  the  heath  a  chariot  rattled  by 

her, 
'  Pity   me  ! '     feebly   cried   the   lonely 

wanderer ;  lo 

'  Pity  me,  strangers  !  lest  with  cold  and 

hunger 
Here  I  should  perish. 

'  Once  I  had  friends, — though  now  by 
all  forsaken  ! 

Once  I  had  jmrents, — they  are  now  in 
Heaven  ! 

I  had  a  home  once — I  had  once  a  hus- 
band— 
Pity  me,  strangers  ! 

*  I   had   a  home   once — I   had   once  a 
husband — 

I    am    a    widow,    poor    and    broken- 
hearted !  ' 

Loud  blew  the  wind,  unheard  was  lier 
complaining. 
On  drove  the  chariot.  20 

Then  on  the  snow  she  laid  her  down  to 

rest  her  ; 
She  heard  a  horseman,  '  Pity  me  ! '  she 

groan' d  out ; 
Loud  was  the  wind,  unheard  was  her 

complaining. 
On  went  the  horseman. 


Worn  out  with  anguish,  toil  and  cold 

and  hunger, 
Down  sunk   the   Wanderer,  sleep  had 

seized  her  senses  ; 
There  did  the  traveller  find  her  in  the 
morning  ; 
Gt)D  had  released  her. 
Bristol,  1795. 

THE  TRAVELLER'S  RETURN 

[Published  in  The  Annual  Anthology,  1799.] 

Sweet  to  the  morning  traveller 

The  .song  amid  the  sky. 
Where  twinkling  in  the  dewy  light 

The  skylark  .soars  on  high. 

And  cheering  to  the  traveller 
The  gales  that  round  him  play, 

When  faint  and  heavily  he  drags 
Along  his  noon-tide  way. 

And  when  beneath  the  unclouded  sun 
Full  wearily  toils  he,  10 

The  flowing  water  makes  to  him 
A  soothing  melody. 

And  when  the  evening  light  decays. 

And  all  is  calm  around. 
There  is  sjweet  music  to  his  ear 

In  the  distant  sheep-bell's  sound. 

But  oh  !    of  all  delightful  sounds 

Of  evening  or  of  morn, 
The  sweetest  is  the  voice  of  Love, 

That  welcomes  his  return.  20 

Westbury,  1798. 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  COMFORTS 

AND    HOW    HE   GAINED    THEM 

[First  publislicd  in  The  Morning  Post, 
January  17, 1799;  afterwards  in  The  Annual 
A  nthology,\ld9,  and  in  Metrical  Tales,  1K)5.] 

You  are  old.  Father  William,  the  young 
man  cried. 
The  few  locks  which  are  loft  you  are 
grey  ; 
You  are  hale.  Father  William,  a  hearty 
old  man. 
Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  ]»ray. 


386 


LYRIC   POEMS 


In  the  days  of  mj-  youth,  Father  WiUiam 
replied. 
I  rememberd  that  youth  would  fly 
fast, 
And   abused   not    my   health   and   my 
vigour  at  first. 
That  I  never  might  need  them  at  last. 

You  are  old,  Father  William,  the  young 

man  cried, 

And  pleasures  with  youth  pass  away  ; 

And  yet  you  lament  not  the  days  that 

are  gone,  ii 

Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray. 

In  the  days  of  my  youth,  Father  William 

replied, 

I  remember' d  that  youth  could  not 

last; 

I  thought  of  the  future,  whatever  I  did, 

That  I  never  might  grieve  for  the  past. 

You  are  old,  Father  William,  the  young 
man  cried, 
And  life  must  be  hastening  away  ; 
You  are  cheerful,  and  love  to  converse 
upon  death, 
Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray.      20 

I    am    cheerful,    young    man.    Father 
William  replied, 
Let  the  cause  thy  attention  engage; 
In  the  days  of  my  youth  I  remember' d 
my  God  ! 
And  He  hath  not  forgotten  my  age. 
Westbury,  1799. 


TO  A  SPIDER 

[First  published  in  The  Morning  Post, 
March  23,  1799  ;  afterwards  in  The  Annual 
Anthology,  1799,  and  in  Metrical  Tales,  1805.] 


Spider  !   thou  need'st  not  run  in  fear 

about 

To  shun  my  curious  eyes  ; 

I  won't  humanely  crush  thy  bowels  out 

Lest  thou  should' St  eat  the  flies  ; 

Nor  will  I  roast  thee  with  a  damn'd 

delight 

Thy  strange  instinctive  fortitude  to  see. 

For  there  is  One  who  might 

One  day  roast  me. 


Thou  art  welcome  to  a  Rhymer  sore 

perplext. 

The  subject  of  his  verse  ;  10 

There's  many  a  one  who  on  a  better 

text 

Perhaps  might  comment  worse. 

Then  shrink  not,  old  Free-Mason,  from 

my  view. 

But  quietly  like  me  spin  out  the  line  ; 

Do  thou  thy  work  pursue 

As  I  will  mine. 


Weaver  of  snares,  thou  emblemest  the 

ways 

Of  Satan,  Sire  of  lies  ; 

Hell's  huge  black  Spider,  for  mankind 

he  lays 

His  toils,  as  thou  for  flies.  20 

When  Betty's  busy  eye  runs  round 

the  room, 

Woe  to  that  nice  geometry,  if  seen  ! 

But  where  is  He  whose  broom 

The  earth  shall  clean  ? 


Spider  !  of  old  thy  flimsy  webs  were 

thought. 

And  'twas  a  likeness  true, 

To  emblem  laws  in  which  the  weak 

are  caught. 

But  which  the  strong  break  through  : 

And  if  a  victim  in  thy  toils  is  ta'en. 

Like  some  poor  client  is  that  wretched 

fly ;  30 

ril  warrant  thee  thou'lt  drain 

His  life-blood  dry. 


And  is  not  thy  weak  work  like  human 

schemes 

And  care  on  earth  employ' d  ? 

Such  are  young  hopes  and  Love's 

delightful  dreams 

So  easily  destroyed ! 

So  does  the  Statesman,  whilst  the 

Avengers  sleep, 

Self -deem' d  secure,  his  wiles  in  secret 

lay. 

Soon  shall  destruction  sweep 

His  work  away.  40 


TO   A  SPIDER 


38: 


Thou  bus}'  labourer  !  one  resemblance 

more 

May  yet  the  verse  prolong. 

For,  Spider,  thou  art  like  the  Poet 

poor. 

Whom  thou  hast  help'd  in  song. 

Both  busily  our  needful  food  to  win. 

We  work,  as  Natiue  taught,  with 

ceaseless  jwiins  : 

Thy  bowels  thou  dost  spin, 

I  spin  ray  brains. 

U'estbury,  1798. 


THE  EBB  TIDE 

[First  published  in  The  Morning  Post. 
June  25,  1709;  afterwards  in  The  Annual 
Anthology,  1799,  and  in  Metrical  Tales, 
ISOo.] 

Slowly  thy  flowing  tide 
Came  in,  old  Avon  !    scarcely  did  mine 

eyes. 
As  watchfully  I  roam'd  thy  green-wood 
side, 
Perceive  its  gentle  rise. 

With  many  a  stroke  and  strong 
The  labouring  boatmen  upward  plied 

their  oars. 
Yet  little  way  they  made,  though  la- 
bouring long 
Between  thy  winding  shores. 

Now  down  thine  ebbing  tide 
The  unlabour'd  boat  falls  rapidly  along  ; 
The  solitary  helmsman  sits  to  guide,  ii 

And  sings  an  idle  song. 

Now  o'er  the  rocks  that  lay 
So  silent  late,  the  shallow  current  roars  ; 
Fast  flow  thy  waters  on  their  seaward 
way 

Through  wider-spreading  shores. 

Avon  !    I  gaze  and  know 
The  lesson  emblem' d  in  thy  varying  way; 
It  speaks  of  human  joys  that  rise  so  slow, 

So  rapidly  decay.  20  1 


Kingdoms  which  long  have  stood. 
And  slow  to  strength  and  power  attained 

at  la.'^t, 
Thus  from  the  summit  of  hiuh  fortune's 

llciud 
They  ebb  to  ruin  fast. 

Thus  like  thy  How  apjiears 
Time's  tardy  coui-se  to  manhood's  envied 

stage  ; 
Alas  !   how  hurry ingly  the  ebbing  yeara 

Then  hasten  to  old  age  ! 

Westhury,  1799. 


THE  COMPLAINTS  OF  THE  POOR 

[First  published  in  The  Morning  Post, 
.Tune  29, 1798  ;  afterwards  in  Poems,  vol.  ii, 
1799.] 

And  wherefore  do  the  Poor  complain  V 
The  Rich  Man  ask'd  of  me  ;  .  . 

Come  walk  abroad  with  me,  I  said, 
And  I  will  answer  thee. 

'Twas  evening,  and  the  frozen  streets 

Were  cheeiTess  to  behold. 
And  we  were  wrapt  and  coated  well, 

And  yet  we  were  a-cold. 

We  met  an  old  bare-headed  man. 

His  locks  were  thin  and  white  ;        10 

I  ask'd  him  what  he  did  abroad 
In  that  cold  winter's  night  ; 

The  cold  was  keen  indeed,  he  said, 
But  at  home  no  tire  had  he, 

And  therefore  he  had  come  abroad 
To  ask  for  charity. 

We  met  a  young  bare-footed  child. 
And  she  begg  d  loud  and  bold  ; 

I  ask'd  her  what  she  did  abroad 

When  the  wind  it  blew  so  cold  ;      20 

She  said  her  father  was  at  home, 

And  he  lay  sick  a- bed. 
And  therefore  was  it  she  was  sent 

Abroad  to  beg  for  bread. 

We  saw  a  woman  sitting  down 

Upon  a  stone  to  rest, 
She  had  a  baby  at  her  back 

And  another  at  her  breast  ; 


388 


LYRIC   POEMS 


I  ask'd  her  why  she  loiter' d  there 

When  the  night -wind  was  so  chill ;  30 

She  turn'd  her  head  and  bade  the  child 
That  scream' d  behind,  be  still ; 

Then  told  us  that  her  husband  served, 

A  soldier,  far  away, 
And  therefore  to  her  parish  she 

Was  begging  back  her  way. 

We  met  a  girl,  her  dress  was  loose 

And  sunken  was  her  eye, 
Who  with  a  wanton's  hollow  voice 

Address' d  the  passers-by  ;  40 

I  ask'd  her  what  there  was  in  guilt 

That  could  her  heart  allure 
To  shame,  disease,  and  late  remorse  : 

She  answer' d  she  was  poor. 

I  turn'd  me  to  the  Rich  Man  then. 

For  silently  stood  he,  .  . 
You  ask'd  me  why  the  Poor  complain. 

And  these  have  answer'd  thee  ! 

London,  1798. 


TO  A  FRIEND 

IXQUIRIXG    IF    I    WOULD    LIVE    OVER    MY 
YOUTH   AGAIN 

[First  published  in  The  Morning  Post. 
May  27,  1799  ;  afterwards  in  The  Annual 
Anthology,  1799,  and  in  Metrical  Tales, 
1805.] 


Do  I  regret  the  past  ? 

Would  I  again  live  o'er 

The  morning  hours  of  life  ? 

Nay,  William  !  nay,  not  so  ! 

Tn  the  warm  joyance  of  the  summer 

sun 

I  do  not  wish  again 

The  changeful  April  day. 

Nay,  William  !   nay,  not  so  ! 

Safe  haven' d  from  the  sea. 


I  would  not  tempt  again  ic 

The  uncertain  ocean's  wrath. 

Praise  be  to  Him  who  made  me  what 

I  am, 

Other  I  would  not  be. 


Why  is  it  pleasant  then  to  sit  and  talk 

Of  days  that  are  no  more  ? 

When  in  his  own  dear  home 

The  traveller  rests  at  last. 

And  tells  how  often  in  his  wanderings 

The  thought  of  those  far  off 

Hath  made  his  eyes  o'erflow       20 

With  no  unmanly  tears  ; 

Delighted  he  recalls 

Through  what  fair  scenes  his  lingering 

feet  have  trod ; 

But  ever  when  he  tells  of  perils  past 

And  troubles  now  no  more. 
His  eyes  are  brightest,  and  a  readier 

joy 

Flows  thankful  from  his  heart. 


No,  William  !  no,  I  would  not  live 

again 

The  morning  hours  of  life  ; 

I  would  not  be  again  3° 

The  slave  of  hope  and  fear  ; 

I  would  not  learn  again 

The  wisdom  by  Experience  hardly 

taught. 


To  me  the  past  presents 

No  object  for  regret ; 

To  me  the  present  gives 

All  cause  for  full  content. 

The  future  ?  .  .  it  is  now  the  cheerful 

noon. 

And  on  the  sunny-smiling  fields  I  gaze 

With  eyes  alive  to  joy  ;  40 

When  the  dark  night  descends, 

I  willingly  shall  close  my  weary  lids. 

In  sure  and  certain  hope  to  wake  again. 

Westhury,  1798. 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES 


ON    A    LANDSCAPE    OF    OASrAll 
POUSSIN 

[Published  in  Pocnu<,  1797.] 

Gaspar  !    how  pleasantly  thy  pictured 

scenes 
Beguile   the   lonely   hour !     I  sit)   and 

gaze 
With  lingering  eye,  till  dreaming  Fancy 

makes  • 

The  lovely  landscape  live,  and  the  rapt 

soul 
From  the  foul  haunts  of  herded  human- 
kind 
Flies  far  away  with  spirit  sjMied,  and 

tastes 
The  untainted  air,  that  with  the  lively 

hue 
Of   health   and  happiness  illumes   the 

cheek 
Of  mountain  Liberty.     My  willing  soul 
All  eager  follows  on  thy  faery  flights,  lo 
Fancy  !     best    friend ;     whose    blessed 

witcheries 
With    cheering    prospects    cheat    the 

traveller 
O'er  the  long  wearying  desert  of   the 

world. 
Nor  dost  thou,  Fancy  !  with  such  magic 

mock 
My  heart,  as,  demon- born,  old  Merlin 

knew, 
Or  Alquif,  or  Zarzatiel's  sister  sage, 
\Vho  in  her  vengeance  for  so  many  a 

year 
Held  in  the  jacinth  sepulchre  entranced 
Lisuart  the  pride  of  Grecian  chivalry'. 
Friend  of  my  lonely  hours  !  thou  leadest 

mc  20 

To  such  calm  joys  as  Nature,  wise  and 

good. 
Proffers   in    vain   to   all    her    wrctclicd 

sons,  .  . 


Her  wretched  sons  who  pine  with  want 
amid 

The  abundant  eartli,  and  blindly  bow 
them  down 

Before  the  Moloch  shrines  of  Wealth 
and  Power, 

Authors  of  Evil.     Well  it  is  sometimes 

That  thy  delusions  should  beguile  the 
heart, 

Sick  of  reality.     The  little  pile 

That  tops  the  summit  of  that  craggy 
hill 

Shall  be  my  dwelling  :   craggy  is  the  hill 

And  steep  ;  yet  through  yon  hazels  up- 
ward leads  31 

The  easy  path,  along  whose  winding  way 

Now  close  embower  d  I  hear  the  unseen 
stream 

Dash  down,  anon  behold  its  sparkling 
foam 

Gleam  through  the  thicket ;  and  ascend- 
ing on 

Now  pau.sc  mc  lo  survey  the  goodly 
vale 

That  opens  on  my  prospect.  Half  way 
up 


Pleasant    it 


ipon    some 


smooth  rock 
To  sit  and  sun  myself,  and  look  below, 
And  watch  the  goatherd  down  yon  high- 
bank  path  40 
Urging  his  tiock  grotesque  ;  and  bidding 

now 
His  lean  rough  dog  from  some  near  cliff 

go  drive 
The  straggler  ;    while  iiis  barkings  loud 

and  (J nick 
Amid  their  tremulous  bleat  arising  oft, 
Fainter  and   fainter  from    the    hollow 

road 
Send  their  far  echoes,  till  the  waterfall, 
'  Hoarse  bursting  from  the  cavern'd  clilT 
I  beneath, 

I  Their  dying  murmurs  drown.     A  little 
'        yet 


390 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES 


Onward,  and  I  have  gain'd  the  utmost 

height. 
Fair  spreads  the  vale  below  :    I  see  the 

stream  50 

(Stream  radiant  on  beneath  the  noon- 
tide sky. 
A  passing  cloud  darkens  the  bordering 

steep, 
Where  the  town- spires  behind  the  castle- 
towers 
Rise  graceful ;    brown  the  mountain  in 

its  shade. 
Whose  circling  grandeur,  part  by  mists 

conceal"  d, 
Part  with  white  rocks  resplendent  in  the 

sun, 
Should  bound  mine  eyes,  .  .  ay,  and  my 

^   wishes  too. 
For    I    would    have    no    hope   or  fear 

beyond. 
The   empty   turmoil    of   the   worthless 

world, 
Its  vanities  and  vices  would  not  vex    60 
My   quiet   heart.     The   traveller,    who 

beheld 
The  low  tower  of  the  little  pile,  might 

deem 
It  were  the  house  of  God ;    nor  would 

he  err 
iSo  deeming,  for  that  home  would  be  the 

home 
Of  Peace  and  Love,   and  they   would 

hallow  it 
To  Him.     Oh,  life  of  blessedness  1    to 

reap 
The  fruit  of  honourable  toil,  and  bound 
Our  wishes  with  our  wants  !   Delightful 

thoughts. 
That  soothe  the  solitude  of  weary  Hope, 
Ye  leave  her  to  realit}'  awaked,  7° 

Like  the  poor  captive,  from  some  fleeting 

dream 
Of    friends     and     liberty     and     home 

restored, 
Startled,  and  listening  as  the  midnight 

storm 
Beats    hard    and    heavy    through    his 

dungeon  bars. 

Bath,  lido. 


II 

WRITTEN    ON    CHRISTMAS   DAY, 
1795 

[Published    in    Letters   from   Spain   and 
Portugal,  1797.1 

How  many  hearts  are  happy  at  this 
hour 

In  England  !  Brightly  o'er  the  cheerful 
hall 

Flares  the  heaped  hearth,  and  friends 
and  kindred  meet. 

And  the  glad  mother  round  her  festive 
board 

Beholds  her  children,  separated  long 

Amid  the  wide  world's  ways,  assembled 
now, 

A  sight  at  which  affection  lightens  up 

With  smiles  the  eye  that  age  has  long 
bedimm'd. 

I  do  remember  when  I  was  a  child 

How  my  young  heart,  a  stranger  then 
to  care,  10 

With  transport  leap'd  ux)on  this  holy- 
day. 

As  o'er  the  house,  all  gay  with  ever- 
greens. 

From  friend  to  friend  with  joyful  speed 
I  ran. 

Bidding  a  merry  Christmas  to  them  all. 

Those  years  are  past ;  their  pleasures 
and  their  pains 

Are  now  like  yonder  convent-crested  hill 

That  bounds  the  distant  prospect,  indis- 
tinct, 

Yet  pictured  upon  memory's  mystic 
glass 

In  faint  fair  hues.  A  weary  traveller 
now 

I  journey  o'er  the  desert  mountain 
tracks  20 

Of  Leon,  wilds  all  drear  and  comfortless, 

Where  the  grey  lizards  in  the  noontide 
sun 

Sport  on  the  rocks,  and  where  the  goat- 
herd starts, 

Roused  from  his  sleep  at  midnight  when 
he  hears 

The  prowling  wolf,  and  falters  as  he  calls 

On  Saints  to  save.  Here  of  the  friends 
I  think 

Who  now,  I  ween,  remember  me,  and  fill 


WRITTEN    ON    C^HKlvSTMAS   DAY 


391 


t^ 


The  glass  of  votive  friendshii).     At  the 

name 
Will  not  thy  cheek,  Beloved,  change  its 

hue, 
And  in  those  gentle  eyea  iincaU'd-for 

tears  30 

Tremble?    I  will  not  wish  thee  nut  to 

weep ; 
Such  tears  arc  free  from  bitterness,  and 

they 
Who  know  not  what  it  is  sometimes  to 

wake 
And  weep  at  midnight,  are  but  instru- 
ments 
Uf  Nature's  common  work.     Yes,  think 

of  me. 
My   Edith,    think    that,    travelling   far 

away. 
Thus  I  beguile  the  solitary  hours 
With    many    a    day-dream,    picturing 

scenes  as  fair 
Of  peace,  and  comfort,  and  domestic  bliss 
As  ever  to  the  youthful  poet's  eye      40 
Creative  Fancy  fashion' d.     Think  of  me, 
Though  absent,  thine ;    and  if  a  sigh 

will  rise, 
And   tears,   unbidden,   at   the  thought 

steal  down, 
Sure  hope  will  cheer  thee,  and  the  happy 

hour 
Of  meeting  soon  all  sorrow  overpay. 


Ill 

WRITTEN    AFTER    VISITING 

THE  CONVENT  OF  ARRABIDA 

near  setubal 

March  22,  1796 

[Published  in  Letters  from  Spain  and 
Portugal,  1797.  The  original  version  has 
been  largely  rewritten.] 

Happy  the  dwellers  in  this  holy  house  : 
For  surely  never  worldly  thoughts  in- 
trude 
On  this  retreat,  this  sacred  solitude. 
Where  Quiet  with  Religion  makes  her 

home. 
And  ye  who  tenant  such  a  goodly  scene. 
How  should  ye  be  but  good,  where  all  is 
fair. 


And  \\heie  the  minor  of  the  mind  ro« 

ileets 
iSerenest  beauty  ?    O'er  these  mountain 

wilds 
The  insatiate  eye  with  ever  new  delight 
Roams  ra])tured,  marking  now  where  to 

the  wind  10 

The    tall    tree    bends   its    many-tinted 

boughs 
With  soft  aecordant  sound  ;    and  now 

the  sport 
Of   joyous   sea-birds   o'er   the    trau'juil 

deep. 
And  now  the  long-extending  stream  of 

light 
Where  the  broad  oib  of  day  refulgent 

sinks 
Beneath  old  Ocean's  line.     To  have  no 

cares 
That  eat  the  heart,  no  wants  that  to 

the  earth 
Chain  the  reluctant  spirit,  to  be  freed 
From  forced  communion  with  the  selfish 

tribe 
W^ho  worship  Mammon, — yea,  emanci- 
pate 20 
From  this  world's  bondage,  even  while 

the  soul 
Inhabits  still  its  corruptible  clay,  .  . 
Almost,  ye  dwellers  in  this  holy  house, 
Almost  I  envy  you.     You  never  see 
Pale  Misery's  asking  eye.  nor  roam  about 
Those    huge    and    hateful    haunts    of 

crowded  men. 
Where  Wealth  and  Power  have  built 

their  palaces, 
Fraud  spreads  his  snares  secure,  man 

preys  on  man. 
Iniquity  abounds,  and  rampant  Vice, 
With  an  infection  worse  than  mortal, 

taints  30 

The  herd  of  humankind. 

I  too  could  love, 
Y^'e  tenants  of  this  sacred  solitude, 
Here  to  abide,  and  when  the  sun  rides 

high 
Seek  some  sequester' d  dingle's  coolest 

shade ; 
And  at  the  breezy  hour,  along  the  beach 
Stray  with  slow  stop,  and  gaze  upon  the 

deep, 
And  while  the  breath  of  evening  fann'd 

my  brow, 


392 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES 


And   the  wild  waves  with  their  con- 
tinuous sound 
Soothed    my    accustom*  d    ear,    think 

thankfully 
That  I  had  from  the  crowd  withdrawn 

in  time,  40 

And  found  an  harbour.   .  .   Yet  may 

yonder  deep 
Suggest  a  less  unprofitable  thought, 
Monastic  brethren.    Would  the  mariner, 
Though  storms  may  sometimes  swell  the 

mighty  waves, 
And  o'er  the  reeling  bark  with  thun- 
dering crash 
Impel    the    mountainous    surge,    quit 

yonder  deep, 
And  rather  float  upon  some  tranquil  sea. 
Whose  moveless  waters  never  feel  the 

gale,  [soul ! 

In  safe  stagnation  ?  Rouse  thyself  my 
No  season  this  for  self- deluding  dreams  ; 
It   is   thy   spring-time ;     sow,    if    thou 

would' st  reap  ;  51 

Then,  after  honest  labour,  welcome  rest. 
In  full  contentment  not  to  be  enjoy' d 
Unless  when  duly  earn'  d.     0  happy  then 
To  know  that  we  have  walked  among 

mankind 
More    sinn'd    against     than    sinning ! 

Happy  then 
To  muse  on  many  a  sorrow  overpast, 
And  think  the  business  of  the  day  is 

done,  [close, 

And  as  the  evening  of  our  lives  shall 
The  peaceful  evening,  with  a  Christian's 

hope  60 

Expect  the  dawn  of  everlasting  day. 
Lisbon,  1796. 


IV 

ON  MY  OWN  MINIATURE  PICTURE 

TAKEN    AT   TWO    YEARS    OF   AGE 

[Published  in  Poems,  1797.] 

And  I  was  once  like  this  !   that  glowing 

cheek 
Was     mine,     those    pleasure-sparkling 

eyes  ;   that  brow 
Smooth  as  the  level  lake,  when  not  a 

breeze  [years 

Dies  o'er  the  sleeping  surface  ! . .  Twenty 


Have  wrought  strange  alteration !    Of 

the  friends 
Who  once  so  dearly  prized  thisminiature, 
And  loved  it  for  its  likeness,  some  are 

gone 
To  their  last  home ;  and  some,  estranged 

in  heart. 
Beholding     me,      with     quick-averted 

glance  [hues 

Pass  on  the  other  side.     But  still  these 
Remain  unalter'd,   and  these  features 

wear  1 1 

The  look  of  Infancy  and  Innocence. 
I  search  myself  in  vain,  and  find  no 

trace 
Of  what  I  was :    those  lightly  arching 

lines 
Dark  and  o'erhanging  now ;    and  that 

sweet  face 
Settled  in  these  strong  lineaments  !  .  . 

There  were 
Who  form'd  high  hopes  and  flattering 

ones  of  thee. 
Young  Robert  !  for  thine  eye  was  quick 

to  speak 
Each  opening  feeling  :   should  they  not 

have  known. 
If  the  rich  rainbow^  on  a  morning  cloud 
Reflects  its  radiant  dyes,  the  husband- 
man 21 
Beholds  the  ominous  glory,  and  foresees 
Impending  storms  !  .  .  They  augured 

happily, 
That   thou   didst   love   each    wild   and 

wondrous  tale 
Of  faery  fiction,  and  thine  infant  tongue 
Lisp'd  with  delight  the  godlike  deeds  of 

Greece 
And    rising     Rome ;      therefore     they 

deem'd,  forsooth, 
That  thou  shouldst  tread  Preferment's 

pleasant  path. 
Ill-judging    ones !     they   let    thy   little 

feet 
Stray  in  the  pleasant  paths  of  Poesy,  30 
And   when   thou   shouldst   have   prest 

amid  the  crowd, 
There  didst  thou  love  to  linger  out  the 

day. 
Loitering   beneath   the   laurel's   barren 

shade.  [wrong  ': 

Spirit  of  Spenser  !    was  the  wanderer 
Bristol  1796. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  JOURNEY  IN  «PAiN     3U3 


RECOLLECTION.S  OF  A  DAY' 8 
JOURNEY  IN  SPAIN 

[Published  in  LttUrs  from  Spain  and 
PortiKjal,  17'J7,  under  (be  title  '  Ketrospee- 
tive  Mu^in^s  '.  The  t)ri<;in;il  version  has 
been  i)racticaliy  rewritten. J 

Not  Icsis  delighted  do  I  call  to  mind. 
Land  of  Romaucc,  thy  wild  and  lovely 

scenes, 
Thau  I   beheld  them   lirst.     Tleaycd  I 

retnvco 
With  memory's  cyo  the  placid  Miuho's 

course, 
Aud  catch  its  winding  waters  gleaming 

bright 
Amid  the  broken  distance.     I  review 
Leon's  wide  wastes,  and   heights  pre- 
cipitous, 
Seen  with  a  pleasure  not  uumix'd  with 

dread, 
As  the  sagacious  mules  along  the  brink 
Wound  patiently  and  slow  their  way 

secure ;  lo 

And   rude   Galicia's   hovels,    and   huge 

rocks 
And  mountains,  where,  when  all  beside 

was  dim, 
Dark  and  broad-headed  the  tall  pines 

erect 
Rose  on  the  farthest  eminence  distinct. 
Cresting  the  evening  sky. 

Rain  now  falls  thick, 
And  damp  and  heavy  is  the  unwhole- 
some air ; 
I  by  this  friendly  hearth  remember  Spain, 
And  tread  in  fancy  once  again  the  road. 
Where  twelve  months  since  I  held  my 

way,  and  thought 
Of  England,  and  of  all  my  heart  held 

dear,  20 

And  wish'd  thiv  day  were  come. 

The  morning  mist, 
Well  I  remember,  hover'd  o'er  the  heath, 
When  with  the  earliest  dawn  of  day  we 

left 
The  solitary  Venta.'     Soon  the  Sun         i 
Rose   in   his   glory ;     scatter'd    by    the  j 

breeze 

^  Vcnta  dc  I'eralbancgiis.  ' 


The    thin   fog   roll'd   away,    aud    uow" 

emerged 

We  saw  where  Oro^wsa'a  castled  hill 

Tower' d  dark,  and  dimly  seen  ;  aud  now 
wo  pjiss'd 

Torvalva's  ((uiet  huts,  and  on  our  way 

Paused    frequently,    look'd    back,    aud 
ga^ed  around,  30 

Theu  journey'd  on,  yet  turu'd  and  gazed 
again, 

So  lovely  was  the  scene.     That  ducal 
pile 

Of  the  Toledos  now  with  all  its  towers 

Shone  in  the  sunlight.     Half  way  up  tho 
hill, 

Embower' d  in  olives,  like  the  abode  of 
Peace, 

Lay  Lagartina  ;   and  the  cool  fresh  galo 

Bending  tho  young  corn  on  the  gradual 
sloi^o 

Play'd  o'er  its  varying  verdure.  I  beheld 

A  convent  near,  and  could  almost  have 
thought 

The  dwellers  there  must  needs  bo  holy 
men,  40 

For  as  they  look'd  around  them  all  they 
saw 

Was  good. 

But  when  the  purple  eve  came  on. 

How  did  the  lovely  landscape  hll  my 
heart ! 

Trees   scatter'd    among    peering   rocks 
adorn' d 

The  near  ascent ;    the  vale  was  over- 
spread 

With  ilex  in  its  wintry  foliage  gay. 

Old  cork  trees  through  their  soft  and 
swelling  bark 

Bursting,   and  glaucous   oIi\es,    under- 
neath 

Whoso  fertilizing  inlluence  the  green  herb 

Grows  greener,  and  with  heavier  cars 
enrich' d  50 

The  healthful  harvest  bends.     Pellucid 
streams 

Through  many  a  vucal  channel  from  the 
hills 

Wound  through  the  valley  their  melo- 
dious way  ; 

And  o'er  tho  intermediate  woods    de- 
scried, 

Naval-Moral's  cliurch  tower  announced 
to  us 


394 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES 


Our  resting-place  that  night, — a  wel- 
come mark  ; 

Though  \\illingly  we  loiter' d  to  behold 

In  long  expanse  Plasencia's  fertile  plain, 

And  the  high  mountain  range  which 
bounded  it. 

Now  losing  fast  the  roseate  hue  that  eve 

Shed  o'er  its  summit  and  its  snowy 
breast,  6i 

For  eve  was  closing  now.  Faint  and 
more  faint 

The  murmurs  of  the  goatherd's  scat- 
ter'd  flock 

Were  borne  upon  the  air,  and  sailing 
slow 

The  broad-wing'd  stork  sought  on  the 
church  tower  top 

His  consecrated  nest.     0  lovely  scenes  ! 

I  gazed  upon  you  with  intense  delight, 

And  yet  with  thoughts  that  weigh  the 
spirit  down. 

I  was  a  stranger  in  a  foreign  land. 

And  knowing  that  these  eyes  should 
never  more  7° 

Behold  that  glorious  prospect.  Earth 
itself 

Appear' d  the  place  of  pilgrimage  it  is. 

Bristol,  Jan.  15,  1797. 


VI 
TO  MARGARET  HILL 

WRITTEN    FROM   LONDON.       1798. 

[Published  in  Poems,  vol.  ii,  1799,  under 
the  title,  '  Metrical  Letter,  Written  from 
London.'] 

Margaret  !    my  Cousin,  .  .  nay,  you 

must  not  smile, 
I  love  the  homely  and  familiar  phrase  : 
And  I  will  call  thee  Cousin  Margaret, 
However    quaint    amid    the    measured 

line 
The  good  old  term  appears.     Oh !    it 

looks  ill 
When    delicate    tongues    disclaim    old 

terms  of  kin, 
Sir-ing  and  Madam-ing  as  civilly 
As  if  the  road  between  the  heart  and  lips 
Were   such   a   weary   and    Laplandish 

way, 


That  the  poor  travellers  came  to  the  red 

gates  10 

Half  frozen.     Trust   me,   Cousin  Mar- 
garet, 
For    many    a    day    my    memory    hath 

play"  d 
The  creditor  with  me  on  j'om-  account. 
And  made  me  shame  to  think  that  I 

should  owe 
So  long  the  debt  of  kindness.     But  in 

truth, 
Like  Christian  on  his  pilgrimage,  I  bear 
So    heavy    a    pack    of    business,    that 

albeit 
1  toil  on  mainly,  in  our  twelve  hours' 

race 
Time  leaves  me  distanced.     Loth  indeed 

were  I 
That  for  a  moment  you  should  lay  to 

me  20 

Unkind  neglect ;    mine,  Margaret,  is  a 

heart 
That  smokes  not,  yet  methinks  there 

should  be  some 
Who  know  its  genuine  Marmth.     I  am 

not  one 
Who  can  play  off  my  smiles  and  cour- 
tesies 
To  every  Lady  of  her  lap-dog  tired 
Who  wants  a  play-thing  ;  I  am  no  sworn 

friend 
Of  half-an-hour,  as  apt  to  leave  as  love  ; 
Mine  are  no  mushroom  feeUngs,  which 

spring  up 
At  once  without  a  seed  and  take  no 

root, 
Wiseliest     distrusted.      In     a     narrow 

sphere,  30 

The  little  circle  of  domestic  life, 
I  would  be  known  and  loved  :  the  world 

beyond 
Is   not  for   me.     But,   Margaret,   sure 

I  think 
That  you  should  know  me  well,  for  you 

and  I 
Grew  up  together,  and  when  wc  look 

back 
Upon  old  times,  our  recollections  paint 
The  same  familiar  faces.     Did  I  wield 
The  -wand  of  Merlin's  magic,  I  would 

make 
Brave  witchcraft.     We  would  have  a 

faery  shiji, 


TO   .UAKGAUET    HILL 


395 


Ay,  a  new  Ark,  as  iu  that  other  tlood  4° 
Which  swept  tho  sous  of  Auak  from  the 

earth  ; 
The   kSylphs   should    waft    us    to   sonio 

goodly  isle 
Like  that  where  whilom  old  Apollidon, 
Retiriug    wisely    from     tho    troublous 

world. 
Built  up  his  blameless  spell;  and  1  would 

bid 
The    Sea- Nymphs    pile    around    their 

coral  bowers, 
That  we  might  staud  upon  tho  beach, 

and  mark 
The  far- oil  breakers  shower  their  silver 

spray, 
And     hear    the    eternal     roar,     whose 

plefisant  sound 
Told    us    that    never    mariner    should 

reach  So 

Our   quiet   coast.      In   such  a  blessed 

isle 
\\'c  might  renew  the  days  of  infancy. 
And   Life  like  a  long  childhood  pass 

away. 
Without  one  care.     It  may  be,  Margaret, 
That    I    shall   yet    be    gather' d  to  my 

friends  ; 
For  I  am  not  of  those  who  live  estranged 
Of  choice,  till  at  the  last  they  join  their 

race 
In  the  family-vault.     If  so,  if  I  should 

lose. 
Like  my  old  friend  the  Pilgrim,  this  huge 

pack  59 

So  heavy  on  my  shoulders,  I  and  mine 
Right  pleasantly  will  end  our  pilgrimage. 
If  not,  if  I  should  never  get  beyond 
This    Vanity-town,    there    is    another 

world 
Where  friends  will  meet.     And  often, 

Margaret, 
I  gaze  at  night  into  the  boundless  sky, 
And  think  that  I  shall  there  be  born 

again, 
The  exalted  native  of  some  better  star  ; 
And,  like  the  untaught  American,  I  look 
To  find  in  Heaven  the  things  I  loved  on 

earth. 


VII 

IIISTOUV 

[First  published  in  The  Murnintj  Posl, 
.January  Iti,  17*J!J;  afterwards  in  The  Annual 
AnUwlogy,  lbOt>,  and  in  Metrical  Tales, 
1805.  J 

Tiiuu  chronicle  of  crimes  !    I'll  read  no 

more ; 
For  I  am  one  who  willingly  would  love 
His  fellow-kind.     ()  gentle  I'oesy, 
Receive  me  from  tho  court's  polluted 

scenes, 
From  dungeon  horrors,  from  the  fields  of 

war, 
Receive  me  to  your  haunts, . .  that  I  may 

nurse 
My  nature's  better  feelings,  for  my  soul 
Sickens  at  man's  misdeeds  ! 

I  spake,  when  lo  : 
There  stood  before  me,  in  her  majesty, 
Clio,  the  strong-eyed  Muse.     Upon  her 

brow  10 

Sate  a  calm  anger.     CJo,  young  man,  she 

cried. 
Sigh  among  myrtle  bowers,  and  let  thy 

soul 
Etf  use  itself  in  strains  so  sorrowful  sweel. 
That  love-sick  Maids  may  weep  upon 

thy  page. 
Soothed    with     delicious    sorrow.     Oh 

shame  !  shame  ! 
Was  it  for  this  I  wakeii'd  thy  young 

mind  '! 
Was  it  for  this   I   made   thy   swelling 

heart 
Throb  at  the  deeds  of  Greece,  and  thy 

boy's  eye 
So  kindle  when  that  glorious  Spartan 

died  ? 
Boy  !    boy  !    deceive  me  not  !  .  .  What 

if  the  tale  *> 

Of  murdcr'd  millions  strike  a  ehilhng 

pang  ; 
What  if  Tiberius  in  his  island  stews. 
And  Pliilip  at  his  beads,  alike  inspire 
Strong  anger  and  contempt ;    hast  thou 

not  risen 
With  nobler   feelings,.,  with  a  deeper 

lovo 
For  freedom  V    Yes,  if  righteously  thy 

tioul 


396 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES 


Loathes  the   black   history   of   human 

crimes 
And  human  misery,  let  that  spirit  fill 
Thy  song,  and  it  shall  teach  thee,  boy  ! 

to  raise 
Strains  such  as  Cato  might  have  deign' d 

to  hear,  30 

As  .Sidney  in  his  hall  of  bliss  may  love. 

Wcstbury,  17D8. 


VIII 

WRITTEN  IMMEDIATELY  AFTER 
READING  THE  .SPEECH  OF 
ROBERT  EMMET 

0^-  mS  TRIAL  A>U  CO>'VICTION  FOR  HIGH 
TREASON,    SEPT.,    1803 

'  Let  no  man  write  my  epitaph ;    let 

my  grave 
Be  uninscribed,  and  let  my  memory  rest 
Till  other  times  are  come, and  other  men, 
Who  then  may  do  me  justice.'  ^ 

Emmet,  no  ! 
No  withering  curse  hath  dried  my  spirit 

up, 
That  I  should  now  be  silent,  .  .  that  my 

soul 
Should    from    the    stirring    iusjiiration 

shrink, 
Now  when  it  shakes  her,  and  withhold 

her  voice, 
Of  that  divinest  impulse  never  more 
Worthy,  if  impious  I  withheld  it  now,  lo 
Hardening  mj'  heart.     Here,  here  in  this 

free  Isle, 
To  which  in  thy  young  virtue's  erring 

zeal 

^  These  were  the  words  in  his  speech  : 
'  Let  there  be  no  inscription  upon  my  tomb. 
Let  no  man  write  my  epitaph.  No  man 
can  write  my  epitaph.'  I  am  here  ready  to 
die.  I  am  not  allowed  to  vindicate  my 
character  ;  and  when  I  am  prevented  from 
vindicating  myself,  let  no  man  dare  to 
calumniate  me.  Let  my  character  and  my 
motives  repose  in  obscurity  and  peace,  till 
other  times  and  other  men  can  do  them 
justice.  Then  shall  my  character  be  vindi- 
cated ;  then  may  my  epitaph  be  written. 
I  HAVE  noxE.' 


Thou  wert  so  perilous  an  enemy. 

Here  in  free  England  shall  an  English 

hand 
Build  thy  imperishable  monument  ; 
0,  .  .  to  thine  own  misfortune  and  to 

ours, 
By  thine  own  deadly  error  so  beguiled. 
Here  in  free  England  shall  an  English 

voice 
Raise  up  thy  mourning-song.     For  thou 

hast  paid 
The  bitter  penalty  of  that  misdeed ;    20 
Justice  hath  done  her  unrelenting  part, 
If  she  in  truth  be  Justice  who  drives  on. 
Bloody  and  blind,  the  chariot  wheels  of 

death. 

So  young,  so  glowing  for  the  general 

good. 
Oh  what  a  lovely  manhood  had  been 

thine, 
When  all  the  \iolent  workings  of  thy 

youth 
Had  pass' d  away,  hadst  thou  been  wisely 

spared, 
Left  to  the  slow  and  certain  influences 
Of  silent  feeling  and  maturing  thought. 
How  had  that  heart,  .  .  that  noble  heart 

of  thine,  30 

Which  even  now  had  snapt  one  spell, 

which  beat 
With   such    brave   indignation   at    the 

shame 
And  guilt  of  France,  and  of  her  mis- 
I  creant  Lord, 

I  How  had  it  clung  to  England  I    With 
1  what  love, 

j  A\'hat  pure  and  perfect  love,  return'd 
I  to  her. 

Now  worthy  of  thy  love,  the  champion 

now 
For  freedom,  .  .  yea,  the  only  champion 

now. 
And  soon  to  be  the  Avenger.     But  the 

blow 
Hath  fallen,  the  indiscriminating  blow. 
That  for  its  portion  to  the  Grave  con- 
sign'd  40 
Youth,  Genius,  generous  Virtue.     Oh, 

grief,  grief  ! 
Oh,  sorrow  and  rejiroach  !    Have  ye  to 

learn. 
Deaf  to  the  past,  and  to  the  future  blind, 


AFTER  KKA DLNG  SPKKC'li  OF   HOBKIir   KALMK 


.'{•J7 


Yo  who  tlui.s  irromitjsihly  exact 

Tlio  forfeit  life,  how  lightly  life  is  sliikecl, 

\\  hen  ill  tlistemjxM-'tl  times  the  fe\eriah 

mind 
To  strong  delusion  yiehls  ?    Have  ye  to 

learn 
Wit  h  wliat  a  deep  and  spirit-stirring  voice 
Pity  dotli  call  Kevongo  ?    Have  yo  no  j 

hearts  | 

To    feel    and    understand    how    Mercy 

tames  50  . 

The    rebel    nature,    madden" d    by    old 

wronsrs. 
And  binds  it  in  the  gentle  bands  of  love,  | 
When  steel  and  adamant  were  weak  to  i 

hokl  I 

That  Samson-strength  subdued  ! 

Let  no  man  write  { 
Thy    epitaph  !      Emmet,    nay ;      thou 

shalt  not  go 
Without  thy  funeral  strain  1    O  young 

and  good 
And  wise,  though  erring  here,  tiiou  shalt 

not  go 
Unhonour'd  nor  unsung.     And  better 

thus 
Beneath  that  indiscrirainating  stroke, 
Better  to  fall,   than  to  have  lived  to 

mourn,  60 

As  sure  thou   wouldst,   in  misery  and 

remorse. 
Thine  own  disastrous  triumph  ;   to  have 

seen. 
If  the  Almighty  at  that  aweful  hour 
Had  turn'd  away  his  face,  wild  Ignor- 
ance 
Let  loose,  and  frantic  Vengeance,  and 

dark  Zeal, 
And  all   bad  passions   tyrannous,   and 

the  fires 
Of  Persecution  once  again  ablaze. 
How  had  it  sunk  into  thy  ^oul  to  see. 
Last  cur.se  of  all,  the  rufiiian  slaves  of 

Franco 
In  thy  dear  native  country  lording  it  !  70 
How  happier  thus,  in  that  lieioic  mood 
That  takes  away  the  sting  of  death,  to 

die,  [given. 

By  all  the  good  and  all  the  wise  for- 
Yea,  in  all  ages  by  the  wise  and  good 
To     be     remember' d,     mourn' d,     and 

honour'd  still. 
Kesicick: 


IX 

VERSES 

SPOKEN  IN  THE  THEATRE  AT  OXFORD, 
UPON  THE  INSTALLATION  OF  LORD 
GRENVILLK 

Grenville,  few  years  have  had  their 

course,  since  last 
Exulting  Oxford  view'd  a  sjK'CtaeIc 
Like  this  day's  poju]) ;   and  yet  to  those 

who  throng" il 
These   walls,    which   echo'd   then    with 

Portland's  ])niise. 
What   change    hath    intervened  !     The 

bloom  of  spring 
Is  fled  from  many  a  cheek,  where  roseate 

joy 

And  beauty   bloom' d;    the  inexorable 

Orave 
Hath    claimed    its    |K)rtion  ;     and    the 

band  of  youths. 
Who  then,  collected  here  as  in  a  port 
From  whence  to  launch  on  life's  adven- 
turous sea,  10 
Stood  on  the  beach,  ere  this  have  foiind 

their  lots 
Of  goodorevil.     Thus  the  lap.se  of  years. 
Evolving  all  things  in  its  quiet  course. 
Hath  wrought  for  them  ;    and  though 

those  years  have  .seen 
Fearful  vicissitudes,  of  wilder  change 
Than    history   yet    had   learnt,    or   old 

romance 
In  wildest  mood  imagined,  yet  these  too. 
Portentous  as  they  seem,  not  less  have 

ri.sen 
Each  of  its  natural  cause  the  sure  effect. 
All    righteously    ordain'd.      Lo !    king- 
doms wreck' il.  20 
Thrones  overturn' d,  built  up,  then  swept 

away 
Like  fabrics  in  the  summer  clouds,  dis- 
persed 
By  the  same  breath  that  heap'd  them  ; 

rightful  kings. 
Who.  from  a  line  of  long-drawn  ancestry 
Held  the  transmitted  sceptre,  to  the  axe 
Rowing  the  anointed  head  ;    or  dragg'd 

away 
To  eat  the  bread  of  bondage  ;  or  esrai^ed 


398 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES 


Beneath    the    shadow    of    Britannia's 

shield. 
There  only  safe.     Such  fate  have  vicious 

courts, 
(Statesmen     corrupt,     and     fear-struck 

policy,  30 

Upon    themselves    drawn    down ;     till 

Europe,  bound 
In  iron  chains,  lies  bleeding  in  the  dust, 
Beneath  the  feet  of  upstart  tyranny  : 
Only  the  heroic  Spaniard,  he  alone 
Yet  unsubdued  in  these  degenerate  days, 
With  desperate  virtue,  such  as  in  old 

time 
Hallow' d    Saguntum    and    Numantia's 

name. 
Stands  up  against  the  oppressor  undis- 

may'd. 
So  may  the  Almighty  bless  the  noble 

race, 
And  crown  with  happy  end  their  holiest 

cause !  40 

Deem    not    these   dread   events   the 

monstrous  birth 
Of  chance  !   And  thou,  0  England,  who 

dost  ride 
Serene  amid  the  waters  of  the  flood. 
Preserving,  even  like  the  Ark  of  old. 
Amid  the  general  wreck,  thy  purer  faith, 
Domestic  loves,  and  ancient  liberty. 
Look  to  thyself,  0  England  !  for  be  sure. 
Even  to  the  measure  of  thine  own  desert, 
The  cup  of  retribution  to  thy  lips 
Shall  soon  or  late  be  dealt !  .  .  a  thought 

that  well  50 

Might  fill  the  stoutest  heart  of  all  thy 

sons 
With  aweful  apprehension.     Therefore, 

they 
Who  fear  the  Eternal's  justice,  bless  thy 

name, 
Orenville,  because  the  wrongs  of  Africa 
Cry  out  no  more  to  draw  a  curse  from 

Heaven 
On  England  ! — for  if  still  the  trooping 

sharks 
Track  by  the  scent  of  death  the  accursed 

ship 
Freighted  with  human  anguish,  in  her 

wake 
Pursue  the  chace,  crowd  round  her  keel, 

and  dart 


Toward   the   sound   contending,    when 

they  hear  60 

The  frequent  carcass  from   her  guilty 

deck 
Dash  in  the  opening  deep,  no  lorger  now 
The  guilt  shall  rest  on  England  ;   but  if 

yet 
There  be  among  her  children,  hard  of 

heart 
And  sear'd  of  conscience,  men  who  set 

at  nought 
Her  laws  and  God's  own  word,  upon 

themselves 
Their  sin  be  visited  !  .  .  the  red-cross 

flag, 
Redeem' d  from  stain  so  foul,  no  longer 

now 
Covereth  the  abomination. 

Tills  thy  praise, 
O  Grenville,  and  while  ages  roll  away  70 
This  shall  be  thy  remembrance.     Yea, 

when  all 
For  which  the  tyrant  of  these  abject 

times 
Hath   given   his   honourable   name   on 

earth, 
His  nights  of  innocent  sleep,  his  hopes 

of  heaven  ; 
When  all  his  triumphs  and  his  deeds  of 

blood, 
The  fretful  changes  of  his  feverish  pride. 
His  midnight   murders  and  jierfidious 

plots. 
Are  but  a  tale  of  years  so  long  gone  by. 
That  they  who  read  distrust  the  hideous 

truth, 
Willing  to  let  a  charitable  doubt         80 
Abate  their  horror  ;  Grenville,  even  then 
Thy  memory  will  be  fresh  among  man- 
kind ; 
Afric  with  all  her  tongues  will  speak  of 

thee. 
With    Wilberforce    and    Clarkson,    he 

whom  Heaven, 
To  be  the  apostle  of  this  holy  work. 
Raised  up  and  strengthen' d,   and  up- 
held through  all 
His  arduous  toil.     To  end  the  glorious 

task, 
Tliat  blessed,  that  redeeming  deed  was 

thine  : 
Be  it  thy  pride  in  life,  thy  thought  in 

doath, 


VERSES  SPOKEN   IN  THEATRE   AT    OXFOl^D    399 


Thy    praise    beyond    the    tomb.     The 

statesman's  fame  90 

Will  fade,  the  comiueror'.s  laurel  crown 

grow  sere  ; 
Fame's  loudest  trump  upon  tlio  ear  of 

Time 
I^ave^s  but  a  dying  echo  ;    they  alono 
Are  held  in  everlasting  memory. 
Whose  deeds  jiartake  of  heaven.     Long 

ages  hence. 
Nations  unborn,  in  cities  that  shall  rise 
Along  the  palmy  coast,  will  bless  thy 

name  ; 
And  Senegal  and  secret  Niger's  shore. 
And  Calabar,  no  longer  startled  then 
With  sounds  of  murder,   will,  like  Isis 

now,  100 

Ring  with  the  songs  that  tell  of  Cren- 

ville's  praise. 

Kesicicl;  1810. 


THANKSGIVING  FOR  VICTOR!^ 

[Written   for   Music,   and   composed   bv 
Shield.] 

Glory  to  Thee  in  thine  omnipotence, 

O  Lord,  who  art  our  shield  and  our 

defence. 

And  dost  dispense. 

As  seemeth  best  to  thine  unerring  will 

(Which  passeth  mortal  sense). 

The  lot  of  Victory  still ; 

Edging  sometimes  with  might  the 

sword  unjust ; 

And  bowing  to  the  dust 

The  rightful  cause,  that  so  much 

seeming  ill 

May  thine  appointed  purposes  fulfd  ; 

Sometimes,  as  in  this  late  auspicious 

hour  II 

For  which  our  hymns  we  raise. 

Making  the  wicked  feel  thy  present 

power  ; 

Glory  to  thee  and  praise. 

Almighty  God,  by  whom  our  strength 

was  given  ! 

Glory  to  thee,  0  Lord  of  Earth  and 

Heaven  ! 


Kesrcick,  181.'). 


XI 

STANZAS 

WRITTEN  IN  LADY  LONSDALE* .S  ALBUM, 
AT  LOWTIIER  CASTLE,  OCTOBER  1.'}, 
1821 

[First  published  in  Joanna  Baillie's  A 
Collection  of  Poems,  chieflt/  Manuscript,  in 
1823.] 


Sometimes  in  youthful  years. 
When   in   some   ancient   ruin    1    have 

stood. 
Alone  and  mu.sing,  till  with  quiet  tears 

I  felt  my  cheeks  bedew' d, 
A  melancholy  thought  hath  made  mc 

grieve 
For  this  our  age,  and  humbled  me  in 
mind. 
That  it  should  pass  away  and  leave 
No  monuments  behind. 

2 

Not  for  themselves  alone 
Our  fathers  lived  ;    nor  with  a  niggard 
hand  lo 

Raised    they    the    fabrics    of    enduring 
stone, 
Wliich  3-et  adorn  the  land  ; 
Their  piles,   memorials  of   the  mighty 

dead. 
Survive  them  still,  majestic  in  decay  ; 
But  ours  are  like  ourselves,  I  said. 
The  creatures  of  a  day. 


With  other  feelings  now, 
Lowther  !     have   I   beheld   thy   stately 

walls. 
Thy    pinnacles,    and    broad   embattled 
brow. 
And  hospitable  halls.  20 

The  sun  those  wide-spread  battlements 

shall  crest. 
And  silent  years  unharming  shall  go  by 
Till  centuries  in  their  course  invest 
Thy  towers  with  sanctity. 


400 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES 


But  thou  the  while  shalt  bear, 
To   after- times,    an   old   and   honour' d 

name. 
And  to  remote  posterity  declare 

Thy  Founder's  virtuous  fame. 
Fair  structure  !   worthy  the  triumphant 

age 
Of    glorious    England's    opulence    and 
power,  30 

Peace  be  thy  lasting  heritage, 
And  happiness  thy  dower  ! 


XII 
STANZAS 

ADDRESSED  TO  W.  R.  TUR^TER,  ESQ.,  R.A., 
ON  HIS  VIEW  OF  THE  LAGO  MAGGIORE 
FROM  THE  TOWN  OF  ARONA 

[First  published  in  The  KeepsaJce,  1829.] 

1 

Turner,   thy   pencil    brings    to   mind 

a  day 
When  from  Laveno  and  the  Beuscer 

hill 
I  over  Lake  Verbanus  held  my  way 
In  pleasant  fellowship,  with  wind  at 

will ; 
Smooth  were  the  waters  wide,  the  sky 

serene, 
And    our    hearts    gladden' d    with    the 

joyful  scene ; 


Joyful,  .  .  for  all  things  minister' d  de- 
light, .  . 
The  lake  and  land,  the  mountains  and 
the  vales  ; 

The  Alps  their  snowy  summits  rear'd  in 
light. 
Tempering    with    gelid    breath    the 
summer  gales  ;  10 

And  verdant  shores  and  woods  refresh' d 
the  eye 

That  else  had  ached  beneath  that  bril- 
liant sky. 


To  that  elaborate  island  were  we  bound 
Of    yore    the    scene    of    Borromean 
pride,  .  . 

Folly's    prodigious    work ;     where    all 
around, 
Under  its  coronet  and  self-belied, 

Look  where  you  will,  you  cannot  choose 
but  see 

The    obtrusive    motto's    proud    '  Hu- 
mility ! ' 


Far  off  the  Borromean  saint  was  seen. 
Distinct  though  distant,  o'er  his  native 

town,  20 

Where    his    Colossus    with    benignant 

mien 
Looks  from  its  station  on  Arona  down : 
To  it  the  inland  sailor  lifts  his  eyes. 
From    the    wide    lake,    when    perilous 

storms  arise. 


But    no    storm     threaten' d    on    that 

summer- day  ; 
The   whole  rich   scene   appear' d  for 

joyance  made  ; 
With  many  a  gliding  bark  the  mere  was 

gay, 

The   fields   and   groves   in   all   their 

wealth  array' d ; 
I  could  have  thought  the  Sun  beheld 

with  smiles 
Those  towns  and  palaces  and  populous 

isles.  30 

6 

From  fair  Arona,  even  on  such  a  day. 
When  gladness  was  descending  like 
a  shower. 
Great  painter,  did  thy  gifted  eye  survey 
The  splendid  scene  ;    and,  conscious 
of  its  power, 
Well  hath  thine  hand  inimitable  given 
The  glories  of  the  lake,  and  land,  and 
heaven. 

Kesinck,  1828. 


ON    A    PICTURE    BY   J.   M.   WKUiHI 


401 


XIII 

ON  A  PICTURE  BY  J.  M.  WRIGHT, 

ESQ. 

[First  published  in  The  Keepsake  for  1829, 
under  the  title  of  '  Lucy  and  her  Bird  '.] 

1 

The  sky-lark  hath  perceived  his  prison- 
door 
Unclosed ;     for    liberty    the    captive 
tries  : 
Puss  eagerly  hath  watched  him  from 
the  floor. 
And  in  her  grasp  he  flutters,  pants, 
and  dies. 


Lucy's  own  Puss,  and  Lucy's  own  dear 
Bird, 
Her  foster' d  favourites  both  for  many 
a  day. 
That  which  the  tender-hearted  girl  pre- 
ferr'd. 
She  in  her  fondness  knew  not  sooth 
to  sav. 


For  if  the  sky-lark's  pipe  were  shrill  and 
strong. 
And  its  rich  tones  the  thrilling  ear 
might  please,  lo 

Yet  Pussybel  could  breathe  a  fireside 
song 
As  winning,  when  she  lay  on  Lucy's 
knees. 


Both  knew  her  voice,  and  each  alike 

would  seek 

Her  eye,  her  smile,  her  fondling  touch 

to  gain  : 

How  faintly  then  may  words  her  sorrow 

speak.  [slain. 

When  bv  the  one  she  sees  the  other 


The  flowers  fall  scatter'd  from  her  lifted 

hands ; 

A  cry  of  grief  she  utters  in  affright  ; 

And  self -condemn' d  for  negligence  she 

stands  19 

Aghast  and  helpless  at  the  cruel  sight. 


Come.  Lucy,  let   mo  dry  those  tearful 
eyes  ; 
Take  thou,  dear  child,  a  lesson  not 
unholy 
From  one  whom  nature  taught  to  mora- 
lize 
Both  in  his  mirth  and  in  his  melan- 
choly. 


I   will   not    warn    thee   not    to  set    thy 
heart 
Too  fondly  upon  perishable  things  ; 
In  vain  the  earnest  preacher  spends  his 
art 
Upon  that  theme;    in  vain  the  poet 
sings. 

8 

It  is  our  nature's  strong  necessity. 
And  this  the  soul's  unerring  instincts 
tell  :  30 

Therefore  I  say,  let  us  love  worthily. 
Dear  child,  and  then  we  cannot  love 
too  well. 


Better  it  is  all  losses  to  deplore. 

Which  dutiful  affection  can  sustain. 
Than  that  the  heart  should,  in  its  inmost 
core. 
Harden  without  it,  and  have  lived  in 
vain. 

10 

This  love  which  thou  hast  lavish'd,  and 
the  woe 
Which  makes  thy  lip  now  (juiver  uitli 
distress. 
Are  but  a  vent,  an  innocent  overflow. 
From  the  deep  springs  of  female  ten- 
derness. 40 

11 

And  something  I  would  teach  the«'  from 
the  grief 
That  thus  hath  fill'd  those  gentle  eyes 
with  tears. 
The    which    may    be    thy    sober,    sure 
relief 
When    sorrow    visits    thee    in    aftei 
years. 


402 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES 


12 

I  ask  not  whither  is  the  spirit  flown 
That  lit  the  eye  which  there  in  death 
is  seal'd  ; 
Our  Father  hath  not  made  that  mystery 
known ; 
Needless  the  knowledge,  therefore  not 
reveal' d. 

13 

But  didst  thou  know  in  sure  and  sacred 

truth. 

It  had  a  place  assign"  d  in  yonder  skies, 

There  through  an  endless  life  of  joyous 

youth,  SI 

To  warble  in  the  bowers  of  Paradise  ; 


14 

Lucy,  if  then  the  power  to  thee  were 
given 
In  that  cold  form  its  life  to  re-engage, 
Wouldst  thou  call  back  the  warbler  from 
its  Heaven, 
To  be  again  the  tenant  of  a  caore  ? 


15 

Only  that  thou  might' st  cherish  it  again, 

Wouldst  thou  tlie  object  of  thy  love 

recall 

To  mortal  life,  and  chance,  and  change, 

and  pain. 

And  death,   which  must  be  suffered 

once  by  all  ?  6o 

16 

Oh,  no,  thou  say'st :  oh,  surely  not,  not 
so  ! 
I  read  the  answer  which  those  looks 
express  : 
For  pure  and  true  affection  well  I  know 
Leaves    in    the   heart    no   room   for 
selfishness. 

17 

Such  love  of  all  our  virtues  is  the  gem  ; 
We  bring  with  us  the  immortal  seed 
at  birth  : 
Of  heaven  it  is,  and  heavenly  ;    woe  to 
them 
Who  make  it  wholly  earthly  and  of 
earth  ! 


18 

What  we  love  perfectly,  for  its  own  sake 

We  love  and  not  our  own,  being  ready 

thus  70 

Whate'er  self-sacrifice  is  ask'd,  to  make  ; 
That  which  is  best  for  it,  is  best  for  us. 

19 

0     Lucy !      treasure     up     that     f»ious 
thought ! 
It  hath  a  balm  for  sorrow's  deadliest 
darts  ; 
And  with  true  comfort  thou  wilt  find  it 
fraught, 
If  grief  should  reach  thee  in  thy  heart 
of  hearts. 

Buck-land,  1828. 


XIV 
TO  CHARLES  LAMB 

ON  THE  REVIEWAL  OF  HIS   *  ALBUM 
VERSES  '    IN    '  THE    LITERARY    GAZETTE  ' 

[Published  in  The  Times,  August  G,  1830.] 

Charles  La^ib,  to  those  who  know  thee 

justly  dear 
For    rarest    genius,    and    for    sterling 

worth. 
Unchanging  friendship,  warmth  of  heart 

sincere. 
And  wit  that  never  gave  an  ill  thought 

birth, 
Nor  ever  in  its  sport  infixed  a  sting  ; 
Tons,  who  have  admired  and  loved  thee 

long. 
It  is  a  proud  as  well  as  pleasant  thing 
To  hear  thy  good  report,   now  borne 

along 
Upon  the  honest  breath  of  public  praise: 
W^e  know  that  with  the  elder  sons  of 

song,  10 

In  honouring  whom  thou  hast  delighted 

still, 
Thy  name  shall  keep  its  course  to  after 

days. 
The   empty   pertness,   and   the   vulgar 

wrong. 
The  flippant  folly,  the  malicious  will, 


TO    CHARLES   LAMB 


403 


Which    have    assailed    thee,    now,    or  .  To  think,  when  thou  wert  early  in  the 

heretofore,  |  Held. 

Find,  soon  or  late,  their  ])ro)>er  meed  of  j  How  doufjhtily  small  JolTrey  ran  at  thoo 

shame  ;  |  A-tilt,  and  hroUt'  a  huhush  on  thy  shield. 

The  more  thy  triumph,  and  our  jMide    And  now.  a  veteran  in  the  li.sts  of  fume, 

the  more,  J  I  ween,  old  Friend  !    thou  art  not  worse 

When  witling  erilies  to  the  world  j)ri)-  bested 


claim. 

In  lead,  their  ow!i  dolt  incapacity. 
Matter  it  is  of  mirthful  memory 


When  with  a  maudlin  eye  and  drunken 
aim  ■  [head. 

Dulness  hath   thrown  a  jerdan  at  thy 


THE   RETROSPECT 


[Published  in  Pnrtvs  hi/  Robert  Lovell  and 
Robert  Southei/,  170").  In  its  present  form 
the  poem  has  been  eompletely  rtnvritten.] 

On*  as  I  journey  through  the  vale  of 

years. 
By    hopes   enliven' d,  or  deprest  by 

fears, 
Allow  me.  Memory,  in  thy  treasured 

store. 
To  view  the  days  that  will  return  no 

more. 
And  yes  !     before   thine   intellectual 

ray, 
The  clouds  of  mental  darkness  melt 

away  ! 
A.s  wlien,  at  earliest  day's  awakening 

dawn. 
The  hovering  mists  obscure  the  dewy 

lawn. 
O'er  all   the  landscape  spread  their 

influence  chill. 
Hang  o'er  the  vale  and  wood,  and 

hide  the  hill,  lo 

Anon,  slow-rising,  comes  the  orb  of 

day, 
Slow  fade  the  shadowy  mists  and  roll 

away, 
The  prospect  opens  on  the  traveller's 

sight. 
And  hills  and  vales  and  woods  reflect  the 

living  light. 

Othou,  the  mistress  of  my  future  days. 
Accept    thy    minstrel's   retros])ective 
lays  ; 


To  whom  the  minstrel  and  the  lyro 

belong. 
Accept,  my  Edith,  Memory's  pensive 

song. 
Of  long-past  days  I  sing,  ere  j'ct  I  knew 
Or  thought  and  grief,  or  happiness  and 

you ;  20 

Ere  yet  my  infant  heart  had  learnt 

to  prove 
The  cares  of  life,  the  hopes  and  fears 

of  love. 

Corston,  twelve  years  in  various 
fortunes  fled 

Have  pass'd  with  restless  progress 
o'er  ray  head, 

Since  in  thy  vale  beneath  the  master's 
rule 

I  dwelt  an  inmate  of  the  village 
school. 

Yet  still  will  Memory's  busy  eve  re- 
trace 

Each  little  vestige  of  the  well-known 
place  ; 

Each  wonted  haunt  and  scene  of 
youthful  joy. 

Where  merriment  has  cheer'd  the 
careless  boy  :  3° 

Well-pleased  will  fancy  still  the  spot 
survey 

Where  once  he  triunij»ird  in  the  boy- 
ish play. 

Without  one  care  where  every  morn 
lie  rose. 

Where  every  evenini;  sunk  to  calm 
repose. 


404 


THE   RETROSPECT 


Large  was  the  house,  though  fallen 

in  course  of  fate 
From  its  old  grandeur  and  manorial 

state.  [Squire 

Lord  of  the  manor,  here  the  jovial 
Once  called   his   tenants  round  the 

crackling  fire  ; 
Here  while  the  glow  of  joy  suffused 

his  face. 
He  told  his  ancient  exploits  in  the 

chase,  4° 

And,   proud  his  rival  sportsmen  to 

surpass, 
He  lit  again  the  pipe,  and  fiU'd  again 

the  glass. 

But  now  no  more  was  heard  at  early 
morn  [horn ; 

The  echoing  clangor  of  the  huntsman's 

No    more    the    eager    hounds    with 
deepening  cry 

Leapt  round  him  as  they  knew  their 
pastime  nigh  ; 

The    Squire    no    more    obey'd    the 
morning  call. 

Nor  favourite  spaniels  fill'd  the  sports- 
man's hall ; 

For  he,  the  last  descendant  of  his  race. 

Slept  with  his  fathers,  and  forgot  the 
chase.  50 

There  now  in  petty  empire  o'er  the 
school 

The  mighty  master  held  despotic  rule  ; 

Trembling  in  silence  all  his  deeds  we 
saw,  [law ; 

His  look  a  mandate,  and  his  word  a 

Severe  his  voice,  severe  and  stern  liis 
mien. 
And  wondrous  strict  he  was,  and  won- 
drous wise,  I  ween. 

Even  now  through  many  a  long  long 

year  I  trace 
The  hour  when  first  with  awe  I  view'd 

his  face  ; 
Even  now  recall  my  entrance  at  the 

dome,  .  . 
'Twas  the  first  day  I  ever  left  my 

home  !  60 

Years    intervening    have    not    worn 

away 
The    deep     remembrance     of     that 

wretched  day. 


Nor  taught  me  to  forget  m}-  earliest 

fears,  [tears ; 

A  mother's  fondness,  and  a  mother's 

When    close    she    prest    me    to    her 

sorrowing  heart. 
As  loth  as  even  I  myself  to  part ; 
And  I,  as  I  beheld  her  sorrows  flow. 
With  painful  effort  hid  my  inward 
woe. 

But  time  to  3^outhful  troubles  brings 
relief, 
i   And  each  new  object  weans  the  child 
from  grief.  70 

Like  April  showers  the  tears  of  youth 
descend.  [end. 

Suddenly  they  fall,  and  suddenly  they 

And  fresher  pleasure  cheers  the  fol- 
lowing hour. 
As   brighter   shines   the   sun   after   the 
April  shower. 

Methinks  even  now  the  interview  I 
see. 

The  Mistress's  glad  smile,  the  Master's 
glee; 

Much  of  my  future  happiness  they 
said, 

]\ruch  of  the  easy  life  the  scholars  led. 

Of  spacious  play-ground  and  of  whole- 
some air. 

The  best  instruction  and  the  tenderest 
care ;  80 

And  when  I  followed  to  the  garden- 
door 

^ly  father,  till  through  tears  I  saw  no 
more.  .  . 

How  civilly  they  sooth" d  my  parting 
pain. 
And   never   did  they  speak   so  civilly 
again. 

Why  loves  the  soul  on  earlier  years  to 

dwell. 
When   Memor}'   spreads   around   her 

saddening  spell. 
When  discontent,  with  sullen  gloom 

o'ercast. 
Turns  from  the  present  and  prefers 

the  past  ? 
Why  calls  reflection  to  my  pensive 

view 
Each  trifling  act  of  infancy  anew,    90 


THE    RETROSPECT 


405 


Each  tritliug  act  with  pleasure  pou- 

(Jcring  o'er, 
Even  at  the  time  wiieii  triliea  pletuio 

no  more  ': 
Yet   is   rouicuibrance  awcet,    though 

well  1  know  [  woo  ; 

The  days  of  childhood  are  but  days  of 
ISome    rude    restraint,    some    petty 

tyrant  sours 
What   else   should    bo   our   sweetest 

blithest  hours  ; 
Yet  is  it  sweet  to  call  those  hours  to 

mind,  .  . 
Those  easy  hours  for  ever  left  behind  ; 
Ere  care  began  the  spirit  to  oppress, 
When  ignorance  itself  was  happiness. 

►Such  was  my  state  in  those  remem- 
ber'd  years  loi 
When  two  small  acres  bounded  all  my 

fears  ;  I  call 

And  therefore  still  with  pleasure  I  re- 
Tho     tapestried    school,    the    bright 

brown-boarded  hall, 
The   murmuring   brook,   that  every 

morning  saw 
The  due  observance  of   the  cleanly 

law ; 
The    walnuts,    where,    when    favour 

would  allow. 
Full  oft  I  went  to  search  each  well- 

stript  bough  ; 
The  crab-tree,  which  supplied  a  secret 

hoard 
With  roasted  crabs  to  deck  the  wintry 

board;  no 

These  trifling  objects  then  my  heart 

possest. 
These    trifling    objects    still    remain 

imprest;  [hind 

80  when  with  unskill'd  hand  some  idle 
Carves  his  rude  name  within  a  sap- 
ling" s  rind. 
In  after  years  the  peasant  lives  to  see 
The  expanding  letters  grow  as  grows 

the  tree  ; 
Though    every    winter's    desolating 

sway 
Shake  the  hoarse  grove  and  sweep  the 

leaves  away,  [last. 

That  rude  inscription  unettaced  will 
Unalter'd   by   the   storm    or   wintry 

blast.  120 


Oh   while   well   pleased   the  letter' d 

traveller  roams 
Among    old    temples,     palaces,    and 

domes, 
.Strays  with  the  Arab  o'er  (ho  wreck 

of  time 
Where  erst   Palmyras   towers  nroso 

sublime,  [pride, 

Or  marks  the  lazy  Turk's  lethargic 
And  CJreciau  slavery  on  Ilyssus'  side. 
Oh    be   it   mine,   aloof   from    public 

strife. 
To  mark  the  changes  of  domestic  life, 
The  alter' d  scenes  where  onco  I  bore 

a  part. 
Where  every  change  of  fortune  strikes 

the  heart ;  130 

As  when  the  merry  bells  with  echoing 

sound 
Proclaim  the  news  of  victory  around, 
llejoicing  patriots  run  the  news  to 

spread 
Of  glorious  con(iucst  and  of  thousands 

dead. 
All  join  the  loud  huzzah  with  eager 

breath. 
And  triumph  in  the  tale  of  blood  and 

death ; 
But  if  extended  on  the  battle- plain, 
Cut  off  in  conquest  some  dear  friend 

be  slain,  [eye. 

Affection  then  will  fill  the  sorrowing 
And  suffering  Nature  grieve  that  one 

should  die.  Mo 

Cold  was  the  morn,  and  bleak  the 

wintry  blast 
Blew  oer  the  meadow,  when  I  saw 

thee  last. 
My   bosom   bounded  as  I  wander' d 

round 
With  silent  step  the  long-remember' d 

ground,  [hour. 

Where  I  had  loiter'd  out  so  many  an 
Chased  the  gay  butterfly,  and  cuU'd 

the  flower, 
{Sought  the  swift  arrow's  erring  course 

to  trace. 
Or  with  mine  equals  vied  amid  tho 

chase.  [away 

T  saw  the  church  where  I  had  slept 
The   tedious  service   of   the  summer 

day  ;  xjo 


406 


THE   RETROSPECT 


Or,  hearing  sadly  all  the  preacher  told. 
In  winter  waked  and  shiver' d  with 

the  cold. 
Oft   have   my  footsteps  roam'd   the 

sacred  ground 
Where  heroes,  kings,  and  poets  sleep 

around ; 
Oft   traced   the   mouldering  castle's 

ivied  wall, 
Or  aged  convent  tottering  to  its  fall ; 
Yet  never  had  my  bosom  felt  such 

pain,  [again ; 

As,  Corstou,  when  I  saw  thy  scenes 
For  many  a  long-lost  pleasure  came 

to  view, 
For  many   a  long- past   sorrow  rose 

anew ;  i6o 

Where  whilom  all  were  friends  I  stood 

alone,  [known. 

Unknowing  all  I  saw,  of  all  I  saw  un- 

There,   where  my  little  hands  were 

wont  to  rear 
With  pride  the  earhest  salad  of  the 

year; 


Where  never  idle  weed  to  spring  was 

seen. 
Rank  thorns  and  nettles  rear'd  their 

heads  obscene. 
Still  all  around  and  sad,  I  saw  no  more 
The    playful    group,    nor    heard    the 

playful  roar  ; 
There  echoed  round  no  shout  of  mirth 

and  glee, 
It  seem'd  as  though  the  world  were 

changed  like  me  !  170 

Enough  !    it  boots  not  on  the  past 

to  dwell,  .  .  [well  ! 

Fair  scene  of  other  years,  a  long  fare- 
Rouse  up,  my  soul !    it  boots  not  to 

repine. 
Rouse  up !  for  worthier  feeUngs  should 

be  thine  ; 
Thy  path  is  plain  and  straight, .  .  that 

light  is  given,  .  . 
Onward  in  faith,  .  .  and  leave  the  rest 

to  Heaven. 

Oxford,  1794. 


HYMN  TO   THE   PENATES 

■  Remove  far  from  me  vanity  and  lies  ;   give  me  neither  poverty  nor  riches  ;   feed 
me  with  food  convenient  for  me.' — The  words  of  Agur. 

OIKOI  ^ikrfpov  elvai,  knel  PKafiepuu  to  Ovpr]([)i. — Hesiou. 

Jove  proudly  ranks,  and  Juno,  white- 
arm' d  Queen, 
And  wisest  of  Immortals,  the  dread  Maid 
Athenian  Pallas.     Venerable  Powers, 
Hearken  your  hymn  of  j)raise  !  Though 

from  your  rites 
Estranged,  and  exiled  from  your  altars 

long, 
I  have  not  ceased  to  love  you,  House- 
hold Gods  ! 
In  many  a  long  and  melancholy  hour 
Of  solitude  and  sorrow,  hath  my  heart 
With  earnest  longings  pray'd  to  rest  at 

length 

Beside  your   hallow' d   hearth,   .   .   for 

Peace  is  there  !  20 

Yes,  I  have  loved  you  long  !  I  call  on  ye 

Yourselves  to  witness  with  what  holy 

joy, 


[Published  in  Poems,  1797.] 

Yet  one  Song  more !  one  high  and 
solemn  strain 

Ere,  Phoebus  !  on  thy  temj)le's  ruin'd 
wall 

I  hang  the  silent  harp  :  there  may  its 
strings, 

^^'hen  the  rude  tempest  shakes  the  aged 
pile. 

Make  melancholy  music.  One  song 
more  ! 

Penates,  hear  me  !  for  to  you  I  hymn 

The  votive  lay  ;   whether,  as  sages  deem, 

Y"e  dwell  in  inmost  Heaven,  the  Coun- 
sellors 

Of  Jove ;    or  if,  Supreme  of  Deities, 

All  things  are  yours,  and  in  your  holy 
train  10 


HYMN    TO   THE   PENATES 


407 


"aj  Shunning  the  common  herd  of  human- 
kind, 
*ir  I  have  retired  to  watch  your  lonely  lires 

And  commune  with  myself  :  .  .  delight- 
ful hours. 

That  gave  mysterious  pleasure,   made 
me  know 

Mine  inmost  he^rt,  its  weakness  and  its 
strength, 

Taught  me  to  cherish  with  devoutest  cai*o 

Its  deep  unworldly  feelings,  taught  mo 
too 

The  best  of  lessons — to  respect  mysdf.  30 

Nor  have  I  ever  ceased  to  reverence 

you, 
Domestic  Deities  !   from  the  first  dawn 
J  I  Of    reason,    through    the    adventurous 

I  jKiths  of  30uth 

t  I  Even  to  this  better  day,  when  on  mine 

car 
The  uproar  of  contending  nations  sounds 
But  like  the  passing  wind,  and  wakes  no 

pulse 
To  tumult.     When  a  child  .  .  (for  still 

I  love 
To  dwell  with  fondness  on  my  childish 

ye^rs,) 
When  first,  a  little  one,  I  left  my  home, 
I  can  remember  the  first  grief  1  felt.  40 
And  the  first  painful  smile  that  clothed 

my  front 
With  feelings  not  its  own  :    sadly  at 

night 
I  sat  me  down  beside  a  stranger's  hearth; 
And  when  the  lingering  hour  of  rest  was 

come, 
First  wet  with  tears  my  pillow.     As  I 

grew 
In  years  and  knowledge,  and  the  course 

of  time 
Develo})ed  the  young  feelings   of   my 

heart, 
When  most  I  loved  in  solitude  to  rove 
Amid  the  woodland  gloom ;    or  where 

the  rocks 
Darken' d  old  Avon's  stream,  in  the  ivied 

cave  50 

Recluse   to   sit   and   brood   the   future 

song,  .  . 
Yet  not  the  less,  Penates,  loved  I  then 
Your  altars  ;    not  the  less  at  evening 

hour 


Loved  1  beside  the  woll-trimm'd  tire  to 

sit. 
Absorb' d  in  many  a  dear  deceitful  dream 
Of  visionary  joys, .  .  deceitful  dreams, . . 
And  yet  not  vain  ;    for  painting  purest 

bliss, 
They    form'd    to    Fancy's    mould    her 

votary's  heart. 

By  Cherwell's  sedgey  side,  and  in  the 

meads 
Where   Isis  in    her  calm   clear   stream 

reflects  60 

The  willow's  bending  boughs,  at  early 

dawn. 
In  the  noon-tide  hour,  and   when  the 

night-mist  rose, 
I  have  remcmber'd  you  ;   and  when  the 

noise 
Of  lewd  Intemperance  on  my  lonely  ear 
Burst  with  loud  tumult,  as  recluse  1  sate, 
Musing  on  days  when  man  should  be 

redeem' d 
From  servitude,  and  vice,  and  wretched- 
ness, 
I  bless'd  you.  Household  Oods  !  because 

I  loved 
Your  ]ieaccful  altars  and  sercner  rites. 
Nor  (lid  I  cease  to  reverence  you,  when 

driven  7° 

Amid  the  jarring  crowd,  an  unlit  man 
To  mingle  with  the  world  ;  still,  still  my 

heart 
8igh'd  for   your   sanctuary,    and   inly 

pined  ; 
And  loathing  human  converse,  I  have 

stray'd 
Where  o'er  the  sea-beach  chilly  howl'd 

the  blast. 
And  gazed  uiK)n  the  world  of  waves,  and 

wish'd 
That  I  were  far  beyond  the  Atlantic 

deep. 
In  woodland  haunts,  a  sojourner  with 

I'cace. 

Not  idly  did  the  ancient  poets  dream, 
Who  peopled  earth  with  Deities.     They 

trod  80 

The   wood    with    reverence   where   the 

Dryads  dwelt : 
At  day's  dim  dawn  or  evening's  misty 

hour 


408 


HYMN    TO    THE   PENATES 


They  saw  the  Oreads  ou  their  mountain 

haunts, 
And  felt  their  holy  influence ;    nor  im- 
pure 
Of    thought,    nor    ever    with    polluted 

hands, 
Touch'd    they    without    a    prayer    the 

Naiad's  spring  ; 
Nor  without  reverence  to  the  River  God 
Cross' d   in    unhappy    hour    his    limpid 

stream. 
Yet  was  this  influence  transient ;    such 

brief  awe 
Inspiring   as   the   thunder's   long   loud 

peal  90 

.Strikes  to  the  feeble  spirit.     Household 

(iods, 
Not  such  your  empire  I  in  your  votaries' 

breasts 
No  momentary  impulse  ye  awake  ; 
Nor  fleeting,  like  their  local  energies, 
The    deep    devotion    that    your    fanes 

impart. 
0  ye  whom  Youth  has  wilder" d  on  your 

way, 
Or  Pleasure  with  her  syren  song  hath 

lured, 
Or  Fame  with  spirit-stirring  trump  hath 

call'd 
To  climb  her  summits, .  .  to  your  House- 
hold Gods 
Return;     for    not    in    Pleasure's    gay 

abodes,  100 

Nor  in  the  unquiet  unsafe  halls  of  Fame 
Doth    Happiness    abide.     0    ye    who 

grieve 
Much  for  the  miseries  of  your  fellow- 
kind, 
More  for  their  vices  ;    ye  whose  honest 

eyes 
Scowl  on  Oppression, — ye  whose  honest 

hearts 
Beat  high   when   Freedom  sounds  her 

dread  alarm  ; 
0  ye  who  quit  the  path  of  peaceful  life 
Crusading  for  mankind  .  .  a  spaniel  race 
That  lick  the  hand  that  beats  them,  or 

tear  all 
Alike  in  frenzy ;     to  your  Household 

Gods  no 

Return  !     for    by    their   altars   Virtue 

dwells,  [fires 

And  Happiness  with  her ;    for  by  their 


Tranquillity,  in  no  unsocial  mood, 
Sits  silent,   listening   to   the  pattering 

shower  ; 
For,  so  Suspicion  sleep  not  at  the  gate 
Of  Wisdom,  Falsehood  shall  not  enter 

there. 

As  on  the  height  of  some  huge  emi- 
nence. 

Reach' d  with  long  labour,  the  way- 
faring man 

Pauses  awhile,  and  gazing  o'er  the  plain 

With  many  a  sore  step  travell'd,  turns 
him  then  120 

Serious  to  contemplate  the  onward  road, 

xA.nd  calls  to  mind  the  comforts  of  his 
home, 

And  sighs  that  he  has  left  them,  and 
resolves 

To  stray  no  more  :    I  on  my  way  of  life 

Muse  thus,  Penates,  and  with  firmest 
faith 

Devote  myself  to  you.     I  will  not  quit, 

To  mingle  with  the  crowd,  your  calm 
abodes, 

Where  by  the  evening  hearth  Content- 
ment sits 

And  hears  the  cricket  chirp ;  where 
Love  delights 

To  dwell,  and  on  your  altars  lays  liis 
torch  130 

That  burns  with  no  extinguishable  flame. 

Hear  me,  ye  Powers  benignant !  there 

is  one 
Must  be  mine  inmate,  .  .  for  I  may  not 

choose 
But  love  him.     He  is  one  whom  many 

wrongs 
Have  sicken' d  of  the  world.     There  was 

a  time 
When  he  would  weep  to  hear  of  wicked- 
ness, 
And  wonder  at  the  tale  ;    when  for  the 

opprest 
He  felt  a  brother's  pity,  to  the  oppressor 
A  good  man's  honest  anger.     His  quick 

eye 
Betray' d    each    rising    feeling ;     every 

thought  140 

Leapt  to  his  tongue.     When  first  among 

mankind  [them. 

He  mingled,   by  himself  he  judged  of 


HYMN   TO   THE   PENATES 


409 


And  loved  and  trusted  them,  to  Wisdom 

deaf, 
And  took  them  to  liis  bosom.     False- 
hood met 
Her  unsusix^cting  victim,  fair  of  front. 
And  lovely  &s  Ajwga's  8culi)tured  form, 
Ijiko  that  false  imago  caught  his  warm 

embrace. 
And    pierced    his    open    breast.     The 

reptile  race 
Clung  round  his  bosom,  and  with  vijx-r 

folds 
Encircling,  stung  the  fool  who  foster' d 

them.  150 

His  mother  was  Simj)licity,  his  sire 
Benevolence  ;    in  earlier  days  lu^  bore 
His  father's  name;    the  world  who  in- 
f  jured  him 

Call  him  Misanthropy.  I  may  not  choose 
But  love  him,  Household  (Jods  !   for  we 

grew  up  [bred, 

Together,  and  in  the  same  school  were 
And  our  poor  fortunes  the  same  course 

have  held, 
Up  to  this  hour. 

Penates  !  some  there  are 
Who  sa}',  that  not  in  the  inmost  heaven 

ye  dwell, 
(Jazing  with  eye  remote  on  all  the  ways 
Of  man,  his  Guardian  Gods;    wiselier 

they  deem  161 

A  dearer  interest  to  the  human  race 
Links  vou,  yourselves  the  ISpirits  of  the 

Dead. 
No  mortal  eye  may  pierce  the  invisible 

world. 
No  light  of  human  reason  penetrate 
The  depth  where  Truth  lies  hid.    Yet  to 

this  faith 
My  heart  with  instant  sympathy  assents; 
And  I  would  judge  all  systems  and  all 

faiths 
By  that  best  touchstone,  from  whose 

test  Deceit 
•Shrinks  like  the  Arch-Fiend  at  Ithuriel's 

spear ;  170 

And  .Sophistry's  gay  glittering  bubble 

bursts, 
As  at  the  spousals  of  the  Nereid's  son, 
When  that  false  llorimel,  \vith  her  pro- 
totype 
Set  side  by  side,  in  her  unreal  charms, 
Dissolved  away. 


Nor  can  tho  balls  of  He&von 
Give  to  the  human  soul  such  kindred 

joy. 

As  hovering  o'er  its  earthly  hiiuii(.s  it 

feels. 
When  with  tho  breeze  it  dwells  around 

the  brow 
Of  one  beloved  on  earth  ;    or  when  at 

night 
In  dreams  it  comes,  and  brings  with  it 

the  Days  x8o 

And  Joys  that  are  no  more.     Or  when, 

perchance 
With  power  jKirmitted  to  alleviate  ill 
And  lit  the  sufferer  for  the  coming  woe, 
Some  strange  presage  I  he  Spirit  breathes, 

and  tills  [it 

Tho  breast  with  ominous  fear,  preparing 
For  sorrow,  pours  into  the  afllicted  heart 
The  balm  of  resignation,  and  inspires 
With  heavenly  hope.     Even  as  a  child 

delights 
To  visit  day  by  day  tho  favourite  plant 
His  hand  has  sown,  to  mark  its  gradual 

growth,  190 

And  watch  all-anxious  for  the  promised 

flower ; 
Thus  to  the  blest  spirit  in  innocence 
And  pure  affections  like  a  little  child. 
Sweet  will  it  be  to  hover  o'er  the  friends 
Beloved ;     then   sweetest,   if,    as    duty 

prompts. 
With  earthly  care  we  in  their  breasts 

have  sown 
The  seeds  of  Truth  and  Virtue,  lioly 

flowers 
Whose  odour  reacheth  Heaven. 

When  my  sick  Heart 
(Sick  with  hope  long  delay'd,  than  w  Inch 

no  care 
Weighs  on  the  spirit  heavier.)  from  itself 
Seeks  the   best  comfort,   often   have  I 

deem'd  ^* 

That  thou  didst  witness  every  inmost 

thought, 
Seward  !    my  dear  !    dear  friend  I    For 

not  in  vain, 
0    early   summon'd    on    thy    heavenly 

course, 
Was  thy  brief  sojourn  here;    me  did«*t 

thou  leave 
With   Htrttigthen'd   blep   to   follow   tli» 

right  path. 


410 


HYMN   TO   THE   PENATES 


Till   we  shall   meet  again.     Meantime 

I  soothe 
The  deep  regret  of  nature,  with  belief, 
0  Edmund  !    that  thine  eye's  celestial 

ken 
Pervades   me   now,    marking   with   no 

mean  joy  210 

The  movements  of  the  heart  that  loved 

thee  well  ! 

Such  feelings  Nature  prompts,   and 

hence  your  rites, 
Domestic  Gods  !    arose.     When  for  his 

son 
With  ceaselessgrief  iSyrophanes  bewail'  d, 
Mourning  his  age  left  childless,  and  his 

wealth 
Heapt  for  an  alien,  he  with  obstinate  eye 
Still  on  the  imaged  marble  of  the  dead 
Dwelt,     pampering     sorrow.      Thither 

from  his  wrath, 
A  safe  asylum,  fled  the  offending  slave. 
And  garlanded  the  statue,  and  imj)lored 
His  young  lost  lord  to  save.  Remem- 
brance then  221 
Soften' d  the  father,  and  he  loved  to  see 
The  votive  wreath  renew' d,  and  the  rich 

smoke 
Curl  from  the  costly  censer  slow  and 

sweet. 
From  Egypt  soon  the  sorrow-soothing 

rites 
Divulging    spread ;     before    your    idol 

forms 
By   every   hearth   the   blinded   Pagan 

knelt. 
Pouring  his  prayers  to  these,  and  offer- 
ing there 
Vain  sacrifice  or  impious,  and  sometimes 
With    human    blood    your    sanctuary 

defiled :  230 

Till  the  first  Brutus,  tyrant-conquering 

chief, 
Arose ;    he  first  the  impious  rites  put 

down,  [died, 

He  fitliest,  who  for  Freedom  lived  and 
The  friend  of  humankind.     Then  did 

your  feasts 
Frequent    recur    and    blameless ;     and 

when  came 
The  solemn  festival,'  whose  happiest  rites 

^  The  Saturnalia. 


Emblemed  EquaUty,  the  holiest  truth. 
Crown' d  with  gay  garlands  were  your 

statues  seen. 
To  you  the  fragrant  censer  smoked,  to 

you 
The  rich  libation  flowed  :  vain  sacrifice  ! 
For  not  the  poppy  wreath  nor  fruits  nor 

wine  241 

Ye  ask,  Penates  !  nor  the  altar  cleansed 
With  many  a  mystic  form  ;   ye  ask  the 

heart 
Made  pure,  and  by  domestic  Peace  and 

Love 
Hallow' d  to  you. 

Hearken  your  hymn  of  praise, 
Penates  !  to  your  shrines  I  come  for  rest. 
There  only  to  be  found.  Often  at  eve, 
As  in  my  wanderings  I  have  seen  far  off 
Some  lonely  light  that  spake  of  comfort 

there,  249 

It  told  my  heart  of  many  a  joy  of  home. 
When  I  was  homeless.  Often  as  I  gazed 
From  some  high  eminence  on  goodly 

vales 
And  cots  and  villages  embower' d  below. 
The  thought  would  rise  that  all  to  me 

was  strange 
Amid  the  scene  so  fair,  nor  one  small 

spot 
Where  my  tired  mind  might  rest,  and 

call  it  Home. 
There  is  a  magic  in  that  little  word  : 
It  is  a  mystic  circle  that  surrounds 
Comforts    and    virtues    never    known 

beyond 
The    hallowed    limit.     Often    has    my 

heart  260 

Ached  for  that  quiet  haven  !    Haven' d 

now,  [ness 

I  think  of  those  in  this  world's  wilder- 
Who  wander  on  and  find  no  home  of 

rest 
Till  to  the  grave  they  go :  them  Poverty, 
Hollow-eyed  fiend,  the  child  of  Wealth 

and  Power, 
Bad   offspring   of   worst   parents,    aye 

afflicts. 
Cankering  with   her  foul  mildews  the 

chill' d  heart ;  .  . 
Them    Want    with    gcorpion    scourge 

drives  to  the  den 
Of  Guilt :  .  .  them  Slaughter  for  the 

price  of  death 


HYMN   TO   THE   PENATES 


411 


Throws  to  her  raveo  brood.     Ob,  not  on    Heart-calming    bo{)e,    and    sure  !     ior 

them,  270  hitherward 

God  of  eternal  Justice  !  not  on  I  hem  Tend  all  the  tumults  of  tho  troubled 
Let  fall  tby  thunder  !  world. 

Household  Deitio.s  !  Its  woes,  its  wisdom,  and  its  wickfiinesh 
Then  only  shall  be  Happiness  on  earth  Alike  ;  .  .  bo  He  hatli  will'd,  whose  \\ill  is 
When  man  shall  feel  youi*  sacred  i>ower,  '  just. 

and  love  I 

Your  tranquil  joys  ;   then  shall  the  city        Meantime,  all  hoping  and  exp<.cling 

stand  I  all 

A  huge  void  sepulchre,  and  on  the  site  In  patient  faith,  to  you.  Domestic  Gods  ! 
Wherefortresscs  and  palaces  havestood.  j  L>tudious  of  other  lore  than  song,  I 
"~         "  .    .-    .      -  -  I  come.  290 

Yet  shall  my  Heart  remember  the  past 

years 
With  honest  pride,  trusting  that  not  in 

vain 
Lives    the    pure   song    of   Libert  v    and 
Truth. 


The  olive  grow,  there  shall  the  Tree  of 

Peace 
IStrikc  its  root^  deep  and  flourish.    This 

the  state 
Shall  bless  the  race  redeem' d  of  Man, 

when  ^Vealth  280 

And  Power  and  all  their  hideous  progeny 
Shall  sink  annihilate,  and  all  mankind 
Live  in  the  equal  brotherhood  of  love. 


Bristol,  1796. 


ENGLISH  ECLOGUES 


[The  first  three  of  the  following  Eclogues 
were  published  in  Poems,  vol.  ii,  1799, 
Eclogue  II  under  the  title  of  'The  Funeral'. 
Eclogue  IV  was  published  in  The  Edinburgh 
Annual  Begister,  1808.] 

The  following  Eclogues,  I  believe,  bear 
no  resemblance  to  any  poems  in  our  lan- 
guage. This  species  of  composition  has 
become  popular  in  Germany,  and  I  was 
induced  to  attempt  it  by  what  was  told  me 
of  the  German  Idylls  by  my  friend  Mr. 
William  Taylor  of  Norwich.  So  far,  there- 
fore, these  pieces  may  be  deemed  imitations, 
though  I  am  not '  acquainted  with  the 
German  language  at  present,  and  have 
never  seen  any  translations  or  specimens  in 
this  kind. 

With  bad  Eclogues  I  am  sufTiciently 
acquainted,  from  Tityrus  and  Corydon 
down  to  our  English  Strephons  and  Thir- 
sisses.  No  kind  of  poetry  can  boa.st  of  more 
illustrious  names,  or  is  more  distinguished 
by  the  servile  dulness  of  imitated  nonsense. 
Pastoral  Mriters,  '  more  silly  than  their 
sheep,'  have,  like  their  sheep,  gone  on  in 
the  same  track  one  after  another.  Gay 
struck  into  a  new  jjath.  Ilis  eclogues  were 
the  only  ones  which  interested  me  when 


I  Mas  a  boy,  and  did  not  know  they  were 
burlesque.  The  subject  would  furnish 
matter  for  an  essay,  but  this  is  not  the  place 
for  it. 


1799. 


I 


THE  OLD  MANSION-HOUSE 

STRAKGER 

Old  friend  !     why  you  seem   bent   on 

parish  duty. 
Breaking  the  highway  stones,  .  .  and 

'tis  a  ta.sk 
Somewhat  too  hard  methinks  for  age 

like  yours  ! 

OLD  .M.\N 

Why  yes  !  for  one  with  such  a  weight  of 

years 
Upon  his  back  !  .  .  I've  lived  here,  man 

and  boy. 
In  this  same  parish,  well  nigh  tho  full 

age 
Of  man,  being  hard  upon  threescore  and 

ten. 


412 


ENGLISH  ECLOGUES 


I  can  remember  sixty  years  ago 
The  beautifying  of  this  mansion  here, 
When  my  late  Lady's  father,  the  old 
Squire,  lo 

Came  to  the  estate. 

STRANGER 

Why  then  you  have  outlasted 
All  his  improvements,  for  you  see  they're 

making 
Great  alterations  here. 

OLD  MAN 

Ay  .  .  great  indeed  ! 
And  if  my  poor  old  Lady  could  rise  up  .  . 
God  rest  her  soul !  'twould  grieve  her  to 

behold 
What  wicked  work  is  here. 

STRANGER 

They've  set  about  it 
In  right  good  earnest.     All  the  front  is 

gone ; 
Here's  to  be  turf,  they  tell  me,  and  a 

road 
Round  to  the  door.     There  were  some 

yew  trees  too 
Stood  in  the  court.  .  . 


Ay,  Master  !   fine  old  trees  ! 
Lord  bless  us!    I  have  heard  my  father 

say  21 

His  grandfather  could  just  remember 

back 
When  they  were  planted  there.     It  was 

my  task 
To   keep   them   trimm'd,   and  'twas   a 

pleasure  to  me  ; 
All  straight  and  smooth,  and  like  a  great 

green  wall  ! 
My  poor  old  lady  many  a  time  would 

come 
And  tell  me  where  to  clip,  for  she  had 

play'd 
In  childhood  under  them,  and  '  twas  her 

pride 
To  keep  them  in  their  beauty.     Plague, 

I  say, 
On    their    new-fangled    whimsies !     we 

shall  have  30 

A  modern  shrubbery  here  stuck  full  of 

lirs 


And  your  pert  poplar  trees ;  .  .  I  could 

as  soon 
Have  plough' d  my  father's  grave  as  cut 

them  down  1 

STRANGER 

But  'twill  be  lighter  and  more  cheerful 

now  ; 
A  fine  smooth  turf,  and  with  a  carriage 

road 
That  sweeps  conveniently  from  gate  to 

gate. 
I  like  a  shrubbery  too,  for  it  looks  fresh  ; 
And  then  there's  some  variety  about  it. 
In  spring  the  lilac  and  the  snow- ball 

flower, 
And    the    laburnum    with    its    golden 

strings  40 

Waving  in  the  wind :    And  when  the 

autumn  comes  [ash, 

The  bright  red  berries  of  the  mountain- 
With  pines  enough  in  winter  to  look 

green. 
And  show  that  something  lives.     Sure 

this  is  better 
Than  a  great  hedge  of  yew,  making  it 

look  [ever 

All  the  year  round  like  winter,  and  for 
Dropping  its  poisonous  leaves  from  the 

under  boughs 
Wither'  d  and  bare. 

OLD  MAN 

Ay  !  so  the  new  Squire  thinks  ; 

And  pretty  work  he  makes  of  it !  What 

'tis  49 

To  have  a  stranger  come  to  an  old  house! 

STRANGER 

It  seems  you  know  him  not  ? 

OLD  MAN 

No,  Sir,  not  I. 

They  tell  me  he's  expected  daily  now; 

But  in  my  Lady's  time  he  never  came 

But  once,  for  they  were  very  distant  kin. 

If  he  had  play'd  about  here  when  a  child 

In  that  fore  court,  and  eat  the  yew- 
berries. 

And  sate  in  the  porch,  threading  the 
jessamine  flowers 

Which  fell  so  thick,  he  had  not  had  the 
heart 

To  mar  all  thus  ! 


THE    OLD   .AIANSION-HOUSE 


u:{ 


STRANGER 

Come  !  come  !   all  is  not  wrong  ; 
Those  old  dark  windows.  .  . 

OLD  MAX 

Thcy're  demolish' d  too,  .  .   60 
As  if  ho  could  not  see  through  casement 

glass  ! 
The  vtM*y  red- breasts,  that  so  regular 
Came   to    my    Lady   for   her   morning 

crumbs. 
Wont  know  the  windows  now  ! 

STRANGER 

Nay  they  were  small, 

And  then  so  darken" d  round  with  jessa- 
mine. 

Harbouring  the  vermin ;  .  .  yet  I  could 
have  wish'd 

That  jessamine  had  been  saved,  which 
canopied 

And  bower" d  and  lined  the  porch. 

OLD  MAN 

It  did  one  good 
To  pass  within  ten  yards  when  'twas  in 

blossom. 
There  was  a  sweet-briar  too  that  grew 

beside ;  70 

My  Lady  loved  at  evening  to  sit  there 
And  knit ;    and  her  old  dog  lay  at  her 

feet 
And  slept  in  the  sun;    'twas  an  old 

favourite  dog,  .  . 
She  did  not  love  him  less  that  he  was  old 
And  feeble,  and  he  always  had  a  place 
By  the  fire-side  :    and  when  he  died  at 

last 
She  made  me  dig  a  grave  in  the  garden 

for  him. 
For  she  was  good  to  all  !   a  woeful  day 
'Twas  for  the  poor  when  to  her  grave 

she  went ! 

STRANGER 

They  lost  a  friend  then  ? 

OLD  MAN 

You're  a  stranger  hero,   80 
Oryou  wouldn't  a.sk  that  question.  Were 

they  sick  ? 


When  weekly  she  distributed  the  broad 
In  the  poor  old  porch,  to  see  her  and  to 

hear 
The  blessings  on  her  I    and  I  warrant 

them 
They  were  a  blessing  to  her  when  her 

wealth 
Had  been  no  comfort  else.     At  C'hrist- 

mas.  Sir  ! 
It  would  lia\  e  warm'd  yom-  heart  if  j'ou 

had  se(Mi 
Ifer    Christmas    kitchen.    .    .    how    the 

blazing  lire  90 

Made  her  line  pewter  shine,  and  holly 

boughs 
So  cheerful  red. . .  and  as  for  mi.s.seltoe. . . 
The  tinest  bush  that  grew  in  the  country 

round 
Was  mark'd  for  Madam.     Then  her  oUl 

ale  went 
So  bountiful  about !   a  Christmas  cask. 
And  'twas  a  noble  one  !  .  .  Ciod  help  me. 

Sir  ! 
But  I  shall  never  see  such  days  again. 

STRANGER 

Things   may   be  better  yet   than   you 

suppose. 
And  you  should  hope  the  best. 

OLD  MAN 

It  don't  look  well,  .  . 
These   alterations.   Sir !      I'm    an    old 

man,  xoo 

And  love  the  good  old  fashions  ;     we 

don't  find 
Old   bounty  in   new   liouses.     Tliey've 

destroy'd 
All  that  my  Lady  loved  ;   her  favourite 

walk 
Grubb'd  up,  .  .  and  they  do  say  that  the 

great  row 
Of  elms  behind  the  house,  which  meet 

a- top. 
They  must  fall  too.     Well  !   well  !   I  lUd 

not  think 
To  live  to  see  all  this,  and  'tis  perliajxs 
A  comfort  I  shan't  live  to  see  it  long. 

STRANGER 


She  had  rare  cordial  waters,  and  for  herbs  ,  But  sure  all  changes  are  not  needs  for 
She  could   have  taught    the   Doctors.  the  worse, 

Then  at  winter,  1  My  friend  ? 


414 


ENGLISH   ECLOGUES 


May-hap  they  mayn't,  Sir  ;  .  . 

for  all  that  no 

I  like  what  I've  been  used  to.     I  re- 
member 
All  this  from  a  child  up,  and  now  to 

lose  it, 
'Tis    losing    an    old    friend.     There's 

nothing  left 
As  'twas  ;  .  .  I   go   abroad   and   only 

meet 
With  men  whose  fathers  I  remember 

boys  ; 
The  brook  that  used  to  run  before  my 

door. 
That's  gone  to  the  great  pond;    the 

trees  I  learnt 
To  climb  are  down ;   and  I  see  nothing 

now 
That  tells  me  of  old  times,  .  .  except  the 

stones 
In   the   churchyard.     You   are   j^oung, 

Sir,  and  I  hope  120 

Have  many  years  in  store,  .  .  but  pray 

to  God 
You  mayn't  be  left  the  last  of  all  your 

friends. 

STRANGER 

Well  !    well  !    you've  one  friend  more 

than  you're  aware  of. 
If   the  Squire's   taste   don't  suit   with 

yours,  I  warrant 
That's  all  you'll  quarrel  with:  walk  in 

and  taste 
His  beer,  old  friend  !  and  see  if  your  old 

Lady 
E'er  broach' d  a  better  cask.     You  did 

not  know  me, 
But   we're   acquainted  now.     'Twould 

not  be  easy 
To   make  you   like   the   outside ;     but 

within, 
That  is  not  changed,  my  friend  !   you'll 

always  find  130 

The  same  old  bounty  and  old  welcome 

t  here. 

Westbury,  1798. 


II 
HANNAH 

Passing  across  a  green  and  lonely  lane 
A  funeral  met  our  view.     It  was  not  here 
A  sight  of  every  day,  as  in  the  streets 
Of  some  great  city,  and  we  stopt  and 

ask'd 
Whom  they  were  bearing  to  the  grave. 

A  girl, 
They  answer' d,  of  the  village,  who  had 

pined 
Through   the  long  course   of   eighteen 

painful  months 
With  such  slow  wasting,  that  the  hour 

of  death 
Came  welcome  to  her.     We  pursued  our 

way 

To  the  house  of  mirth,  and  with  that 

idle  talk  10 

Which  passes  o'er  the  mind  and  is  forgot. 

We  wore  away  the  time.     But  it  was 

eve 
When  homewardly  I  went,  and  in  the  air 
Was    that    cool    freshness,    that    dis- 
colouring shade 
Which    makes   the   eye   turn   inward: 

hearing  then 
Over  the  vale  the  heavy  toll  of  death 
Sound  slow,  it  made  me  think  upon  the 

dead ; 
I  question' d  more,  and  learnt  her  mourn- 
ful tale. 

She   bore    unhusbanded   a   mother's 

pains, 
And  he  who  should  have  cherish' d  her, 

far  off  20 

Sail'd  on  the  seas.    Left  thus,  a  wretched 

one, 
Scorn  made  a  mock  of  her,  and  evil 

tongues 
Were  busy  with  her  name.     She  had  to 

bear 
The  sharper  sorrow  of  neglect  from  him 
Whom  she  had  loved  too  dearly.    Once 

he  wrote. 
But  only  once  that   drop  of  comfort 

came 
To  mingle  with  her  cup  of  wretchedness  ; 
And  when  his  parents  had  some  tidinga 

from  him. 


HANNAH 


41-) 


There  \va3  no  mention  of  poor  Hannah 

there. 
Or  'twas  the  cold  inquiry,  more  unkind 
Than  silence.     So  she  pined  and  pined 

away,  31 

And  for   herself   and   baby   toil'd  and 

toil'd; 
Nor  did  she,  even  on  her  death-bed,  rest 
From  labour,  knitting  there  with  lifted 

arms, 
Till  she  sunk  with  very  weakness.     Her 

old  motlier 
Omitted  no  kind  office,  working  for  her. 
Albeit  her  hardest  labour  barely  earn'd 
Enough  to  keep  life  struggling,  and  pro- 
long 
The  pains  of  gi'ief  and  sickness.     Thus 

she  lay 
On  the  sick  bed  of  poverty,  worn  out 
With  her  long  sutl'ering  and  those  pain- 
ful thoughts  41 
Which  at  her  heart  were  rankling,  and 

so  weak. 
That  she  could  make  no  effort  to  express 
Affection  for  her  infant;   and  the  child, 
Whose  lisping  love  j^erhaps  had  solaced 

her, 
Shunn'd  her  as   one  indifferent.     But 

she  too 
Had  grown  indifferent  to  all  things  of 

earth, 
Finding  her  only  comfort  in  the  thought 
Of  that  cold  bed  wherein  the  wretched 

rest. 
There  had  she  now,  in  that  last  home, 

been  laid,  50 

And  all  was  over  now,  .  .  sickness  and 

grief, 
Her  shame,  her  suflfering,  and  her  peni- 
tence, .  . 
Their  work  was  done.     The  school-boys 

as  they  sport 
In  the  churchyard,  for  awhile   might 

turn  away 
From  the  fresh  grave  till  grass  should 

cover  it ; 
Nature  would  do  that  office  soon ;  and 

none 
Who  trod  upon  the  senseless  turf  would 

think 
Of  what  a  world  of  woes  lay  buried  there! 

Burton,  near  Christ  Church,  1797. 


Ill 
THE  RUINED  COTTAGE 

Av,  Charles!    I  knew  that  this  would 

11 X  thine  eye  ;  .  . 
This    woodbine    wreathing    round    the 

broken  porch, 
Its    leaves    just    withering,    yet    one 

autumn  flower 
Still  fresh  and  fragrant ;  and  yon  holly- 
hock 
That  through  the  creeping  weeds  and 

nettles  tall 
Peers  taller,  lifting,  column-like,  a  stem 
Bright  with  its  ro.seate  blossoms.  I  have 

seen 
^fany  an  old  convent  reverend  in  decay. 
And  many  a  time  have  trod  the  ca.'^tle 

courts 
And   grass-green   lialls.   yet    never   did 

they  strike  10 

Home   to   the   heart   such   melancholy 

thoughts 
As  this  poor  cottage.     Look  !    its  little 

hatch 
Fleeced  with  that  grey  and  wintry  moss; 

the  roof 
Part  moulder' d  in,  the  rest  o'ergrown 

with  weeds. 
House-leek,   and  long  thin  grass,   and 

greener  moss ; 
So  Nature  steals  on  all  the  works  of  man. 
Sure  conqueror  she,  reclaiming  to  her- 
self 
His  perishable  piles. 

I  led  thee  here, 
Charles,  not  without  design;    for  this 

hath  been 
My  favourite  walk  even  since  I  was  a 

boy ;  20 

And  I  remember,  Charles,  this  ruin  hero. 
The  neatest  comfortable  dwelling-placo  ! 
That  when  I  read  in  tho.'^e  dear  books 

which  first 
Woke  in  my  heart  the  love  of  poosy. 
How  with  the  villagers  Errainia  dwrit, 
And  Calidore  for  a  fair  shepherdes-s 
Forsook  his  quest  to  learn  the  shepherd's 

lore. 
My  fancy  drew  from  this  the  little  hut 
Where  that  poor  princess  wept  her  hojw- 

Icss  love, 


416 


ENGLISH   ECLOGUES 


Or  where  the  gentle  Calidore  at  eve     30 
Led  Pastorella  home.     There  was  not 

then 
A  weed  where  all  these  nettles  overtop 
The     garden-wall ;      but     sweet-briar, 

scenting  sweet 
The  morning  air  ;    rosemary  and  mar- 
joram, 
All  wholesome  herbs ;    and  then,  that 

woodbine  wreathed 
So  lavishly  around  the  pillar' d  porch 
Its  fragrant  flowers,  that  when  I  pass'd 

this  way. 
After  a  truant  absence  hastening  home, 
I  could  not  chuse  but  pass  with  slacken'd 

speed 
By    that    delightful    fragrance.     Sadly 

changed  40 

Is  this  poor  cottage  !    and  its  dwellers, 

Charles  !  .  . 
Theirs  is  a  simple  melancholy  tale,  .  . 
There's  scarce  a  village  but  can  fellowit: 
And  yet,  methinks,  it  will  not  weary 

thee. 
And  should  not  be  untold. 

A  widow  here 
Dwelt  with  an  orphan  grandcliild  :  just 

removed 
Above  the  reach  of  pinching  poverty. 
She  lived  on  some  small  pittance  wliich 

sufficed, 
In  better  times,  the  needful  calls  of  life. 
Not  without  comfort.     I  remember  her 
Sitting  at  even  in  that  open  doorway,  51 
And  spinning  in  the  sun.     Methinks  I 

see  her 
Raising  her  eyes  and  dark-rimm'd  spec- 
tacles 
To  see  the  passer-by,  yet  ceasing  not 
To  twirl  her  lengthening  thread  ;    or  in 

the  garden, 
On  some  dry  summer  evening,  walking 

round 
To  view  her  flowers,  and  pointing  as  she 

lean'd 
Upon  the  ivory  handle  of  her  stick. 
To    some   carnation    who.se    o'erheavy 

head 
Needed  support ;   while  with  the  water- 
ing-pot 60 
Joanna    follow' d,    and    refresh' d    and 

trimm'd  [child, 

The  drooping  plant ;   Joanna,  her  dear 


As  lovely  and  as  happy  then  as  youth 
And  innocence  could  make  her. 

Charles,  it  seems 
As  though  I  were  a  boy  again,  and  all 
Tlie  mediate  years  with  their  vicissitudes 
A  half-forgotten  dream.  I  see  the  Maid 
So  comely  in  her  Sunday  dress  !  her  hair, 
Her  bright  brown  hair,  wreathed  in  con- 
tracting curls  ; 
And  then  her  cheek  !   it  was  a  red  and 

white  70 

That  made  the  delicate  hues  of  art  look 

loathsome. 
The  countrymen  who  on  their  way  to 

church 
Were  leaning  o'er  the  bridge,  loitering 

to  hear 
The  bell's  last  summons,  and  in  idleness 
Watching  the  stream  below,  would  all 

look  up 
When    she    pass'd    by.     And   her   old 

Gran  dam,  Charles,  .  . 
When  I  have  heard  some  erring  infidel 
Speak  of  our  faith  as  of  a  gloomy  creed, 
Inspiring  superstitious  wretchedness. 
Her  figure  has  recurr'd  ;  for  she  did  love 
The  Sabbath-day ;    and  many  a  time 

hath  cross' d  81 

These  fields  in  rain  and  through  the 

winter  snows, 
When  I,  a  graceless  boy,  and  cold  of  foot, 
Wishing  the  weary  service  at  its  end, 
Have    wonder' d    wherefore   that   good 

dame  came  there. 
Who,  if  it  pleased  her,  might  have  staid 

beside 
A  comfortable  fire. 

One  only  care 
Hung  on  her  aged  spirit.     For  herself. 
Her  path  was  plain  before  her,  and  the 

close 
Of  her  long  journey  near.     But  then  her 

child  90 

Soon  to  be  left  alone  in  this  bad  world, .  . 
That    was   a   thought    which    many  a 

winter  night 
Had  kept  her  sleepless  :   and  when  pru- 
dent love 
In  something  better  than  a  servant's 

state 
Had  placed  her  well  at  last,  it  was  a  pang 
Like  parting  life  to  part  with  her  dear 

girl. 


THE    RUINED   COTTAGE 


417 


One  summer,  Charles,   when  at  the 

holidays 
RetuniM  from  school,  I  visited  au'aiii 
My  old  aceii.stom'd  walks,  and  found  in 

them  99 

A  joy  almost  like  meeting  an  old  friend, 
I  saw  the  cottage  empty,  and  the  weed.s 
Alrciidy  crowding  the  neglected  llowcrs. 
Joanna,  by  a  villain's  wiles  seduced. 
Had  play'd  the  wanton,  and  that  blow 

had  reach' d 
Her    grandam's    heart.     .She    did    not 

suffer  long  ; 
Her  ago  was  feeble,  and  this  mortal  grief 
Brought  her  grey  hairs  with  sorrow  to 

the  grave, 

I  pass  this  ruin' d  dwelling  oftentimes, 
And  think  of  other  days.     It  wakes  in 

me 

A  transient  sadness ;    but  the  feelings, 

Charles,  no 

Which  ever  with  these  recollections  rise, 

I  trust  in  God  they  will  not  pass  away. 

H'estbunj,  1799. 


IV 

THE  ALDERMAN'S  FUNERAL 

STRANGER 

Whom    are    they    ushering    from    the 

world,  with  all 
This    pageantry    and    long    parade    of 

death  ? 

TOWNSMAN 

A  long  parade,  indeed,  ISir,  and  yet  here 
You  see  but  half ;  round  yonder  bend 

it  reaches 
A    furlong    further,     carriage     behind 

carriage. 

STRANGER 

'Tis  but  a  mournful  sight,  and  yet  the 

pomp 
Tempts  me  to  stand  a  gazer. 

TOWNSMAN 

Yonder  schoolboy 
Who  plays  the  truant,  says  the  procla- 
mation 
Of  peace  was  nothing  to  the  show  ;  and 
even 


The  chairing  of  the  members  at  elecliou 

Would  not  have  been  a  liner  sight  than 
this;  I, 

Only  that  red  and  green  are  prettier 
colours 

Than  all  this  mourning.  There,  Sir, 
you  behold 

One  of  tlio  red-gown'd  worthies  of  iho 
city. 

The  envy  and  the  boast  of  our  ex- 
change ;  .  . 

Ay,  what  waw  worth,  last  weuk,  a  good 
half-million. 

Screw' d  down  in  yonder  hearse  ! 

STRANGER 

Then  he  was  born 
Under  a  lucky  planet,  who  to-day 
Puts  mourning  on  for  his  inheritance. 

TOWNSMAN 

When  first  I  heard  his  death,  that  very 

wish  TO 

Leapt  to  my  lips  ;    but  now  the  closing 

scene 
Of    the    comedy    hath    waken' d    wiser 

thoughts  ; 
And  I  bless  (Jod,  that,  when  I  go  to  the 

grave, 
There  will  not  be  the  weight  of  wealth 

like  his 
To  sink  me  down. 

.STRANGER 

The  camel  and  the  needle.  .  . 
Is  that  then  in  your  mind  f 

TOWNSMAN 

Even  so.     The  text 
la   Gospel- wisdom.     I   would   ride   the 

camel.  .  . 
Yea    leap     him     flying,     through     the 

needle's  eye. 
As  easily  as  such  a  pamper'd  soul 
Could  pa.ss  the  narrow  gate. 

STRANOER 

Your  pardon,  Sir.  30 
But  sure  this  lack  of  Chnstian  charity 
Looks  not  like  Chrintian  truth. 


418 


ENGLISH   ECLOGUES 


TOWNS>LA.N 

Your  pardon  too,  Sir, 
If,  with  this  text  before  me,  I  should 

feel 
In  the  preaching  mood !    But  for  these 

barren  tig-trees, 
With  all  their  flourish  and  their  leafiness, 
We  have  been  told  their  destiny  and 

use, 
When  the  axe  is  laid  unto  the  root,  and 

they 
Cumber  the  earth  no  longer. 

STRANGER 

Was  his  wealth 
Stored  fraudfully, .  .  the  spoil  of  orphans 

wrong'  d. 
And  widows  who  had  none  to  plead  their 

right  ?  40 

TOWNSMAN 

All  honest,  open,  honourable  gains, 
Fair  legal  interest,  bonds  and  mortgages, 
Ships  to  the  East  and  West. 

STRANGER 

Why  judge  you  then 
So  hardly  of  the  dead  ? 

TOWNSMAN 

For  what  he  left 
Undone  ;  .  .  for  sins,  not  one  of  which  is 

written 
In    the    Ten    Commandments.     He,    I 

warrant  him. 
Believed  no  other  Gods  than  those  of 

the  Creed ; 
Bow'd  to  no  idols,  .  .  but  his  money- 


Swore  no  false  oaths,  except  at  the  cus- 
tom-house ; 

Kept  the  Sabbath  idle ;  built  a  monu- 
ment so 

To  honour  his  dead  father ;  did  no 
murder  ; 

Never  sustain' d  an  action  for  crim-con  ; 

Never  pick'd  pockets  ;  never  bore  false- 
witness  ; 

And  never,  with  that  all-commanding 
wealth, 

Coveted  his  neighbour's  house,  nor  ox, 
nor  asa ! 


STRANGER 

You  knew  him  then  it  seems  ? 

TOWNSMAN 

As  all  men  know 
The    virtues    of    your    hundred- thou- 

sanders ; 
They  never  hide  their  lights  beneath  a 
bushel. 

STRANGER 

Nay,  nay,  uncharitable  Sir  !  for  often 
Doth  bounty  like  a  streamlet  flow  im- 

seen,  60 

Freshening   and   giving   life    along   its 

course. 

TOWNSMAN 

We  track  the  streamlet  by  the  brighter 

green 
And  livelier  growth  it  gives ;  .  .  but  as 

for  this  .  . 
This   was  a  pool   that  stagnated  and 

stunk  ; 
The  rains  of  heaven  engendered  nothing 

in  it 
But  slime  and  foul  corruption. 

STRANGER 

Yet  even  these 
Are  reservoirs  whence  public  charity 
Still  keeps  her  channels  full. 

TOWNSMAN 

Now,  Sir,  you  touch 
Upon  the  point.     This  man  of  half  a 

million 
Had  all  these  public  virtues  which  you 

praise :  70 

But  the  poor  man  rung  never  at  his 

door, 
And  the  old  beggar,  at  the  public  gate. 
Who,  all  the  summer  long,  stands  hat  in 

hand, 
He  knew  how  vain  it  was  to  lift  an  ej'e 
To  that  hard  face.     Yet  he  was  always 

found 
Among   your   ten   and   twenty   pound 

subscribers. 
Your  benefactors  in  the  newspapers. 
His  alms  were  money  put  to  interest 
In  the  other  world,  .  .  donations  to  keep 

open 


THE    ALDERMAN'S   FUNERAL 


411) 


A  running  charity  account  with 
heaven,  .  .  80 

Retaining  fees  against  the  Last  Assizes, 

When,  for  the  tiustt^l  talents,  striet 
account 

Shall  bo  ie<.{uii-ed  from  all,  and  the  old 
Arcli- Lawyer 

Plead  his  own  cause  aa  plaiutitf. 

STRANG EB 

I  must  nt^ds 

Believe  you,  Sir  :  .  .  these  are  your  wit- 
nesses. 

These  mourners  here,  wlio  from  their 
carriages 

Gape  at  the  gaping  crowd.  A  good 
March  wind 

Were  to  be  pray'd  for  now,  to  lend  theii- 
eyes 

Some  decent  rheum  ;  the  very  hireling 
mute 

Bears  not  a  face  more  blank  of  all  emo- 
tion 90 

Than  the  old  servant  of  the  family  ! 

How  can  this  man  have  lived,  that  thus 
his  death 

Costs  not  the  soiling  one  white  handker- 
chief ! 

TOWNSMAN 

Who  should  lament   for   him,   Sir,   in 

whose  heart 
Love  had  no  place,  nor  natural  charity  ? 
The  parlour  spaniel,  when  she  heard  his 

step. 
Rose  slowly  from  the  hearth,  and  stole 

aside 
With  creeping  pace ;    she  never  raised 

her  eyes 
To  woo  kind  words  from  him,  nor  laid 

her  head 
Upraised  upon  his  knee,  with  fondling 

whine.  100 

How  could  it  be  but  thus  ?   Arithmetic 


Was  the  sole  science  ho  waa  ever  taught ; 

The  multiplication- table  was  bin  Crwd*. 

His  Patrr-nostcr,  and  his  Dvciilo^uo. 

When  yt't  ho  was  a  boy,  and  Bhuuld  have 
breathed 

The  oixn  air  and  sunshine  of  the  fielda, 

To  give  his  1)1(kxI  its  natural  spring  and 

^      play, 

Ho  in  a  close  and  dusky  counting- 
house 

Smoke-dried  and  soar'd  and  shriveird 
up  his  heart. 

So  from  the  way  in  which  he  waa  train' d 

up  110 

His  feet  departed  not ;  he  toil'd  and 
moil'd, 

Poor  muck-worm  !  through  his  three- 
score years  and  ten  ; 

And  when  the  earth  shall  now  bo 
shovell'd  on  him, 

n  that  which  served  him  for  a  soul  were 
still 

Within  its  husk,  'twould  still  )x^  dirt  to 
dirt. 

STRANGER 

Yet  your  next  newspapers  will  blazon 

him 
For  industry  and  honourable  wealth 
A  bright  example. 

TOWNSMAN 

Even  half  a  million 
Gets  him  no  other  praise.     But  come 

tliis  way 
Some  twelve  months  hence,  and  you  will 

find  his  virtues  120 

Trimly  set  forth  in  lapidary  lines. 
Faith  with  her  torch  besitie,  and  little 

Cupidfl 
Dropping   upon    his    urn   their    marbh- 

tears. 

Bristol    1803. 


\ 


THE   DEVIL'S   WALK 

ADVERTISEMENT 


After  the  Devil's  Thoughts  had  been 
published  by  Mr.  Coleridge  in  the  collection 
of  his  Poetical  Works,  and  the  statement 
with  which  he  accompanied  it,  it  might  have 
been  supposed  that  the  joint  authorship  of 
that  Siamese  produc  tion  had  been  sufficiently 
authenticated,  and  that  no  supposititious 
claim  to  it  would  again  be  advanced.  The 
following  extract,  however,  appeared  in  the 
John  Bull  of  Feb.  14,  1830  :— 

'  In  the  Morning  Post  of  Tuesday,  we  find 
the  following  letter  : — 

^  ^^  To  the  Editor  of  the  Morning  Post. 

'  "  Sir, — Permit  me  to  correct  a  state- 
ment which  appeared  in  a  recent  number  of 
the  John  Bull,  wherein  it  is  made  to  appear 
that  Dr.  Southey  is  the  author  of  the  Poem 
entitled  The  Devil's  Walk.  1  have  the 
means  of  settling  this  question  ;  since  I 
possess  the  identical  MS.  copy  of  verses,  as 
they  were  WTitten  by  my  uncle,  the  late 
Professor  Porson,  during  an  evening  party 
at  Dr.  Beloe's. 
'  "  I  am  Sir,  your  very  obedient  Servant, 

'  "  R.    C.    PORSOX. 

'  "  Bayswater  Terrace,  Feb.  6,  1830." 

'  We  are  quite  sure  that  Mr.  Porson,  the 
writer  of  the  above  letter,  is  convinced  of 
the  truth  of  the  statement  it  contains  ;  but 
although  The  DeeiVs  Walk  is  perhaps  not 
a  work  of  which  either  Mr.  Southey  or  Mr. 
Porson  need  be  very  proud,  we  feel  it  due  to 
ourselves  to  re-state  the  fact  of  its  being 
from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Southey.  If  we  are 
wrong,  Mr.  Porson  may  apply  to  Mr. 
Southey ;  for  although  Mr. '  Porson's 
eminent  uncle  is  dead,  the  Poet  Laureate  is 
alive  and  merry. 

'  The  Lines— Poem  thev  can  scarcely  be 
called — were  written  by  Mr.  Southey,  one 
morning  before  breakfast,  the  idea  having 
struck  him  while  he  was  shaving ;    they 


were  subsequently  shown  to  Mr.  Coleridge, 
who,  we  beUeve,  pointed  some  of  the 
stanzas,  and  perhaps  added  one  or  two. 

'  We  beg  to  assure  Mr.  R.  C.  Porson  that 
we  recur  to  this  matter  out  of  no  disrespect 
either  to  the  memory  of  his  uncle,  which  is 
not  likely  to  be  affected  one  way  or  another 
by  the  circumstance  ;  or  to  his  own  veracity, 
being,  as  we  said,  quite  assured  that  he 
believes  the  statement  he  makes  :  our  only 
object  is  to  set  ourselves  right.' 

'  Our  readers,  perhaps,  may  smile  at  the 
following,  which  appears  in  yesterday's 
Court  Journal : — 

' "  We  have  received  a  letter,  signed 
'  W.  Marshall,'  and  dated  '  York  ' ;  claiming 
for  its  writer  the  long-contested  authorship 
of  those  celebrated  verses,  which  are  known 
by  the  title  of  The  Devil's  Walk  on  Earth, 
and  to  which  attention  has  lately  been 
dii'ected  anew,  by  Lord  Byron's  imitation 
of  them.  There  have  been  so  many  mysti- 
fications connected  with  the  authorship  of 
these  clever  verses,  that,  for  any  thing  we 
know  to  the  contrary,  this  letter  may  be 
onlv  one  more."  ' 


A  week  afterwards  there  was  the  following 
notice  : — '  We  cannot  waste  any  more  time 
about  The  Devil's  Walk.  We"  happen  to 
know  that  it  is  Mr.  Southey's  ;  but,  as  he  is 
alive,  we  refer  any  body',  who  is  not  yet 
satisfied,  to  the  eminent  person  himself — 
we  do  not  mean  the  Devil — but  the  Doctor.' 

The  same  newspaper  contained  the  ensu- 
ing advertisement : — '  On  Tuesday  next, 
uniform  with  Robert  Cruikshank's  Monsieur 
Tonson,  price  one  shiUing :  The  Devil's 
Walk,  a  Poem,  by  Professor  Porson.  With 
additions  and  variations  by  Southey  and 
Coleridge  ;  illustrated  by  seven  engravings 
from  R.  Cruikshank.  London,  Marsh  and 
Miller,  137  Oxford  Street;  and  Constable 
and  Co.,  Edinburgh.' 


THE    DEVIL'S    WALK 


421 


Professor  Porson  never  had  any  part  in 

these  versos  as  a  icriter,  ami  it  is  for  the  tirst 
time  that  he  now  appears  in  tliem  ;us  the 
subject  of  tuo  or  three  stanzas  written  some 
few  years  ago,  when  the  fabricated  story  of 
his  having  conipose<l  them  (luring  an  evening 
party  at  Dr.  Vincent's  (for  that  was  the 
original  habiUit  of  this  falsehood)  was 
revivtnl.  A  friend  of  one  of  the  authors, 
more  jealous  for  him  than  he  has  ever  been 
for   himself,   urged   him   then   to  put  tho 


I  matter  out  of  doubt  (for  it  was  before 

'  Mr.  Coleridge  had  done  so)  ;  and  a.s  much  to 
jtle;i.^e  that  friend,  as  to  aimise  him.vK  and 
his  domestic  circle,  in  a  sportive  moixl,  tho 
part  whicli  relates  the  rise  and  progress  of 
tlie  Toem  was  thrown  off,  and  that  alv) 
touching  the  aforesaid  Profes.sor.  The  old 
vein  having  thus  In't'ii  openwl,  some  other 
pa.ssages  were  added  ;  and  so  it  grew  to  its 
present  length. 


THE    DEVIL'S    WALK 


[First    printed    in    The    Momiwj    Post, 
September  6, 179U.     See  Notes.] 

1 
From  liis  brimstone  bed  at  break  of  day 

A  walking  tho  Devil  is  gone. 
To  look  at  his  little  snug  farm  of  the 
World, 
And  see  how  his  stock  went  on. 


Over  the  hill  and  over  the  dale. 
And  he  wont  over  the  plain  ; 

And  backward  and  forward  he  swish" d 
his  t.ail. 
As  a  gentleman  swishes  a  cane. 


How  then  was  the  De\il  diest  '! 
Oh,  he  was  in  his  Sunday's  best,      lo 
His  coat  was  red  and  his  breeches  were 

blue, 
And  there  was  a  hole  where  his  tail  came 
through. 


A  lady  drove  by  in  her  pride, 

In  whose  face  an  expression  he  s})ied 

For  which  ho  could  have  ki.ss'd  her  ; 
Such  a  flourishing,  tine,  clo\er  creature 

was  she, 
With  an  eve  as  wicked  as  wicked  can 

be,  ^ 
I  ."ihould  tako  her  for  iny  Aunt,  thought 

lie. 
If  my  dam  had  had  a  sister. 


He  met  a  lord  of  high  degree,      20 
No  matter  what  was  his  name  ; 
Whoso  face  w  ith  his  own  when  ho  came 
to  compare 
The  expression,  the  look,  and  tho 
air. 
And  the  character  too,  as  it  seemd  to 

a  hair, — 
Such  a  twin- likeness  there  was  in  tho 

pair 
That  it   made   the   Devil   start   and 
stare, 
For    he    thought    there    was    euroly    a 
looking-glass  there. 
But  ho  could  not  see  tho  frame. 

G 
He  saw  a  Lawyer  killing  a  viper 

On  a  dunghill  beside  his  stable  ;      30 
Ho  !    (juoth  he,  thou  put'st  me  in  mind 

Of  the  story  of  Cain  and  Abel. 


An  Apothecary  on  a  white  horso 

Rode  by  on  his  vocation  ; 
And  the  Devil  thought  of  his  old  friend 

Death  in  the  Revelation. 

8 
Ho  paused  a  cottage  with  a  double  coach- 
house, 
A  cottage  of  Kentility  I 
And  ho  own'd  with  a  grin 
That  his  favouiito  sin  4» 

la  pride  that  apes  humility. 


422 


THE   DEVIL'S  WALK 


He  saw  a  pi|  rapidly 

Down  a  river  float ; 
The  pig  swam  well,  but  every  stroke 

Was  cutting  his  own  throat ; 

10 
And  Satan  gave  thereat  his  tail 

A  twirl  of  admiration  ; 
For  he  thought  of  his  daughter  War 

And  her  suckling  babe  Taxation. 

11 

Well  enough,  in  sooth,  he  liked  that 
truth,  50 

And  nothing  the  worse  for  the  jest ; 
But  this  was  only  a  first  thought 

And  in  this  he  did  not  rest : 
Another  came  presently  into  his  head, 
And  here  it  proved,  as  has  often  been 
said. 
That  second  thoughts  are  best. 

12 
For  as  Piggy  plied  with  wind  and  tide, 

His  way  with  such  celerity, 
And  at  every  stroke  the  water  dyed 
With  his  own  red  blood,  the  Devil  cried. 
Behold  a  swinish  nation's  pride  61 

In  cotton-spun  prosperity. 

13 
He  walk'd  into  London  leisurely. 

The  streets  were  dirty  and  dim  : 
But  there  he  saw  Brothers  the  Prophet, 

And  Brothers  the  Prophet  saw  him.' 

14 

He  entered  a  thriving  bookseller's  shop  ; 

Quoth  he,  We  are  both  of  one  college, 
For  I  myself  sate  like  a  Cormorant  once 

Upon  the  Tree  of  Knowledge. 


70 


15 


As  he  passed  through  Cold- Bath  Fields 
he  look'd 
At  a  solitary  cell ; 
And  he  was  well -pleased,  for  it  gave  him 
a  hint 
For  improving  the  prisons  of  Hell. 

^  '  After  this  I  was  in  a  vision,  having  Ihe 
angel  of  God  near  me,  and  saw  Satan  walk- 
ing leisurely  into  London.'— Brothers'  Pro- 
phecies, part  i,  p.  41. 


16 
He  saw  a  turnkey  tie  a  thief's  hands 

With  a  cordial  tug  and  jerk  ; 
Nimbly,  quoth  he,  a  man's  fingers  move 

When  his  heart  is  in  his  work. 

17 

He  saw  the  same  turnkey  unfettering  a 
man 
With  little  expedition  ;  80 

And  he  chuckled  to  think  of  his  dear 

slave  trade, 
And  the  long  debates  and  delays  that 
were  made 
Concerning  its  abolition. 

18 
He  met  one  of  his  favourite  daughters 

By  an  Evangelical  Meeting  ; 
And  forgetting  himself  for  joy  at  her 

sight. 
He  would  have  accosted  her  outright, 
And  given  her  a  fatherly  greeting. 

19 
But  she  tipt  him  a  wink,  drew  back,  and 
cried, 
A  vaunt !   my  name's  Religion  !        90 
And  then  she  turn'd  to  the  preacher 
And  leer'd  like  a  love-sick  pigeon. 

20 

A  fine  man  and  a  famous  Professor  was 

he. 
As  the  great  Alexander  now  may  be, 
Whose  fame  not  yet  o'erpast  is  ; 
Or  that  new  Scotch  performer 
Who  is  fiercer  and  warmer. 

The  great  Sir  Arch-Bombastes. 

21 
With  throbs  and  throes,  and  ahsand  ohs. 

Far  famed  his  flock  for  frightening  ; 
And    thundering    \vith    his    voice,    the 
while  loi 

His  eyes  zigzag  like  lightning. 


This  Scotch  phenomenon,  I  trow, 

Beats  Alexander  hollow ; 
Even  when  most  tame 
He  breathes  more  flame 

Than  ten  Fire-Kiu'^s  could  swallow. 


THE   DEVIL'S   WALK 


4i>3 


23 

Another  daughter  he  presently  met : 
With  music  of  tifo  and  drum, 
And  a  conseciat«d  Hag,  no 

And  shout  of  Uxg  and  rag. 
And  march  of  tank  and  tile. 

Which  had  till'd  the  crowded  aisle 
Of  tlio  venerable  pile, 

From  cluu-ch  he  saw  her  come. 

2-4 

He  call'd  her  aside,  and  began  to  chide, 

For  what  dost  thou  hero  ?  said  he  ; 

My  city  of  Rome  is  thy  pro^x^r  home. 

And  there's  work  enough   tliero  for 

thee. 


Thou  hast  confessions  to  listen. 

And  bells  to  clu-isten.  12; 

And  altars  and  dolls  to  dress  ; 

And  fools  to  coax, 

And  sinners  to  hoax. 
And  beads  and  bones  to  bless ; 

And  great  pardons  to  sell 

For  those  who  pay  well, 
And  small  one«  for  those  who  pay  less. 


26 


Nay, 


Father,  I  boast,  that  this  is  my 
post, 

iShe  answered ;   and  thou  wilt  allow, 
That  the  great  Harlot,  i3» 

Who  is  clothed  in  scarlet. 
Can  very  well  spans  me  now. 

27 

Upon  her  business  I  am  come  here, 
That  we  may  extend  her  lowers  ; 
Whatever  lets  down  this  church  that 
we  hate. 
Is  something  in  favour  of  ours. 

28 

You  will  not  think,  great  Cosmocrat ! 

That  I  spend  my  time  in  fooling  ; 
Many  irons,  my  Sire,  have  we  in  the  fire, 

And    I    must    leave    none    of    them 

cooling ;  i4» 

For  you  must  know  state-councils  here 

Are  held  which  I  bear  rule  in. 


When  my  liberal  notions 
Produce  mischievous  motione. 
There 's  many  a  man  of  good  intent. 

In  eitlicr  house  of  J'arliameut, 
Whom  I  shall  tind  a  tool  in  ; 

And  I  have  ho})cful  pupils  too 
Who  all  this  while  arc  schooling. 

29 

Fine  progress  they  make  in  our  liberal 
opinions,  15* 

My  Utilitarians, 
My  all  sorts  of  — inians 
And  all  sorts  of  — arians  ; 
iNly  all  sorts  of  — ists, 
And  my  Prigs  and  my  Wliigs 
Who  have  all  sorts  of  twists 
Train' d  in  the  very  way,  1  know. 
Father,  you  would  have  them  go  ; 

High  and  low,  1 60 

Wise  and  foolish,  great  and  small, 
March-of-Intcllect-Boys  all. 

30 
Well  pleased  wilt  thou  be  at  no  very  far 
day 
When  the  caldi'on  of  mischief  boils. 
And  I  bring  them  forth  in  battle  array 
And  bid  them  suspend  their  broils, 
That  they  may  unite  and  fall  on  the 
^  prey. 

For  which  we  are  spreading   our 
toils. 
How  the  nice  boys  all  will  give  mouth 
at  the  call. 
Hark    away  !     hark    away    to    tlio 
spoils !  170 

My  Macs  and  my  Quacks  and  my  law- 
less-Jacks, 
My   Sheils  and  O'Connells,    my   i>iou3 
Mac-Donnells, 
My  joke-smith  Sydney,  and  all  of  his 
kidney. 
My  Humc«  and  my  Broughams, 
My  merry  old  Jerry, 
My    Lord    Kings,    and    my    Doctor 
Doyles  ! 


At  this  good  uewB,  so  great 
The  Dcnl's  pleasure  gr«w. 
That  with  a  joyful  Hwinh  ho  rent 

The  hole  where  hia  tail  came  tlirough 


424 


THE  DEVIL'S  WALK 


32 


i8i 


His  countenance  fell  for  a  moment 
When  he  felt  the  stitches  go  ; 

Ah  !  thought  he,  there's  a  job  now 
That  I've  made  for  my  tailor  below. 

33 

Great  news!  bloody  news !  cried  a  news- 
man ; 
The  Devil  said,  Stoj),  let  me  see  ! 
Great  news  ?    bloody  news  ?    thought 
the  Devil, 
The  bloodier  the  better  for  me. 


U 


and  no 


^o  he  bought  the  newspaper 
news 
At  all  for  his  money  he  had.  190 

L3-ing  varlet,  thought  he,  thus  to  take  in 
old  Nick  ! 
But  it '  s  some  satisfaction,  my  lad, 
To  know  thou  art  paid  beforehand  for 
the  trick, 
For  the  sixpence  I  gave  thee  is  bad. 

35 
And  then  it  came  into  his  head 

By  oracular  inspiration, 
That  what  he  had  seen  and  what  he  had 
said, 
In  the  course  of  this  visitation, 
"Would  be  published  in  the  Morning  Post 
For  all  this  reading  nation.  200 

36 

Therewith  in  second-sight  he  saw 
The  place  and  the  manner  and  time, 

In  which  this  mortal  story 

Would  be  put  in  immortal  rhyme, 

37 

That  it  would  happen  when  two  poets 

Should  on  a  time  be  met. 
In  the  town  of  Nether  Stowey, 

In  the  shire  of  Somerset: 

38 
There  while  the  one  was  sha\ing 
^^'ould  ho  the  song  begin  ;  210 

And   the   other   \\hen   he   heard  it    at 
breakfast. 
In  ready  accord  join  in. 


39 

So  each  would  help  the  other 
Two  heads  being  better  than  one  ; 
And  the  phrase  and  conceit 
Would  in  unison  meet. 
And  so  with  glee  the  verse  flow  free, 
In     ding-dong    chime    of    sing-song 
rhyme, 
Till  the  whole  were  merrily  done. 

40 

And  because  it  was  set  to  the  razor, 

Not  to  the  lute  or  harp,  221 

Therefore  it  was  that  the  fancy 
Should  be  bright,  and  the  wit  be  sharp. 

41 

But  then,  said  Satan  to  himself, 

As  for  that  said  beginner, 
Against  my  infernal  Majesty 

There  is  no  greater  sinner. 

42 

He  hath  put  me  in  ugly  ballads 
With  libellous  pictures  for  sale  ; 

He  hath  scoff' d  at  my  hoofs  and  my 

horns,  230 

x\nd  has  made  very  free  with  my  tail. 

43 

But  this  Mister  Poet  shall  find 
I  am  not  a  safe  subject  for  whim  ; 

For  I'll  set  up  a  School  of  my  own. 
And  m}'^  Poets  shall  set  upon  him. 

44 

He  went  to  a  coffee-house  to  dine. 
And  there  he  had  soy  in  his  dish ; 

Having    ordered    some    soles    for    his 
dinner, 
Because  he  was  fond  of  flat  fish. 


45 

They  are  much  to  my  palate,  thought 

he,  240 

And  now  guess  the  reason  who  can, 

Why   nu    bait    should   be    better   thau 

place, 

WhQu  I  fish  for  a  Parhament-man. 


THE  DEVIL'S  WALK 


426 


46 

But  the  soles  in  the  bill  wore  ten  shil- 
litigs ; 
Toll  your  maator,  (luoth  he,  what  1 
say; 
If  ho  charges  at  this  roto  for  all  things, 
He  must  be  in  a  pretty  good  way. 

47 
But  mark  ye,  said  he  to  the  waiter, 

I'm  a  dealer  myself  in  this  line. 
And  his  business,  between  you  and  me, 

Nothing  like  so  extensive  as  mine.  251 

48 
Now  soles  are  exceedingly  cheap  ; 

Which  ho  will  not  attempt  to  deny. 
When  I  see  him  at  my  tish- market, 

I  warrant  him,  by  and  by. 

49 
As  he  went  along  the  Strand 

Between  three  in  the  morning  and 
four 
He  observed  a  queer-looking  person 
W^ho  stagger' d  from  Perry's  door. 

50 
And  he  thought  that  all  the  world  over 

In  vain  for  a  man  you  might  seek,  261 
Who  could  drink  more  like  a  Trojan 

Or  talk  more  like  a  Greek. 

51 

The  Devil  then  he  prophesied 
It  would  one  day  be  matter  of  talk. 
That  with  wine  when  smitten, 
And  with  wit  moreover  being  hai^pil}- 

bitten, 
Tliis  erudite  bibber  was  he  who  had 
written 
The  story  of  this  walk. 


A  pretty  mistake,  quoth  the  Devil ; 
A  pretty  mistake  I  opine  !  271 

I  have  put  many  ill  thoughts  in  his 
mouth, 
He  will  never  put  good  ones  in  mine. 


53 


And  whoever  shall  say  that  to  I'orbou 
Those  best  of  all  verses  belong. 

He  is  an  untruth-telling  whoreson. 
And  so  siiall  be  call'd  in  the  song. 

51 

And  if  seeking  an  illicit  connection  with 
fame. 
Any  one  else  should  put  in  a  claim. 

In  this  comical  competition  ;     280 
That  excellent  poem  will  prove 
A  man-trap  for  such  foolish  ambi- 
tion. 
Where  the  silly  rogue  shall  bo  caught  by 
the  leg. 
And  exposed  in  a  second  edition. 


Now    the   morning    air    was   cold    for 
him 

Who  was  used  to  a  warm  abode  ; 
x\nd  yet  he  did  not  immediately  wish 

To  set  out  on  his  homeward  road. 

5G 

For    he    had    some    morning   calls    to 
make 
Before  he  went  back  to  Hell ;         290 
So,  thought  he,  I'll  step  into  a  gaming- 
house, 
And  that  will  do  as  well ; 
But  just   before  he  could  get    to   the 
door 
A  wonderful  chance  befell. 

57 

For  all  on  a  sudden,  in  a  dark  place, 

He  came  upon  General 's  burning 

face  ; 
And  it  sti-uck  him  with  such  conatcr- 
nation, 
That  home  in  a  hurry  his  way  did  he 

take. 
Because  he  thought    by  a  slight   mis- 
take 
'Twas  the  general  conflagration.     300 


p3 


INSCRIPTIOIVS 


'  The  three  utiUties  of  Poetry  :  the  praise  of  Virtue  and  Goodness,  the  memory  of 
things  remarkable,  and  to  invigorate  the  Affections.' — Welsh  Triad. 


[As  five  of  the  inscriptions  have  been 
inserted  among  the  Selected  Minor  Poems, 
it  has  been  necessary  in  some  instances  to 
alter  the  numbering  of  those  here  printed. 
Where  this  has  been  done,  a  number  in 
brackets  (  )  at  the  head  of  an  inscription 
denotes  its  number  in  the  edition  of  1837- 
1838. 

Inscriptions  I- VI  inclusive  were  published 
in  Poems,  1797.  I,  II,  and  III  have  been 
almost  rewritten.] 


FOR  A  COLUMN  AT  NEWBURY 

Callest  thou  thyself  a  Patriot  ?  .  .  On 

this  field 
Did  Falkland  fall,  the  blameless  and  the 

brave, 
Beneath  the  banners  of  that  Charles 

whom  thou 
Abhorrest   for   a   Tyrant.     Dost    thou 

boast 
Of  loyalty  '/  The  field  is  not  far  oS 

ire  in 

King 
Hambden  was  kilFd,  that  Hambden  at 

whose  name 
The  heart  of  many  an  honest  English- 
man 
Beats  with  congenial  pride.     Both  un- 

corrupt, 
Friends  to  their  common  country  both, 

they  fought,  "         lo 

They  died  in  adverse  armies.  Traveller  ! 
If  with  thy  neighbour  thou  shouldst  not 

accord, 
Remember  these,  our  famous  country- 
men. 
And    quell    all    angry    and    injurious 

thoughts. 


Bristol,  1796. 


II 

FOR  A  CAVERN  THAT  OVERLOOKS 

THE  RIVER  AVON 

Enter    this   cavern,    Stranger !     Here 

awhile 
Respiring    from    the    long    and    steep 

ascent. 
Thou  may'st  be  glad  of  rest,  and  haply 

too 
Of  shade,  if  from  the  summer's  wester- 
ing sun 
Sheltered  beneath  this  beetling  vault  of 

rock. 
Round    the    rude    portal    clasping    its 

rough  arms 
The  antique  i^y  spreads  a  canopy, 
From  whose  grey  blossoms  the  ^nld  bees 

collect 
In  autumn  their  last  store.     The  Muses 

love  9 

This  spot ;  believe  a  Poet  who  hath  felt 
Their  visitation  here.     The  tide  below 
Rising    or   refluent   scarcely   sends   its 

sound 
Of  waters  up ;    and  from  the  heights 

beyond 
^^^^ere  the  high -hanging  forest  waves 

and  sways. 
Varying   before  the  wind  its  verdant 

hues. 
The  voice  is  music  here.     Here  thou 

may'st  feel 
How  good,  how  lovely,  Nature  I    And 

when  hence 
Returning  to  the  city's  crowded  streets. 
Thy  sickening  eye  at  every  step  revolts 
From  scenes  of  vice  and  wretchedness, 

reflect  20 

That  Man  creates  the  evil  he  endures. 

Bristol,  1790. 


iNSCKirnoNS 


427 


III 


Will  imittor  cureea  on  him.     Think  thou 

thou 
What  citioH  liamo,  what  hosts  miMpul- 


FOll  A  TABLET  AT  SILBURV 

HILL  '  .,  „  ^l^rcd 

rolhito  tho  passnig  wind,  whon  raging 
Tins  mountl  in  aome  renioto  and  dalo-  |  Power 

less  day  i  Drives  on  liis  blood-hounds  to  the  chaso 

Roar'd  o'er  a  Chief t-ain  of  tlio  Age  of  |  of  Man  ; 

Hills,  :  And   as  thy  thoughts  anticii>ato   that 

^lay  hero  detain  thee,  Traveller  I    from  i  day 

thy  road  [  Wlion  God  shall  judge  aright,  in  charity 

Not  idly  lingering.     In  his  narrow  house    Pray  for  tho  wicked  rulers  of  mankind. 


iSomo  warrior  sleeps  below,  whose  gal 

lant  deeds 
Haply  at  many  a  solemn  festival 
The  Scald  hath  sung  ;    but  jwrisli'd  is 

the  song 
Of  praise,  as  o'er  these  bleak  and  barren 

downs 
The  wind  that  passes  and  is  hoard  no 

more. 
Go,  Traveller,  and  remember  when  the 


pomp  10 

Of  earthly  Glory  fades,  that  one  good 

deed, 
Tnseen,  unheard,  unnoted  by  mankind. 
Lives  in  tho  eternal  register  of  Heaven. 

Bristol  IT'Jb. 


IV 

FOR  A  MONUMENT  IN  THE  NEW 

FOREST 


Bristol,  1796. 


FOR  A  TABLET  ON  THE  BANKS 
OF  A  STREAM 


Strangek  !     awhile    upon    this    mossy 

bank 
Recline  thee.     If  the  Sun  rides  high,  tho 

breeze, 
That  loves  to  ripple  o'er  tho  rivulet. 
Will   play  around   thy   brow,   and   tho 

cool  sound 
Of  running  waters  soothe  thee.     Mark 

how  clear 
They   sparkle   o'er   the   shallows,    and 

behold 
Where  o'er   their  surface  wheels   with 

restless  speed 
You  glossy  insect,  on  the  sand  below 
Tms  is  the  place  where  William's  kingly    How  its  swift  shadow  flit^s.     In  solitude 
power  Tho    rivulet    is    pure,   and    trees   and 

Did  from  their  poor  and  peaceful  homos  herbs  lo 

expel.  Bend  o'er  its  salutary  course  rcfrcsh'd, 

I'nfriended,  desolate,  and  shelterless,        But    passing   on   amid   the   haunts   of 
The  habitants  of  all  the  fertile  track       j  men. 

Far  as  these  wilds  extend.     Ho  lovell'di  It  Hnds  pollution  there,  and  rolls  from 

down  I  thence 

Their    little    cottages,    he    bade    their ;  A    tainted    stream.     Scck'st    thou    for 
fields  Happiness  ? 


Lie  waste,  and  forested  the  land,  that  so 

More  royally  might  ho  pursue  his 
sports. 

If  that  thine  heart  be  human.  Pas- 
senger ! 

Sure  it  will  swell  within  thee,  and  tliy 
lips  10 


Go,  Stranger,  sojourn  in  the  woodland 

cot 
Of  Innocen'ce,  and  thou  shall  find  her 

there. 

Briitol,  1796. 


428 


INSCRIPTIONS 


VI 

FOR  THE  CENOTAPH  AT 

ERMENONVILLE 

Stranger  !    the  Man  of  Nature  lies 

not  here : 
Enshrin'd  far  distant  by  the  Scoffers* 

side 
His  relics  rest,  there  by  the  giddy  throng 
With  blind  idolatry  alike  revered. 
Wiselier  directed  have  thy  pilgrim  feet 
Explored  the  scenes  of  Ermenonville. 

Rousseau 
Loved  these  calm  haunts  of  Solitude  and 

Peace  ; 
Here  he  has  heard  the  murmurs  of  the 

lake, 
And  the  soft  rustling  of  the  poplar  grove, 
When  o'er  its  bending  boughs  the  pass- 
ing v^dnd  10 
Swept  a  grey  shade.     Here,  if  thy  breast 

be  full, 
If  in  thine  eye  the  tear  devout  should 

gush. 
His  Spirit  shall  behold  thee,  to  thine 

home 
From  hence  returning,  purified  of  heart. 

Bristol  1796. 


VII 
FOR  A  MONUMENT  AT  OXFORD 

[First  published  in  The  Oracle,  afterwards 
in  The  Annual  Anthology,  1799,  and  in 
Metrical  Tales,  1805.] 

Here  Latimer  and  Ridley  in  the  flames 
Bore  witness  to  the  truth.     If  thou  hast 

walk'd 
Uprightly    through     the     world,    just 

thoughts  of  joy 
May  fill  thy  breast  in  contemplating 

here 
Congenial    virtue.     But    if    thou    hast 

swerved 
From  the  straight  path  of  even  rectitude, 
Fearful  ill  trying  seasons  to  assert 
The    better   cause,    or    to   forsake   the 

worse 

1  Voltaire. 


Reluctant,  when  perchance  therein  en- 
thrall'd 

Slave  to  false  shame,  oh  !  thankfully 
receive  lo 

The  sharp  compunctious  motions  that 
this  spot 

May  wake  within  thee,  and  be  wise  in 
time, 

And  let  the  future  for  the  past  atone. 

Bath,  1797. 

VIII 

FOR  A  MONUMENT  IN  THE  VALE 

OF  EWIAS 

[First  pubUshed  in  The  Morning  Post, 
December  21,  1798;  afterwards  in  The 
Annual  Anthology,  1799,  and  in  Metrical 
Tales,  1805.] 

Here  was  it,  Stranger,  that  the  patron 

Saint 
Of  Cambria  pass'd  his  age  of  penitence, 
A  solitary  man  ;   and  here  he  made 
His  hermitage,  the  roots  his  food,  his 

drink 
Of  Hodney's  mountain  stream.     Per- 
chance thy  youth 
Has  read  with  eager  wonder  how  the 

Knight 
Of   Wales   in    Ormandine's   enchanted 

bower 
Slept  the  long  sleep  :   and  if  that  in  thy 

veins 
Flow  the  pure  blood  of  Britain,  sure  that 

blood 
Hath  flow'd  with  quicker  impulse  at  t.he 

tale  10 

Of   David's  deeds,   when   through  the 

press  of  war 
His  gallant  comrades  follow'd  his  green 

crest 
To  victory.   Stranger!  Hatterill's  moun- 
tain heights 
And  this  fair  vale  of  Ewias,  and  the 

stream 
Of  Hodney,  to  thine  after-thoughts  will 

rise 
More  grateful,  thus  associate  with  the 

name 
Of  David  and  the  deeds  of  other  days. 

Bath,  1798. 


INSCRIPTIONS 


429 


IX 
EPITAPH  ON  AL(;ERN0N  SIDNEY 

[First  published  in  Thi>  Mornituj  Post, 
December  2r>,  1798  ;  afterwards  in  Sletriccd 
Tales,  1805.] 

Here  Sidney  liea,  ho  whom  perverted 
law, 

The  pliant  jury  and  the  bloody  judge, 

Doom'd  to  a  traitor's  death.  A  tyrant 
Kinof 

Required,  an  abject  country  .saw  and 
shared 

The  crime.     The  noble  cauao  of  Liberty 

Ho  loved  in  life,  and  to  that  noble  cau.se 

In  death  bore  witnes.s.  But  his  country 
ro.so 

Like  Samson  from  her  sleep,  and  broke 
her  chains, 

And  proudly  with  her  worthies  she  en- 
roll'd 

Her  murder' d  Sidney's  name.  The 
voice  of  man  lo 

Gives  honour  or  destroys  ;  but  earthly 
power 

Gives  not,  nor  takes  away,  the  self- 
applause 

Which  on  the  scaffold  suffering  virtue 
feels. 

Nor  that  which  God  appointed  its 
reward. 

Westbury,  1798. 


EPITAPH  ON  KING  JOHN 

[First  published  in  The  Morning  Post, 
May  28,  1798;  afterwards  in  The  Annual 
Anthology,  1799,  and  in  Metrical  Tales, 
1805.] 

John  rests  below.  A  man  more  in- 
famous 

Never  hath  held  the  sceptre  of  these 
realms. 

And  brui.sed  beneath  the  iron  rod  of 
Power 

The  oppressed  men  of  England.  Eng- 
lishman ! 


CXirso  not  his  memory.     Murderer  m  ho 

was. 
Coward  anil  wJave,  yet    ho  it  woh  who 

sign'd 
That  Chart<»r  which  should  make  theo 

morn  and  night 
Be    thankful    for    thy    birth-place  :    .    . 

Englishman  ! 
That  holy  Charter,  which,  shouldst  tho\i 

permit 
Force  to  destroy,   or  Fraud  to  under- 
mine, 10 
Thy  children's  groans  will  persecute  thy 

soul, 
For  they  must  l>ear  the  burthen  of  thy 

crime. 

Westhiiry,  1798. 


XI  (XII) 

FOR  A  MONUMENT  AT 

TORDESILLAS 

[Published    in    Letters   from    Spain    and 
Portugal,  1797.] 

Spaniard  !  if  thou  art  one  who  bows 
the  knee 

Before  a  despot's  footstool,  hie  thee 
hence  ! 

This  ground  is  holy  :   here  Padilla  died. 

Martyr  of  Freedom.  But  if  thou  dost 
love 

Her  cause,  stand  then  as  at  an  altar 
here, 

And  thank  the  Almighty  that  thine 
honest  heart. 

Full  of  a  brother's  feelings  for  mankind. 

Revolts  against  oppression.  Not  un- 
heard 

Nor  unavailing  shall  the  grateful  prayer 

A.scend  ;  for  honest  impul.ses  uill  rise.  lo 

Such  as  may  elevate  and  strengthen 
thee 

For  virtuous  action.  Relics  silver- 
shrined. 

And  chaunted  mass,  would  wake  within 
the  .soul 

Thoughts  valueless  and  cold  comparetl 
with  these. 


Bristol,  1790. 


430 


INSCRIPTIONS 


XII  (XIII) 
FOR  A  COLT'lVrN  AT  TRUXILLO 

[Published    in    Letters    irom    Spain    and 
Portugal,  1797.] 

PiZARRO  here  was  bom  ;  a  greater  name 
The  list  of  Olorv  boasts  not.     Toil  and 

Pain. 
Famine    and    hostile    Elements,    and 

Hosts 
Embattled,  fail'd  to  check  him  in  his 

course, 
Xot  to  be  wearied,  not  to  be  deterr'd. 
Not  to  be  overcome.     A  mighty  realm 
He  over-ran,  and  with  relentless  arm 
Slew  or  enslaved  its  unoffending  sons. 
And  wealth,  and  power,  and  fame,  were 

his  rewards. 
There   is    another    world,    beyond   the 

Grave,  "  lo 

According  to  their  deeds  where  men  are 

judged. 
0  Reader  !   if  thy  daily  bread  be  earn'd 
By  daily  labour,  .  .  yea,  however  low. 
However  painful  be  thy  lot  assign'd. 
Thank  thou,  with  deepest  gratitude,  the 

God 
Who  made  thee,  that  thou  art  not  such 

as  he. 

Bristol,  1796. 


XIII  (XIV) 
FOR  THE  CELL  OF  HONORIUS,  AT 
THE  CORK  CONVENT,  NEAR 
CINTRA 

[First  published   in   The  Morning  Post, 
November  5,  1798.] 

Here  cavem'd  like  a  beast  Honorius 

pass'd 
In  self-affliction,  solitude,  and  prayer. 
Long  years  of  penance.     He  had  rooted 

out 
All  human  feelings  from  his  heart,  and 

fled 
With  fear  and  loathing  from  all  human 

joys. 
Not    thus   in   making   known   his   will 

divine 


Hath  Christ  enjoin" d.    To  aid  the  father- 
less, 
Comfort  the  sick,  and  be  the  poor  man's 

friend. 
And  in  the  wounded  heart  pour  gospel- 
balm  ; 
These  are  the  injunctions  of  his  holy 
law,  10 

Wliich  whoso  keeps  shall  have  a  joy  on 

earth, 
Calm,   constant,    still   increasing,    pre- 
I         luding 
j  The  eternal  bliss  of  Heaven.     Yet  mock 

not  thou, 
'  Stranger,  the  Anchorite's  mistaken  zeal ! 
I  He  painfully  his  painful  duties  kept, 
i  Sincere   though    erring :     Stranger,    do 

thou  keep 
Thy  better  and  thine  easier  rule  as  well. 

Bristol,  17P8. 


XIV  (XV) 
FOR  A  MONT^IENT  AT  TAUNTON 

[First  published  in  The  Morning  Post, 
July  6,  1799 ;  afterwards  in  The  Annual 
Anthology,  1799,  and  in  Metrical  Tales, 
1805.] 

They    suffer' d    here    whom    Jefferies 

doom'd  to  death 
In   mockery   of   all   justice,   when   the 

Judge 
Unjust,  subservient  to  a  cruel  King, 
Perform' d   his    work    of    blood.     They 

suffer' d  here 
The  victims  of  that  Judge,  and  of  that 

King; 
In    mockery  of    all    justice   here  thev 

bled, 
Unheard.     But    not    unpitied,    nor    of 

God 
Unseen,  the  innocent  suffered  ,•  not  un- 
heard 
The  innocent  blood  cried  vengeance  ; 

for  at  length. 
The    indignant    Nation    in    its    power 

arose,  lo 

Resistless.     Tlien   that    wicked    Judge 

took  flight. 
Disguised  in  vain  :  .  .  not  always  is  the 

Lord 


INSCRIPTIONS 


431 


Slow  to  revenge  !     A  miserable  man 
He  fell  beneath  the  }>oople's  rage,  and 

still 
Tho  cliiltlron  curse  his  memory.     From 

tlio  throne 
The  obdurate  bigot  who  commissioned 

him. 
Inhuman  .Tames,  was  driven.     He  lived 

to  drag 
Long  ycArs  of  frustrate  ho{x>.  he  li\od 

to  load 
^fore  blood  upon  his  soul.     Let  tell  tlie 

Boyne, 
Let    Londonderry    tM    his    guilt    and 

shame ;  20 

And  that  immortal  day  when  on  thy 

shores, 
La  Hogue,  the  purple  ocean  dash'd  the 

dead  ! 

Westhnry,  1798. 


XV  (XVI) 

FOR  A  TABLET  AT  PENSHURST 

("First  published  in  The  Morning  Post, 
December  7,  1798 ;  afterwards  in  The 
Annual  Anthology,  1799,  and  in  Metrical 
Tales,  1805.] 

Are  days  of  old  familiar  to  thy  mind, 
O  Reader  ?   Hast  thou  let  the  midnight 

hour 
Pass  unperceived,  whilst  thou  in  fancy 

lived 
With  high-born  beauties  and  enamour' d 

chiefs. 
Sharing  their  hopes,  and  with  a  breath- 
less joy 
Whose  expectation  touch'd  the  verge  of 

pain. 
Following  their  dangerous  fortunes  ?   If 

such  lore 
Hath  ever  thrill'd  thy  bosom,  thou  wilt 

tread. 
As  with  a  pilgrim's  reverential  thoughts, 
The  groves  of  Penshurst.     Sidney  here 

was  bom,  10 

Sidney,  than  whom  no  gentler,  braver 

man 
His  own  delightful  genius  ever  feign'd. 
Illustrating  the  vales  of  Arcady 


With  courteous  courage  and  with  loyal 

loves. 
Upon  his  natal  da}*  an  acorn  hero 
U  as  i)lanted  :    it  grew  uj)  a  stately  oak, 
\\\(\   in   the   beauty   of  its  Htrongth  it 

stood 
And  HourishM.  when  his  perishable  part 
Had   moulder'd,    dust    to    dust.     That 

stately  oak 
It.self  hath  moulder'd  now,  but  Sidney's 

fame  ao 

Endiueth  in  his  own  immortal  worka. 

U'estburi/,  1799. 


XVI  (XVII) 
EPITAPH 

This  to  a  mother's  sacred  memory 
Her  son  hath  hallow'd.     Absent  many 

a  year 
Far  over  sea,  his  sweetest  dreams  were 

still 
Of  that  dear  voice  which  soothed  his 

infancy  ; 
And  after  many  a  fight  against  the  Moor 
And  Malabar,  or  that  fierce  cavalry 
Which  he  had  .seen  covering  the  bound- 
less plain. 
Even  to  the  utmost  limits  where  the  eye 
Could  pierce  the  far  horizon,  .  .  his  first 

thought 
In  safety   was  of  her,   who  when  she 

heard  10 

The  tale  of  that  day's  danger,   would 

retire 
And  pour  her  pious  gratitude  to  Heaven 
In  prayers  and  tears  of  joy.     The  lin- 
gering hour 
Of  his  return,  long-look' d-f or.  came  at 

length, 
And  full  of  hope  he  reach'd  his  native 

shore. 
Vain  hope  that  puts  its  trust  in  human 

life! 
For  ere  he  came,  the  numl>er  of  her  days 
Was   full.     O    Reader,    what    a    world 

were  this. 
How  unendurable  its  weight,  if  they 
Whom    DcAth    hath    sunder'd   did   not 

meet  again  !  ao 

Keswick,  1810. 


432 


INSCRIPTIONS 


XVII  (XIX) 
FOR  A  MONUMENT  AT  ROLISSA 

Time    has    been   when    RoUssa    was   a 

name 
Ignoble,  by  the  passing  traveller  heard 
And  then  forthwith  forgotten  ;    now  in 

war 
It     is    renown' d.      For    when    to    her 

ally, 
In   bondage  by  perfidious  France  op- 
press'd 
England  sent  succour,  first  within  this 

realm 
The  fated  theatre  of  their  long  strife 
Confronted,    here    the    hostile    nations 

met. 
Laborde  took  here  his  stand  ;    upon  yon 

point 
Of  Mount  Saint  Anna  was  his  Eagle 

fix'd;  10 

The   veteran   chief,    disposing  well   all 

aid 
Of  height  and  glen,  possess' d  the  moun- 
tain straits, 
A  post  whose  strength  thus  mann'd  and 

profited 
Seem'd  to  defy  the  enemy  and  make 
The    vantage     of    assaiUng     numbers 

vain. 
Here,  too,  before  the  sun  should  bend 

his  course 
Adown  the  slope  of  heaven,  so  had  their 

plans 
Been  timed,  he  look' d  for  Loison's  army, 

rich 
With     spoils    from     Evora    and   Beja 

sack'd. 
That  hope  the  British  Knight  areeding 

well,  20 

With  prompt  attack  prevented  ;    and 

nor  strength 
Of    ground,     nor    leader's    skill     nor 

discipline 
Of  soldiers   practised  in   the    ways  of 

war. 
Avail' d   that   daj'  against   the  British 

arm. 


Resisting  long,  but  beaten  from  their 

stand, 
The  French  fell  back  ;   they  join'd  their 

greater  host 
To  suffer  fresh  defeat,  and  Portugal 
First    for    Sir    Arthur    wreathed    her 

laurels  here. 


XVIII  (XX) 
FOR  A  MONUMENT  AT  VIMEIRO 

This  is  Vimeiro  ;   yonder  stream  which 

flows 
Westward  through  heathery  highlands 

to  the  sea. 
Is  call'd  Maceira,  till  of  late  a  name, 
Save  to  the  dwellers  of    this  peaceful 

vale. 
Known  only  to  the  coasting  mariner  ; 
Now  in    the    bloody   page  of   war  in- 
scribed. 
When  to  the  aid  of  injured  Portugal 
Struggling  against  the  intolerable  yoke 
Of  treacherous  France,  England,  her  old 

ally, 
Long  tried  and  always  faithful  found, 

went  forth,  lo 

The  embattled  hosts  in  equal  strength 

array' d. 
And  equal  discipline,  encountered  here. 
Junot,    the    mock    Abrantes,    led    the 

French, 
And  confident  of  skill  so  oft  approved. 
And  vaunting  many  a  victory,  advanced 
Against  an  untried  foe.     But  when  the 

ranks 
Met  in   the  shock  of    battle,   man   to 

man, 
And  bayonet  to  bayonet  opposed. 
The  flower  of  France,  cut  down  along 

their  line, 
Fell  like  ripe  grass  before  the  mower's 

scythe,  20 

For  the  strong  arm  and  rightful  cause 

prevail' d. 
That    day   deliver' d  Lisbon   from   the 

yoke. 
And   babes   were   taught   to   bless   Sir 

Arthur's  name. 


INSCRIPTIONS 


438 


XIX  ^XXI) 

AT  CORUNA 

When   from   these  shores   the   British 

army  tirst 
Boldly  advanced  into  the  heart  of  Spain, 
The   admiring    people    who    behold   its 

march 
Call'd  it  'the  Beautiful'.     And  surely 

well 
Its  proud  array,  its  perfect  discipline, 
Its  ample  furniture  of  war  complete. 
Its  powerful  horse,  its  men  of  British 

mould. 
All  high  in  heart  and  hope,  all  of  them- 
selves 
Assui*ed,  and  in  their  leaders  confident. 
Deserved  the  title.     Few  short  weeks 
elapsed  lo 

Ere  hither  that  disastrous  host  return'd, 
A  fourth  of  all  its  gallant  force  con- 
sumed 
In  hasty  and  precipitate  retreat. 
Stores,  treasure,  and   artillery,  in    the 

wTeck 
Left  to  the  fierce  pursuer,  horse  and  man 
Founder' d,  and  stiflfening  on  the  moun- 
tain snows. 
But    when    the    exulting    enemy    ap- 
proach'd 
Boasting  that  he  would  drive  into  the 

sea 

The  remnant  of  the  wret<;hed  fugitives, 

Here,  ere  they  reach' d  their  ships,  they 

turn'd  at  bay.  20 

Then  was  the  proof  of  British  courage 

seen ; 
Against  a  foe  far  overnumbering  them. 
An  insolent  foe,  rejoicing  in  pursuit. 
Sure    of    the    fruit   of    victory,    what- 
soe'er 
Might  be  the  fate  of  battle,  here  they 

stood. 
And  their  safe  embarkation,  .  .  all  they 

sought. 
Won    manfully.     That    mournful    day 

avenged 
Their    sufferings,    and    redeem' d    their 

country's  name ; 
And  thus  Coruna,  which  in  this  retreat 
Had  seen  the  else  indelible  reproach    30 
Of  England,  saw  the  stain  eflaced  in 
blood. 


XX(XXll) 
EPITAl'H 

He  who  in  this  unconsecrated  proimd 

Obtain' d  a  soldier's  grave,  hath  loft  a 
name 

Which  will  endure  in  history :  the 
remains 

Of  Moore,  the  British  General,  rest  below. 

His  early  prowess  Corsica  beheld. 

When,  at  Mozello,  bleeding,  through  the 
broach 

He  passed  victorious ;  the  Columbian 
isles 

Then  saw  him  tried;  upon  the  sandy 
downs 

Of  Holland  was  his  riper  worth  approved; 

And  leaving  on  the  Egyptian  shores  his 
blood,  10 

He  gathered  there  fresh  palms.  High 
in  repute 

A  gallant  army  last  he  led  to  Spain, 

In  arduous  times ;  for  moving  in  his 
strength. 

With  all  his  mighty  means  of  war  com- 
plete, 

The  Tyrant  Buonaparte  bore  down  all 

Before  him  ;  and  the  British  Chief  be- 
held. 

Where'er  he  look'd,  rout,  treason,  and 
dismay, 

All  sides  with  all  embarrassments  beset. 

And  danger  pressing  on.  Hither  he 
came 

Before  the  far  out-numbering  hosts  of 
France  ao 

Retreating  to  her  ships,  and  close  pur- 
sued ; 

Nor  were  there  wanting  men  who  coun- 
sell'd  him 

To  offer  terms,  and  from  the  enemy 

Purchase  a  respite  to  embark  in  peace, 

At  price  of  such  abasement,  .  .  even  to 
this. 

Bravo  as  they  were,  by  hopele-tmiesa 
subdued. 

That  shameful  counsel  Moore,  in  liappy 
hour 

Remembering  what  was  duo  to  Eng- 
land's name. 

Refused  :  ho  fought,  he  concjuer'd,  and 
ho  fell. 


434 


INSCRIPTIONS 


XXI  (XXIII) 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  PAUL 
BURRARD 

MORTALLY  WOUNDED  IN  THE  BATTLE  OF 
CORUNA 

[Published  in  The  Literary  Souvenir  for 
1826.] 

Mysterious  are  the  ways  of  Provi- 
dence ! — 

Old  men  who  have  grown  grey  in  camps, 
and  wish'd, 

And  pray'd,  and  sought  in  battle  to  lay 
down 

The  burthen  of  their  age,  have  seen  the 
young 

Fall  round,  themselves  untouch' d  ;  and 
balls  beside 

The  graceless  and  the  unblest  head  have 
pass'd. 

Harmless  as  hail,  to  reach  some  precious 
life, 

For  which  clasp' d  hands,  and  suppli- 
cating eyes. 

Duly  at  morn  and  eve  were  raised  to 
Heaven ; 

And,  in  the  depth  and  loneness  of  the 

soul  10 

(Then  boding  all  too  truly),  midnight 

prayers 
Breathed  from  an  anxious  pillow  wet 

with  tears. 
But  blessed,  even  amid  their  grief,  are 

they 
Who,  in  the  hour  of  visitation,  bow 
Beneath   the   unerring   will,    and  look 

toward 
Their    Heavenly    Father,    merciful    as 

just ! 
They,  while  they  own  his  goodness,  feel 

that  whom 
He  chastens,  them  he  loves.     The  cup 

he  gives, 
Shall  they  not  drink  it  ?  Therefore  doth 

the  draught 
Resent  of  comfort  in  its  bitterness,     20 
And  carry  healing  with  it.     What  but 

this 


Could  have  sustain' d  the  mourners  who 

were  left, 
With  life-long  yearnings,  to  remember 

him 
Whose   early    death    this   monumental 

verse 
Records  ?    For  never  more  auspicious 

hopes 
W^ere  nipt  in  flower,  nor  finer  qualities 
From  goodliest  fabric  of  mortality 
Divorced,  nor  virtues  worthier  to  adorn 
The  world  transferr'd  to  heaven,  than 

when,  ere  time 
Had  measured  him  the  space  of  nine- 
teen years,  30 
Paul  Burrard  on  Coruna's  fatal  field 
Received  his  mortal  hurt.     Not  unpre- 
pared 
The  heroic  youth  was  found  :  for  in  the 

ways 
Of    piety  had    he   been    trained ;    and 

what 
The   dutiful   child   upon   his  mother's 

knees 
Had  learnt,   the  soldier  faithfully  ob- 
served. 
In   chamber   or  in  tent,  the   Book   of 

God 
Was  his  beloved  manual ;   and  his  life 
Beseem' d  the  lessons  which  from  thence 

he  drew. 
For,  gallant  as  he  was,  and  blithe  of 
heart,  40 

Expert  of  hand,  and  keen  of  eye,  and 

prompt 
In  intellect,  religion  was  the  crown 
Of  all  his  noble  properties.     When  Paul 
Was   by,    the   scoffer,    self-abased,    re- 
strain'd 
The  license  of  his  speech  ;   and  ribaldry 
Before     his     virtuous     presence     sate 

rebuked. 
And  yet  so  frank  and  affable  a  form 
His  virtue  wore,   that   wheresoe'er  he 

moved 
A  sunshine  of  good- will  and  cheerfulness 
Enliven'  d  all    around.       Oh !    marvel 
not,  50 

If,  in  the  morning  of  his  fair  career. 
Which  promised  all  that  honour  could 

bestow 
On  high  desert,   the  youth  was  sum- 
mon'd  hence  ! 


INSCRIPTIONS 


436 


His  soul  required  no  farther  discipline. 
Pure  as  it  was,  and  capable  of  Heavon. 
Tpon  tlic  spot  from  whence  he  just  liad 

Heen 
His  General  borne  away,  the  appointed 

ball 
Reach' d  him.     But  not  on  that  Galli- 

cian  ground 
Was  it  his  fate,   like   many  a  British 

heart. 
To  mingle  v^ith  the  soil  :    the  sea  re- 
ceived 60 
His  mortal  relics,  .  .  to  a  watery  grave 
Consign' d  so  near  his  native  shore,  so 

near 
His  father's  house,  that  they  who  loved 

him  best. 
Unconscious  of  its  import,   heard  the 

gun 
Which  tired  his  knell. — Alas  !  if  it  were 

known. 
When,  in  the  strife  of  nations,  dreadful 

Death 
Mows      down     with      indiscriminating 

sweep 
His  thousands  ten  times  told.  .  .  if  it 

were  known 
What  ties  are  sever' d  then,  what  ripen- 
ing hopes 
Blasted,  what  virtues  in  their  bloom  cut 

off;  70 

How  far  the  desolating  scourge  extends  ; 
How  wide  the  misery  spreads  ;    what 

hearts  beneath 
Their  grief  are   broken,  or  survive   to 

feel 
Always  the  irremediable  loss  ; 
Oh  !  who  of  woman  born  could  bear  the 

thought  V 
Who  but  would  join  with  fervent  piety 
The  prayer  that  asketh  in  our  time  for 

peace  ? — 
Xor  in  our  time  alone  ! — Enable  us. 
Father  which  art   in  heaven  !    but  to 

receive 
And  keep  thy  word  :   thy  kingdom  then 

should  come,  80 

Thy  will  be  done  on  earth  ;  the  victory 
Accomplished     over    Sin    as    well     as 

Death, 
And  the  great  scheme   of   Providence 

fulfill'd. 


XXII  (XXIV) 
FOR  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  Doll;.. 

Crossing  in  unexampled  ent<5rprizo 
This    great    and    perilous   stream,    ihe 

English  host 
Effected  here  their  landing,  on  the  day 
When  Soult  from  Porto  with  his  troops 

was  driven. 
No  sight  so  joyful  ever  had  been  seen 
From  Doun/.s  banks.  .  .  not  when  the 

mountains  sent 
Their  generous  produce  down,  or  home- 
ward fleets 
Entered   from    distant    seas   their   port 

desired  ; 
Nor    e'er    were    shouts    of    such    triad 

mariners 
So  gladly  heard,  as  then  the  cannon's 

l>eal,  10 

And   short   sharp   strokes   of   frequent 

musketry. 
By  the  delivered  habitants  that  hour. 
For  they  who  beaten  then  and  routed 

fled 
j  Before  victorious  England,  in  their  daj* 
Of  triumph,   had,  like  fiends  let  loo8e 

from  hell. 
Filld  yon  devoted  city  with  all  forms 
Of  horror,  all  unutterable  crimes  ; 
And   vengeance   now   had   reach' d   the 

inhuman  race 
Accurst.     Oh  what  a  scene  did  Night 

behold 
Within  those  rescued  walls,  when  festal 

fires,  20 

And  torches,  blazing  through  the  l)loody 

streets. 
Stream' d  their  broad  light  where  horse 

and  man  in  death 
Unheeded  lay  oiitstretch'd  !  Eyes  which 

had  wept 
In  bitterness  so  long,  shed  tears  of  joy. 
And  from  the  broken  heart  thankH^iving 

mix'd 
With    anguish    rose    to    Heaven.     Sir 

Arthur  then 
Might  feel  how  precious  in  a  righteous 

cause 
Is  victory,  how  divine  the  soldier's  meed. 
When  grateful  nations  bloss  the  a\««nir- 

ing  swortl  I 


436 


INSCRIPTIONS 


XXIII  (XXV) 
TALAVERA 

FOB  THE  FIELD    OF   BATTLE 

Yon  wide-extended  town,  whose  roofs 

and  towers 
And  poplar  avenues  are  seen  far  off, 
In  goodly  prospect  over  scatter' d  woods 
Of  dusky  ilex,  boasts  among  its  sons 
Of  Mariana's  name,  .  .  he  who  hath 

made 
The  splendid  story  of  his  country's  wars 
Through  all   the   European   kingdoms 

known. 
Yet  in  his  ample  annals  thou  canst  find 
No  braver  battle  chronicled,  than  here 
Was  waged,  when  Joseph  of  the  stolen 

crown  10 

Against  the  hosts  of  England  and  of 

Spain 
His     veteran     armies     brought.       By 

veteran  chiefs 
Captain' d,  a  formidable  force  they  came, 
Pull  fifty  thousand.    Victor  led  them  on, 
A  man  grown  grey  in  arms,  nor  e'er  in 

aught 
Dishonoured,  till  by  this  opprobrious 

cause. 
He     over     rude     Alverche's     summer 

stream 
Winning  his  way,  made  first  upon  the 

right 
His  hot  attack,  where  Spain's  raw  levies, 

ranged 
In  double  line,  had  taken  their  strong 

stand  20 

In    yonder    broken    ground,    by    olive 

groves 
Cover' d  and  flank'd  by  Tagus.     Soon 

from  thence, 
As  one  whose  practised  eye  could  appre- 
hend 
All  vantages  in  war,  his  troops  he  drew  ; 
And  on  this  hill,  the  battle's  vital  point, 
Bore    with    collected    power,    outnum- 
bering 
The   British   ranks   twice   told.     Such 

fearful  odds 
Were  balanced  by  Su*  Arthur's  master 

mind 
And  by  the  British  heart.     Twice  during 

night 


The  fatal  spot  they  storm' d,  and  twice 

fell  back,  30 

Before  the  bayonet  driven.     Again  at 

morn 
They  made  their  fiery  onset,  and  again 
Repell'd,   again   at  noon   renew' d   the 

strife. 
Yet  was  their  desperate  perseverance 

vain, 
Where  skill  by  equal  skill  was  counter- 
vail'd. 
And  numbers  by  superior  courage  foil'd ; 
And  when  the  second  night  drew  over 

them 
Its  sheltering  cope,  in  darkness  they 

retired, 
At  all  points  beaten.     Long  in  the  red 

page 
Of  war  shall  Talavera's  famous  name  40 
Stand  forth  conspicuous.     While  that 

name  endures. 
Bear  in  thy  soul,  0  Spain,  the  memory 
Of  all  thou  sufferedst  from  perfidious 

France, 
Of  all  that  England  in  thy  cause  achieved . 


XXIV  (XXVI) 
FOR  THE  DESERTO  DE  BUSACO 

Reader,    thou    standest    upon    holy 

ground 
Which  Penitence  hath  chosen  for  itself, 
And  war  disturbing  the  deep  solitude 
Hath  left  it  doubly  sacred.     On  these 

heights 
The  host  of  Portugal  and  England  stood. 
Arrayed    against    Massena,    when    the 

chief 
Proud  of  Rodrigo  and  Almeida  won. 
Press' d  forward,  thinking  the  devoted 

realm 
Full  sure  should  fall  a  prey.     He  in  his 

pride 
Scorn' d  the  poor  numbers  of  the  English 

foe,  10 

And  thought  the  children  of  the  land 

would  fly 
From  his  advance,  like  sheep  before  the 

wolf. 
Scattering,  and  lost  in  terror.     Ill  he 

knew 


INSCRIFIIONS 


43' 


He 

and 


and 


The  Lusitauian  spirit !     Ill  ho  knew 
The  arm,  the  heart  of  England  !    Ill  he 

knew 
Her  Wellington  !    Ho  loarnt  to  know 

them  liere. 
That  spirit  and  that  arm,  that  heart, 

that  mind. 
Here  on  Busaeo  gloriously  display' d, 
When  honco  repulsed  tho  ooaten  boaster 

wound 
Below,  his  coui-so  circuitous,  and  left  20 
His    thousands    for    tho    bciists    and 

ravenous  fowl. 
The  Oarmelite  who  in  his  cell  I'coluse 
Was  wont  to  sit,  and  from  a  skull  reccivo 
Death's   silent   lesson,    wheresoe'cr    he 

walk 
Henceforth  may  find  his  teachers. 

shall  tind 
The   Frenchmen's   bones   in   glen 

grove,  on  rock 
And  height,   where'er  the  wolves 

carrion  birds 
Have  strewn  them,  wash'd  in  torrents, 

bare  and  bleach' d 
By  sun  and  rain  and  by  the  winds  of 

heaven. 


XXV  (XX\^I) 

FOR  THE  LINES  OF  TORRES 

VEDRAS 

Through  all  Iberia,  from  the  Atlantic 

shores 
To  far  Pyrene,  Wellington  hath  left 
His  trophies  ;  but  no  monument  records 
To  after- time  a  more  enduring  praise, 
Than  this  which  marks  his  triumph  here 

attain' d 
By  intellect,  and  patience  to  the  end 
Holding  tlirough  good  and  ill  its  couree 

assign' d, 
The  stamp  and  seal  of  greatness.     Here 

the  chief 
Perceived    in    foresight   Lisbon's   sure 

defence, 
A  vantage  ground  for  all  reverse  i)ro- 

pared,  10 

Where    Pox'tugal    and    England   might 

defy 
All  strength  of  hostile  numbers.     Not 

for  this 


Of  hostile  cnterpriuo  did  ho  abate. 

Or  gallant  purpose  :    wituoea  tho  proud 

day 
Which  saw  Sijult's  murderous  hot>t  from 

Porto  driven  ; 
Bear  witness  Talavera,  made  by  him 
Famous  for  ever  ;    and  that  later  tight. 
When  from  Busaeo' s  solitude  tho  birds, 
Then  first  atlrightod  in  their  snnctuar}-. 
Fled  from  the  thunders  and  the  tires  of 

war.  20 

But  when  Spam's    feeble  counsels,  hi 

delay 
As  erring,  as  in  action  premature. 
Had  left  him  in  the  Held  without  sup- 
port. 
And  Buonaparte,  having  trampled  down 
The  strength  and  pride  of  Austria,  this 

way  turn'd 
His  single  thought  and  undivided  ix)wcr, 
Retreating    hither    tho    great    (Joncral 

came ; 
And  proud  Massena,  when  the  boastful 

chief 
Of  plundered  Lisbon  dreamt,  here  found 

himself 
Stopt   suddenly    in    his    presumptuous 

course.  30 

From  Ericeyra  on  the  western  sea. 
By  Mafra's  princely  convent,  and  the 

heights 
Of  Montichique,  and  Bucellas  famed 
For    generous    vines,    tho    formidable 

works 
Extending,  rested  on  the  guarded  shores 
Of  Tagus,  that  rich  river  who  received 
Into  his  ample  and  rejoicing  port 
The  harvests  and  the  wealth  of  distant 

lands. 
Secure,  insulting  with  tho  glad  display 
The  robber's  grcedy  sight.    Five  months 

the  foo  40 

Beheld  these  lines,  made  inexpugnable 
By  perfect  skill,  and  jmtriot  ftvlintrs  hvrv 
With    discipline   conjom'd.    courageous 

hands. 
Tiue   spirits,    and    one   comprehcnBivo 

mind 
All  overseeing  and  i^rvading  all. 
Five  months,  tormenting  still  his  iirart 

with  ho|K<. 
He   saw    his    projects   frustrated;     th« 

power 


438 


INSCRIPTIONS 


Of  the  blaspheming  tyrant  whom  he 

served 

Fail  in  the  proof  ;  his  thousands  disap- 
pear, 

In  silent  and  inglorious  war  consumed  ; 

Till  hence  retreating,  madden' d  with 
despite,  51 

Here  did  the  self-styled  .Son  of  Victory 
leave, 

Never  to  be  redeem' d,  that  vaunted 
name. 


XXVI  (XXVIII) 
AT  SANTAREM 

FouK  months  Massena  had  his  quarters 

here, 
When   by   those   lines   deterr'd   where 

Wellington 
Defied  the  power  of  France,  but  loth  to 

leave 
Rich  Lisbon  yet  unsack'd,  he  kept  his 

ground, 
Till  from  imj)ending  famine,  and  the 

force 
Array' d  in  front,  and  that  consuming 

war 
Which  still  the  faithful  nation,  day  and 

night. 
And  at  all  hom's  was  waging  on  his  rear, 
He  saw  no  safety,  save  in  swift  retreat. 
Then   of    his   purpose   frustrated,   this 

child 
Of  Hell,  .  .  so  titlier  than  of  Victory 

call'd,  II 

Gave  his  own  devilish  nature  scope,  and 

let 
His  deviUsh  arm}'  loose.     The  mournful 

rolls 
That  chronicle  the  guilt  of  humankind 
Tell  not  of  aught  more  hideous  than  the 

deeds 
With  which  this  monster  and  his  kindred 

troops 
Track' d  theii-  inhuman  way  ;   all  cruel- 
ties, 
All  forms  of  horror,  all  deliberate  crimef?. 
Which  tongue  abhors  to  utter,  ear  to 

hear.  19 

Let  this  memorial  boar  ^Massona's  name 
For  everlasting  infamy  inscribed. 


XXVII  (XXIX) 
AT  FUENTES  D'ONORO 

The  fountains  of  Onoro  which  give  name 
To  tliis  poor  hamlet,  were  distain'd  with 

blood. 
What  time  Massena,  driven  from  Por- 
tugal 
By  national  virtue  in  endurance  proved, 
And  England's  faithful  aid,  against  the 

land 
Not  long  dehvered,  desperately  made 
His  last  fierce  effort  here.     That  day, 

bestreak'd 
With  slaughter  Coa  and  Agueda  ran, 
So  deeply  had  the  open  veins  of  war 
Purpled  their  mountain  feeders.   Strong 
in  means,  10 

With  rest,  and  stores,  and  numbers  rein- 
forced, 
Came  the  ferocious  enemy,  and  ween'd 
Beneath  their  formidable  cavalry 
To  trample  down  resistance.     But  there 

fought 
Against  them  here,  with  Britons  side  by 

side. 
The  children  of  regenerate  Portugal, 
And  their  own  crimes,  and  all-beholding 

Heaven. 
Beaten,    and   hopeless   thenceforth    of 

success 
The   inhuman    Marshal,    never    to    be 

named 
By  Lusitanian  lips  without  a  curse     20 
Of  clinging  infamy,  withdrew  and  left 
These  Fountains  famous  for  his  over- 
throw. 


XXVIII  (XXXI) 
FOR  A  MONUMENT  AT  ALBUHERA 

Seven  thousand  men  lay  bleeding  on 

these  heights. 
When  Beresford  in  strenuous  conflict 

strove 
Against  a  foe  whom  all  the  accidents 
Of  battle  favoured,  and  who  knew  full 

well 
To  seize  all  olfers  that  occasion  gave. 
Wounded  or  dead,  seven  thousand  hero 

V.  ere  stretch'  d, 


INSCRIPTIONS 


i3U 


And  ou  tho  plain  around  a  myriad  |  And  all  alluremonta  of  that  happy  land, 
Uiore,  :  His  ardoiit  spirit  to  the  fii«ld  of  war 

ISpauiurd  and  Briton  and  truo  rortu- ;  ImiKiU'd  liim.  Fair  waa  his  career.  Ho 
gueze,  I  faced 


Aliko  approved  tlmt  day  ;    and  in  tlic 

cause 
Of  France,  witli  her  flagitious  sons  com- 

jwU'd,  10 

Polo  and  Italian,  CJerman,  HoUandcr, 
Men  of  all  climes  and  countries,  hither 

brought, 
Doing  and  sufioring,  for  the  work  of 

war. 
This  point  by  her  superior  ca\alry 
Franco    from    the    Si)aniard    won,    tho 

element-s 
Aiding     her     powerful     efforts ;      here 

awhile 
JShe  seem'd  to  rule  the  conflict;    and 

from  hence 
The  British  and  tho  Lusitanian  arm 
Dislodged  with  irresistible  assault 
The  enemy,  even  when  he  deem'd  tho 

day  20 

Was  written  for  lus  own.     But  not  for 

SoiUt, 
But  not  for  France  was  that  day  in  the 

rolls 
Of   war  to  be  inscribed  by   \'ictory's 

hand, 
Not  for  tho  inhuman  chief,  and  cause 

unjust ; 


The  iH  lils  of  that  memorable  day. 
When  through  tho  iron  shower  and  liery 

storm  lo 

Of  death  tho  dauutlestj  host  of  Britain 

made 
Their   landing   at   Aboukir ;    then   not 

less 
Illustrated,   than   when   great    Nolsouw 

hand. 
As   if   insulted    Heaven    with    its   own 

wrath 
Had  arm'd  him,  smote  tiie  miscreant 

Frenchmen's  fleet. 
And  with  its  wreck  wide-floating  many 

a  league 
IStrew'd    tho    rejoicing    shores.     What 

then  his  youth 
Held  forth  of  promise,  amply  was  con- 

firm'd 
When  Wellesley,  upon  Talavera's  plain, 
On  the  mock  monarch  w  on  his  coronet : 
There   when   the   trophies  of   tho   field 

were  reapd  21 

Was  he  for  gallant  bearing  eminent 
When  all  cUd  bravely.     But  his  valour's 

orb 
Shone  brightest  at  its  setting.     On  the 

Held 


She  wrote  for  aftertimes  in  blood  the  :  Of  Albuhera  he  tho  fu.sileers 


Of    Spain    and    England,    Blake    and 
Beresford. 


XXIX  (XXXII) 

TO  THE  xMEMORY  OF  SIR  WILLIAM 
MYERS 

Spaxiakd  or  Portugueze!  tread  rever- 
ently 

Upon  a  soldier's  grave ;  no  common 
heart 

Lies  mingled  with  the  clod  beneath  thy 
feet. 

To  honours  and  to  ample  wealth  was 
Myei-s 

In  England  born  ;  but  leaving  friends 
bolo\ed. 


Led  to  regain  the  heights,  and  promised 

them 
A  glorious  day  ;    a  glorious  day  was 

given  ; 
The  heights  were  gain'd,   the  victory 

was  achieved. 
And   Myers   received   from    death    hitj 

deathless  crown. 
Hero  to   Valverde  was  he   borne,   and 

here  30 

His  faithful  men  amid  this  olive  grove. 
The  olivo  emblem  here  of  endlcwi  jKjace. 
Laid  him  to  rest.     Spaniard  or  Portu- 
gueze, 
In  your  good  cause  the  British  soldier 

fell ; 
Tread    reverent  I}-    upon    his    honour'd 

grave. 


440 


INSCRIPTIONS 


XXX  (XXXIV) 

FOR  THE  WALLS  OF  OIUDAD 
RODRIGO 

Here  Craufurd  fell,  victorious,  in  the 

breach, 
Leading  his  countrymen  in  that  assault 
Which  won  from  haughty  France  these 

rescued  walls  ; 
And  here  intomb'd  far  from  his  native 

land 
And  kindred  dust,  his  honour  d  relics 

rest. 
Well  was  he  versed  in  war,  in  the  Orient 

train' d 
Beneath  Cornwallis ;    then  for  many  a 

year 
Following  through  arduous  and  ill-fated 

fields 
The  Austrian  banners ;    on  the  sea-like 

shores 
Of  Plata  next,  still  by  mahgnant  stars  lo 
Pursued  ;  and  in  that  miserable  retreat. 
For  which  Corufia  witness' d  on  her  liills 
The    pledge    of    vengeance   given.     At 

length  he  saw, 
Long    woo'd    and    well    deserved,    the 

brighter  face 
Of  Fortune,  upon  Coa's  banks  vouch- 
safed, 
Before  Almeida,  when  Massena  found 
The  fourfold  vantage  of  his  numbers 

foil'd, 
Before  the  Briton,  and  the  Portugal, 
There  vindicating  first  his  old  renown, 
And  Craufurd' 8  mind  that  day  presiding 

there.  20 

Again  was  her  auspicious  countenance 
Upon  Busaco's  holy  heights  re  veal' d; 
And  when  by  Torres  Vedras,  Welling- 
ton, 
Wisely     secure,     defied     the     boastful 

French, 
With  all  their  power  ;  and  when  Onoro's 

springs 
Beheld  that  execrable  enemy 
Again  chastised  beneath  the  avenging 

arm. 
Too  early  here  his  honourable  course 
He  closed,  and  won  his  noble  sepulchre. 
Where  should  the  soldier  rest  so  worthily 


As  where  he  fell  ?  Be  thou  his  monu- 
ment, 31 
0  City  of  Rodrigo,  yea  be  thou. 
To  latest  time,  his  trophy  and  his  tomb  ! 
Sultans,  or  Pharaohs  of  the  elder  world. 
Lie  not  in  Mosque  or  Pyramid  enshrined 
Thus  gloriously,  nor  in  so  proud  a  grave. 


XXXI  (XXXV) 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MAJOR 
GENERAL  MACKINNON 

Son  of  an  old  and  honourable  house, 
Henry  Mackinnon  from  the  Hebrides 
Drew   his   descent,    but  upon   EngUsh 

ground 
An  EngUsh  mother  bore  him.  Dauphiny 
Beheld  the  blossom  of  his  opening  years  ; 
For  hoping  in  that  genial  cHme  to  save 
A  cliild  of  feebler  frame,  his  parents 

there 
Awhile  their  sojourn  fix'd  :   and  thus  it 

chanced 
That  in  that  generous  season,  when  the 

heart 
Yet  from  the  world  is  pure  and  unde- 

filed,  10 

Napoleon  Buonaparte  was  his  friend. 
The  adventurous  Corsican,  like  Henry, 

then 
Young,  and  a  stranger  in  the  land  of 

France, 
Their  frequent  and  their  favour' d  guest 

became, 
Finding  a  cheerful  welcome  at  all  hours, 
Kindness,   esteem,  and  in  the  English 

youth 
Quick  sympathy  of  apprehensive  mind 
And  lofty  thought  heroic.  On  the  way 
Of  life  they  parted,  not  to  meet  again. 
Each  follow' d  war,  but,  oh  !  how  dif- 
ferently 20 
Did  the  two  spirits  which  till  now  had 

grown 
Like  two  fan'  plants,  it  seem'd,  of  kin- 
dred seed, 
Develope  in  that  awful  element ! 
For     never     had     benignant     nature 

shower' d 
More  bounteously  than  on  Mackinnou's 

head 


INSCRIPTIONS 


441 


Her  choicest  gifta.     Form,  features,  in- 
tellect. 
Were  such  as  might  at  once  command 

and  win 
All    hearts.     In    all    relationships    ap- 
proved. 
Sou,    brother,    husband,   father,   friend, 

his  life 
Was   beautiful  ;     and    when    in    tented 

Helds,  30 

Such  as  the  soldier  should  be  in  the  sight 
Of  God  and  man  was  he.     Poor  praise  it 

were 
To  speak  his  worth  evinced  u])on  the 

banks 
Of  Douro.  Talavora's  trophied  plain, 
Busacos  summit,  and  what  other  days, 
Many  and  glorious  all.  illustrated 
His  bright  career.     Worthier  of  him  to 

say 
That  in  the  midst  of  camps  his  manly 

breast 
Retain" d  its  youthful  virtue  ;    that  he 

walk'd 
Through  blood  and  evil  uncontaminate,  : 
And  that  the  stern  necessity  of  war    41 
But  nurtured  with  its  painful  discipline 
Thoughtful  comi)assiou  in  that  gentle 

soul, 
And  feelings  such  as  man  should  cherish 

still 
For  all  of  woman  born.     He  met  his 

death 
\Vhcn   at   Rodi'igo   on   the   breach    he 

stood 
Triumphant ;  to  a  soldier's  wish  it  came  i 
Instant,  and  in  the  hour  of  victory.         ! 
Mothers  and  maids  of  Portugal,  oh  bring 
Your  garlands  here,  and  strew  his  grave 

with  flowei-s  ;  50 

And  lead  the  children  to  his  monument. 
Grey-headed  sires,  for  it  is  holy  ground  ! 
For  tenderness  and  valour  in  his  heart. 
As  in  your  own  Nunalurcs,  had  made 
Their  habitation  ;   for  a  dearer  life 
Never  in  battle  hath  been  ofTered  up. 
Since  in  like  cause  and  in  unhappy  day, 
Bv  Zutphen's  walls  the  peerless  Sidney 

fell. 
Tib    said    that    Buonaparte,    when    he , 

heard  I 

How  thus,  among  the  multitude  whose  | 

blood  60 


Cries   out   to    Heaven    \i|)on   \m  guilty 

head. 
His  early  friend  had  fulleri.  wan  touchd 

with  griof. 
If   aught   it    may   avail    him,    bo    tlutt 

thouL'ht, 
That  brief  recurrence  of  hunmnifv 
In   his   hard  heart,   rememberd  ni   lu8 

hour. 


XXXIl(XXXVJ) 

FOR  THE  AFFAIR  AT  ARROYO 
MOLIXOS 

He  who  may  chronicle  Spain's  arduous 

strife 
Against  the  Intruder,  hath  to  sjxrak  of 

Helds 
l*rofuselier  fed  with  blood,  and  victories 
Borne  wider  on  the  wings  of  glad  rejwrt ; 
Yet  shall   this  town,   wliich  from   the 

mill-stream  takes 
Its  humble  name,  be  storied  as  the  sj>ot 
Where   the   vain   Frenchman,   insolent 

too  long 
Of  power  and  of  success,  first  saw  the 

strength 
Of   England   in    prompt    enterprize   en- 

sayed, 
And  felt  his  fortunes  ebb,  from  that  day 

forth  10 

Swept  back  upon  the  refluent  tide  of  war. 
Girard  lay  here,  who  lato  from  Caccres, 
Far  as  his  active  cavalry  could  scour. 
Had  pillaged  and  opprcst  the  country 

round  ; 
The  Spaniard  and  the  Portugueze  ho 

scorn' d. 
And  deem'd  the  British  soldiers  all  too 

slow 
To  seize  occasion,  unalert  in  war. 
And  therefore  brave  in  vain.     In  such 

belief 
Secure  at  night  he  laid   liim  d^wu   in 

sleep, 
Nor     dreamt     that     these     di.HjMiraged 

enemies  «> 

With    drum    and    trumijot    uhuuld    in 

martial  ehar^'c 
Sound  his  i-eveille.     All  day  their  niurcli 

severe 


442 


INSCRIPTIONS 


They  held  through  wind  and  drenching 

rain  ;    ail  night 
The  autumnal  tempest  unabating  raged, 
While   in   their   comfortless   and   open 

camp 
They  cheer" d  themselves  with  patient 

hope :  the  storm 
Was  their  ally,  and  moving  in  the  mist, 
When  morning  open'd,  on  the  astonish' d 

foe 
They   burst.     Soon   routed   horse   and 

foot,  the  French 
On  all  sides  scattering,  fled,  on  every 

side  30 

Beset,  and  every  where  pursued,  with 

loss 
Of  half  their  numbers  captured,  their 

whole  stores, 
And  all  their  gat  her' d  plunder.     'Twas 

a  day 
Of  surest  omen,  such  as  hll'd  with  joy 
True  English  hearts.  .  .No  happier  peals 

have  e'er 
Been  roll'd  abroad  from  town  and  vil- 
lage tower 
Than  gladden' d  then  with  their  exultant 

sound 
Salopian  vales ;    and  flowing  cups  were 

brimm'd 
All  round  the  Wrekin  to  Sir  Rowland's 

name. 


XXXIII  (XXXVII) 

WRITTEN  IN  AN  UNPUBLISHED 
VOLUME  OF  LETTERS  AND 
MISCELLANEOUS  PAPERS,  BY 
BARRE  CHARLES  ROBERTS. 

Not  often  hath  the  cold  insensate  earth 
Closed  over  such  fair  hopes,  as  when  the 

grave 
Received  young  Barre's  perishable  part ; 
Nor  death  destroyed  so  sweet  a  dream 

of  life. 
Nature,   who  sometimes  lavisheth  her 

gifts 
With  fatal  bounty,  had  conferred  on  him  ] 
Even  such  endowment*i  as  parental  love 
Might  in  its  wisest  prayer  have  ayk'd  of  ; 

Heaven  4  j 

An  intellect  that,  choosing  for  itself 


The  better  part,   went  forth  into  the 

fields  10 

Of    knowledge,    and   with   never- sated 

thirst 
Drank  of  the  Uving  springs ;    a  judge- 
ment calm 
And  clear  ;  a  heart  affectionate  ;  a  soul 
Within  whose  quiet  sphere  no  vanities 
Or  low  desires  had  place.     Nor  were  the 

seeds 
Of  excellence  thus  largely  given,  and  left 
To  struggle  with  impediment  of  chme 
Austere,   or  niggard  soil ;    all  circum- 
stance 
Of  happy  fortune  was  to  him  vouch- 
safed ; 
His  way  of  life  was  as  through  garden - 
walks  20 

Wherein  no  thorns  are  seen,  save  such 

as  grow. 
Types  of  our  human  state,  with  fruits 

and  flowers. 
In  all  things  favoured  thus  auspiciously, 
But  in  his  father  most.     An  intercourse 
So  beautiful  no  former  record  shows 
In  such  relationship  displayed,   where 

through 
FamiUar  friendship's  j^erfect  confidence, 
The  fathers  ever- watchful  tenderness 
Meets  ever  in  the  son's  entire  respect 
Its  due  return  devout,  and  pla}^ful  love 
Mingles  with  every  thing,  and  sheds  o'er 
all  31 

A  sunshine  of  its  own.     Should  we  then 

say 
The  parents  purchased  at  too  dear  a  cost 
This  deep  delight,  the  deepest,  purest  joy 
Which  Heaven  hath  here  assign' d  us, 

when  they  saw 
Their  child  of  hope,  just  in  the  May  of 

life, 
Beneath  a  slow  and  cankering  malady, 
With  irremediable  decay  consumed, 
Sink  to  the  untimely  grave  ?   Oh,  think 

not  thus  ! 
Nor  deem  that  such  long  anguish,  and 
the  grief  40 

Which  in  the  inmost  soul  doth  strike  its 

roots 
There  to  abide  through  time,  can  over- 
weigh 
The  blessings  which  have  been,  and  yet 
shall  be  ! 


INSCRIPTIONS 


443 


Think  not  that  He  in  VV^hom  we  live, 

doth  mock 
Oui-    dearest    aspirations !     Think    not 

love, 
Genius,  and  virtue  should  inhere  alone 
In  mere  mortality,  and  Earth  put  out 
The  sparks  which  are  of  Heaven  !    We 

are  not  left 
In  darkness,  nor  devoid  of  hoi)e.     The 

Light 
Of  Faith  hath  risen  to  us  :    the  van- 
quish'd  Grave  50 
To  us  the  great  consolatory  truth 
Proclaim"  d  that  He  who  wounds  will 

heal  ;    and  Death, 
Opening  the  gates  of  Immortality, 
The  spirits  whom  it  hath  dissevered  here 
In  everlasting  union  re- unite. 

Keswick,  1814. 


XXXIV  (XXXIX) 
EPITAPH 

.Some  there  ^^'ill  be  to  whom,  as  here  they 

read, 
While  yet  these  lines  are  from  the  chisel 

sharp, 
The  name  of  Clement  Francis,  will  recall 
His  countenance  benign  ;  and  some  who 

knew 
What   stoi*es   of   knowledge  and  what 

humble  thoughts. 
What  wise  desires,  what  cheerful  piety. 
In  happy  union  forra'd  the  character 
Which  faithfully  impress'd   his  asjx^ct 

meek. 
And  others  too  there  are,  who  in  their 

hearts 
W^ill  bear  the  memory  of  his  worth  en- 
shrined, 10 
For  tender  and  for  reverential  thoughts, 
W'hen  grief  hath  had  it«  course,  a  life- 
long theme. 
A  little  while,   and  these,   who  to  the 

truth 
Of  this  ix)or  tributary  strain  could  bear 
Their    witness,    will    themselves    have 

pass'd  away. 
And  this  cold  marble  monument  present 
Words  which  can  then  within  no  living 
mind 


Create  the  ideal  form  they  oooe  evoked  ; 

This,   then,   the  solo   memorial   of   the 

dead.  , 

80  be  it.     Only  that  which  wjiw  of  oftCti]> 
^athporisir3_|    oiiTy  tTIal   which   waa 
mTirmT  ^  »t 

Mortal,  corruj)tiblo,  and  brought  with  it 
TI16  seed  connate  of  death.     A  place  in 

Time 
Is  given  us,  only  that  we  may  prepare 
Our  portion  for  Eternity  :    the  .Soul 
Possessetli    there    what    treasures    for 

itself. 
Wise  to  salvation,  it  laid  up  in  Heaven. 
O  Man,  take  thou  this  lesson  from  the 

Grave  ! 
There  too  all  true  affections  shall  revive, 
To  fade   no  more ;     all   losses  be  re- 
stored, 30 
All  griefs  be  heal'd,  all  holy  ho|)es  ful- 
tiird. 


INSCRIPTIONS    FOR    THE    CALK- 
DONIAN  CANAL 

[rublished  in  The  Anniversary^  1829.] 

XXXV  (XL) 
1.  At  Clachnacharkv 

Athwart  the  island  here,  from  sea  to 

sea. 
Between  these  mountain  barriers,  the 

Great  Glen 
Of  Scotland  offers  to  the  traveller. 
Through  wilds  impervious  else,  an  easy 

path. 
Along  the  shore  of  rivers  and  of  lakes. 
In  line  continuous,  whence  the  waters 

flow 
Dividing  east  and  west.     Thus  had  they 

held 
For    untold    centuries    thoir    jvrjKJtual 

course 
Unprofited,  till  in  the  Gcor>;ian  ago 
This  mighty  work  was  plann'd,  which 

should  unite  «« 

The    lakes,     control     the     innavigable 

streams, 
And   through   the   bowels   of   ih*^   Iwnd 

deduce 
A  way,  where  vessels  which  niunt  el«o 

have  briivcd 


444 


INSCRIPTIONS 


The  formidable  Oape,  and  have  essayed 
The  perils  of  the  Hyperborean  Sea, 
Might  from  the  Baltic  to  the  Atlantic 

deep 
Pass  and  repass  at  will.     So  when  the 

storm 
Careers  abroad,  may  they  securely  here, 
Through   birchen  groves,  green  fields, 

and  pastoral  hills, 
Pursue  their  voyage  home.  Humanity 
May  boast  this  proud  expenditure,  be- 
gun 21 
By  Britain  in  a  time  of  arduous  war  ; 
Through  all  the  efforts  and  emergencies 
Of    that    long    strife    continued,   and 

achieved 
After  her  triumph,  even  at  the  time 
When  national  burdens  bearing  on  the 

state 
Were  felt  with  heaviest  pressure.     Such 

expense 
Is  best  economy.     In  growing  wealth. 
Comfort,   and  spreading  industrv,   be- 
hold 
The  fruits  immediate  !   And,  in  days  to 
come,  30 

Fitly  shall  this  great  British  work  be 

named 
With  whatsoe'er  of  most  magnificence, 
For  public  use,  Rome  in  her  plenitude 
Of  power  effected,  or  all-glorious  Greece, 
Or  Egypt,  mother-land  of  all  the  arts. 


XXXVI  (XLI) 

2.  At  Fort  Augustus 

Thou  who  hast  reach' d  this  level  where 

the  glede. 
Wheeling    between    the    mountains   in 

mid  air. 
Eastward  or  westward  as  his  gyre  in- 
clines. 
Descries  the  German  or  the  Atlantic  Sea, 
Pause  here  ;  and,  as  thou  seest  the  ship 

pursue 
Her  easy  way  serene,  call  thou  to  mind 
By  what  exertions  of  victorious  art 
The  way  was  open'd.     Fourteen  times 

upheaved, 
The    vessel    hath    ascended,    since   she 
chan<i?ed 


The  salt   sea   water  for   the   highland 

lymph ;  10 

As  oft  in  imperceptible  descent 
Must,  step  by  step,  be  lower' d,  before 

she  woo 
The   ocean   breeze   again.     Thou   hast 

beheld 
What  basins,  most  capacious  of  their 

kind, 
Enclose  her,  while  the  obedient  element 
Lifts  or  depones  its  burthen.     Thou  hast 

seen 
The  torrent  hurrying  from  its  native  hills 
Pass  underneath  the  broad  canal  in- 
humed. 
Then  issue  harmless  thence  ;  the  rivulet 
Admitted  by  its  intake  peaceably,  20 
Forthwith  by  gentle  overfall  discharged: 
And  haply  too  thou  hast  observed  the 

herds 
Frequent  then'    vaulted    path,   uncon- 
scious they 
That  the  wide  waters  on  the  long  low 

arch 
Above  them,  lie  sustained.     What  other 

works 
Science,    audacious    in    omprize,    hath 

wrought. 
Meet  not  the  eye,  but  well  may  fill  the 

mind. 
Not  from  the  bowels  of  the  land  alone, 
From  lake  and  stream  hath  their  diluvial 

wreck 
Been  scoop' d  to  form   this  navigable 

way ;  30 

Huge  rivers  were  controll'd,    or  from 

then-  course 
Shoulder' d  aside ;    and  at  the  eastern 

mouth. 
Where  thesalt  ooze  denied  a  restingplace, 
There  were  the  deep  foundations  laid, 

by  weight 
On  weight  immersed,  and  pile  on  pile 

down- driven. 
Till  steadfast  as  the  everlasting  rocks 
The  massive  outwork  stands.     Contem- 
plate now 
What  days  and  nights  of  thought,  what 

years  of  toil. 
What   inexhausti\e   springs    of   public 

wealth 
The  vast  design  required ;  the  immediate 

good,  40 


INSCRIPTIONS 


445 


The  future  beuelit  progresMive  still  ; 
And  thou  v\ilt  pay  thy  tribute  of  duo 

praise 
To  those  whose  counsels,  whose  decrees, 

wliose  care. 
For    after    ages    forjuod    the    generous 

work. 


XXXVII  (XLII) 
3.  At  Banavie 

Where  these  capacious  basins,  by  the 

laws 
Of  the  subjacent  element  receive 
The  ship,  descending  or  upraised,  eight 

times. 
From  stage  to  stage  witti  unfelt  agency 
Translat-ed  ;  fitliest  may  the  marble  here 
Record  the  Architect's  immortal  name. 
Telford    it    was,    by    whose    presiding 

mind 
The  whole  great  work  was  plann'd  and 

perfected ; 
Telford,  who  o'er  the  vale  of  Cambrian 

Dee, 
Aloft  in  air,  at  giddy  height  upborne,  lo 
Carried  his  navigable  road,  and  hung 
High  o'er  Menal's  straits  the  bending 

bridge  ; 
Structures  of  more  ambitious  enterprize 
Than  minstrels  in  the  age  of  old  romance 
To     their     own    Merlin's    magic    lore 

ascribed. 
Nor  hath  he  for  his  native  land  per- 
form'd 
Less  in  this  proud  design ;    and  where 

his  piers 
Around  her  coast  from  many  a  fisher's 

creek 
Unshelter'd  else,  and  many  an  ample 

port. 
Repel  the  assailing  storm  ;    and  where 

his  roads  20 

In  beautiful  and  sinuous  line  far  seen. 
Wind  with  the  vale,  and  win  the  long 

ascent. 
Now  o'er  the  deep  morass  sustain' d,  and 

now 
Across  ravine,  or  glen,  or  estuary, 
Opening  a  passage  through  the   wilds 

subdued. 


XXXVIII  (XLIII) 
EPITAPH  IN  BlTLEl(;n  CHURCH 

DiviDKu  far  by  death  wore  thoy,  whose 

names 
In  honour  hero  united,  as  in  birth. 
This  monumental  verso  records.     Thoy 

drew 
h\   Dorset's   healthy   valoa  their   natal 

breath, 
And  from  these  shores  beheld  the  ocean 

first. 
Whereon  in  early  youth  with  one  accord 
They  cho.se  their  way  of  fortune  ;    to 

that  course 
By  Hood  and  Bridi^rt's  bright  example 

drawn. 
Their  kinsmen,  children  of  this  place, 

and  sons 
Of  one,  who  in  his  faithful  ministry    10 
Inculcated  within  these  hallow' d  wall.s 
The  truths  in  mercy  to  mankind  reveal'd. 
Worthy  were  these  three  brethren  each 

to  add 
New  honours  to  the  already  honour' d 

name : 
But  Arthur,  in  the  morning  of  his  day, 
Perish' d  amid  the  Caribbean  sea, 
When  the  Pomona,  by  a  hurricane 
Whirl'd,  riven  and  overwhelm'd,   with 

all  her  crew 
Into  the  deep  went  down.     A  longer 

date 
To  Alexander  was  assign' d,  for  hope,  20 
For  fair  ambition,  and  for  fond  regret, 
Alas,  how  short !   for  duty,  for  desert. 
Sufficing  ;  and  while  Time  preserves  the 

roll 
Of  Britain's  naval  feats,  for  good  report. 
A  boy,  with  Cook  he  rounded  the  great 

globe ; 
A  youth,  in  many  a  celebrated  fight 
With  Rodney  had  his  part ;   and  having 

reach' d 
life's  middle  stAge,  engaging  ship  to 

ship. 
When  the  French  Hercule.M.  a  gallant 

foe. 
Struck  to  the  British  Mars  his  threo- 

.strijx>d  flag.  3° 

He  fell,  in  the  moment  of  his  vietorv. 


446 


INSCRIPTIONS 


Here  his  remains  in  sure  and  certain 

hope 
Are  laid,  until  the  hour  when  Earth  and 

Sea 
Shall  render  up  their  dead.    One  brother 

yet 
Survived,  with  Keppel  and  with  Rodney 

train' d 
In  battles,  with  the  Lord  of  Nile  ap- 
proved, 
Ere  in  command  he  worthily  upheld 
Old  England' s  high  prerogative.     In  the 

east, 
The  west,  the  Baltic  and  the  Midland 

seas. 
Yea,    wheresoever    hostile   fleets    have 

plough' d  40 

The  ensanguined  deep,  his  thunders  have 

been  heard, 
His  flag  in  brave  defiance  hath  been 

seen; 
And  bravest  enemies  at  Sir  Samuel's 

name 
Felt  fatal  presage  in  their  inmost  heart, 
Of  unavertible  defeat  foredoom' d. 
Thus  in  the  path  of  glory  he  rode  on, 
Victorious    alway,     adding    praise    to 

praise  ; 
Till  full  of  honours,  not  of  years,  be- 
neath 
The    venom  of   the  infected  clime   he 

sunk, 
On     Coromandel's    coast,     completing 

there  50 

His  service,  only  when  his  life  was  spent. 

To  the  three  brethren,  Alexander's 
son 

(Sole  scion  he  in  whom  their  line  sur- 
vived). 

With  English  feeling,  and  the  deeper 


Of  fihal  duty,  consecrates  this  tomb. 
1827. 


XXXIX  (XLIV) 
EPITAPH 

To  Butler's  venerable  memory 

By  private  gratitude  for  pubhc  worth 

This  monument  is  raised,  here  where 

twelve  years 
Meekly  the  blameless  Prelate  exercised 
His    pastoral    charge ;     and    whither, 

though  removed 
A  little  while  to  Durham's  wider  See, 
His  mortal  rehcs  were  convey' d  to  rest. 
Born  in  dissent,  and  in  the  school  of 

schism 
Bred,  he  withstood  the  withering  in- 
fluence 
Of  that  unwholesome  nurture.     To  the 
Church,  10 

In  strength  of  mind  mature  and  judg- 
ment clear, 
A  convert,  in  sincerity  of  heart 
Seeking    the   truth,    deliberately   con- 
vinced, 
And  finding  there  the  tinith  he  sought, 

he  came. 
In    honour    must   his   high   desert   be 

held 
While  there  is  any  virtue,  any  praise  ; 
For  he  it  was  whose  gifted  intellect 
First  apprehended,  and  developed  first 
The  analogy  connate,  which  in  its  course 
And  constitution  Nature  manifests      20 
To  the  Creator's  word  and  \^ill  divine  ; 
And  in  the  depth  of  that  great  argument 
Laying  his  firm  foundation,  built  there- 
on 
Proofs  never  to  be  shaken  of  the  truths 
Reveal'  d  from  Heaven  in  mercy  to  man- 
kind ; 
Allying  thus  Philosophy  with  Faith, 
And  finding  in  things  seen  and  known, 

the  type 
And  evidence  of  those  within  the  veil. 


CARMEN   TRIUMPHALE 

FOR  THE  COMMENCEMKNT  OF   THE   VEAJl    isU 

'  Illi  justitiain  coiifinuavoro  triimiphi, 
TraesenU's  docuore  Deo.s.' — Claudian'. 

[PublL>hed  together  with  Carmina  Aulica  in  one  vohuno  in  1814.  The  first  four 
stanzas  were  published  in  The  Courier  for  January  8,  1814.  8oe  also  Note  tx)  Uie  '  Ode 
Written  during  the  Negotiations  with  Buonaj)arti>  in  January,  1814,'  p.  75.'). 

Some  extracts  from  Southey's  notes  to  tliis  Ode  are  printed  at  the  end  of  the  poem. 
They  are  of  interest  as  iUustrating  tlie  attitude  of  Jiritish  pohtioal  parties  during  the 
war'with  Napoleon,  and  the  mistaken  calculations  of  the  Edinburgh  Reiiexc.] 


In  happy  hour  doth  he  receive 

The  Laurel,  meed  of  fainou8  Bards  of 

yore, 

Which  Dryden  and  diviner  Spenser 

wore,  .  . 

In  happy  hour,  and  well  may  he  rejoice, 

Whose  earliest  task  must  be 

To  raise  the  exultant  hymn  for  victory, 

And  join  a  nation's  joy  with  harp  and 

voice,  [wind. 

Pouring  the  strain  of  triumph  on  the 

Glory  to  God,  his  song,  Deliverance 

for  Mankind  ! 


Wake,  lute  and  harp  !  My  soul  take 
up  the  strain  !  lo 

Glory  to  God  !  Deliverance  for  iVIan- 
kind! 
Joy,  .  .  for  all  Nations,  joy  !   But 

most  for  thee. 
Who  hast  so  nobly  till'd  thy  part 

assign' d,  [land  ! 

0  England  !   O  my  glorious  native 

For  thou  in  evil  days  didst  stand 

Against  leagued  Europe  all  in  arms 

array' d. 

Single  and  undismay'd, 

Thy  hope  in  Heaven  and  in  thine  ov^n 

right  hand. 

Now  are  thy  virtuous  efforts  overpaid. 

Thy  generous  counsels  now  their 

guerdon  find,  .  .  20 

(ilory  to  (lod  !   Deliverance  for 
Mankind ! 


Dread  was  the  strife,  for  mighty  was 

the  foo 
Who  sought  with  his  whole  strength 

thy  overthrow. 

The  Nations  bow'd  before  him;  some 

in  war 

Subdued,  some  yielding  to  8ui)erior  art  ; 

Submi.ss,  they  follow'dlxis  victorious  car. 

Their  Kings,  like  Satraps,  waited 

round  his  throne  ; 

For  Britain's  ruin  and  their  own. 

By  force  or  fraud  in  monstrous  league 

combined. 

Alone,  in  that  disastrous  hour,     30 

Britain  stood  firm  and  braved  his 

power  ; 

Alone  she  fought  the  battles  of  mankind. 

IV 
0  virtue  which,  above  all  former  fame, 

Exalts  her  venerable  name  ! 

O  joy  of  joys  for  every  Britisii  breast ! 

That  with  that  mighty  jx'ril  full  in 

view.  [true ! 

The  Queen  of  Ocean  to  herself  waa 

That  no  weak  heart,  no  abjett  mind 

posseH.s'  d 

Her  counsels,  to  abase  her  lofty  crest, .  . 

(Then  had  she  sunk  in  everlaating 

shame),  40 

But  ready  still  to  succour  the  op 
presfl'd. 
Her  Red  Cross  floated  on  the  wave* 

unfurl'd.  fwoHd 

OlftTuig  Bedrmption  to  the  groaninK 


us 


CARMEN   TRIUMPHALE 


First  from  his  trance  the  heroic 

Spaniard  woke ; 

His  chains  he  broke, 

And  casting  off  his  neck  the  treacherous 

yoke, 

He  call'd  on  England,  on  his  generous 

foe : 

For  well  he  knew  that  wheresoe'er 

Wise  policy  prevail' d,  or  brave  despair, 

Thither  would  Britain's  liberal 

succours  flow,  50 

Her  arm  be  present  there. 
Then,  too,  regenerate  Portugal 
display' d 
Her  ancient  virtue,  dormant  all-too- 
long. 
Rising  against  intolerable  wrong. 
On  England,  on  her  old  ally,  for  aid 
The  faithful  nation  call'd  in  her 

distress : 

And  well  that  old  ally  the  call 

obey'd, 

Well  was  that  faithful  friendship  then 

repaid. 


Say  from  thy  trophied  field  how  well, 

Vimeiro  !  Rocky  Douro  tell  !       60 

And  thou,  Busaco,  on  whose  sacred 

height 

The  astonished  Carmelite, 

While  those  unwonted  thunders  shook 

his  cell, 
Join'd  with  his  prayers  the  fervour  of 

the  fight. 
Bear  witness  those  old  Towers,^  where 

many  a  day 
Waiting  with  foresight  calm  the  fitting 

hour. 
The  Wellesley,  gathering  strength  in 
wise  delay, 
Defied  the  Tyrant's  undivided 
power. 
Swore  not  the  boastful  Frenchman  in 
his  might,  69 

Into  the  sea  to  drive  his  Island-foe  ? 
Tagus  and  Zezere,  in  secret  night. 
Ye  saw  that  host  of  ruffians  take  their 
flight ! » 
And  in  the  Sun's  broad  light 
Onoro's  Springs'  beheld  their  over- 
throw. 


Patient  of  loss,  profuse  of  life. 

Meantime  had  Spain  endured  the  strife  ; 

And  though  she  saw  her  cities  yield. 

Her  armies  scatter' d  in  the  field, 

Her  strongest  bulwarks  fall ;       79 

The  danger  undismay'd  she  view'd, 

Knowing  that  nought  could  e'er  appal 

The  Spaniards'  fortitude.* 
What  though  the  Tyi-ant,  drunk  with 

power. 

Might  vaunt  himself,  in  impious  hour, 

Lord  and  Disposer  of  this  earthly  ball  ? 

Her  cause  is  just,  and  Heaven  is 

over  all. 


Therefore  no  thought  of  fear  debased 

Her  judgment,  nor  her  acts  disgraced. 

To  every  ill,  but  not  to  shame  resign' d. 

All  sufferings,  all  calamities  she  bore. 

She  bade  the  people  call  to  mind   91 

Their  heroes  of  the  days  of  yore, 

Pelayo  and  the  Campeador,* 

With  all  who,  once  in  battle  strong. 

Lived  still  in  story  and  in  song. 

Against  the  Moor,  age  after  age, 

Their  stubborn  warfare  did  they  wage ; 

Age  after  age,  from  sire  to  son, 

The  hallowed  sword  was  handed  down  ; 

Nor  did  they  from  that  warfare  cease, 

And  sheathe  that  hallow' d  sword  in 

peace,  loi 

Until  the  work  was  done. 


Thus,  in  the  famous  days  of  yore. 

Their  fathers  triumph' d  o'er  the  Moor. 

They  gloried  in  his  overthrow. 

But  touch' d  not  with  reproach  his 

gallant  name ; 

For  fairly,  and  with  hostile  aim  profest. 

The  Moor  had  rear'd  his  haughty  crest, 

An  open,  honourable  foe  ; 
But  as  a  friend  the  treacherous  French- 
man came,  no 
And  Spain  received  him  as  a  guest. 
I         Think  what  your  fathers  were ! 
I                            she  cried, 
!  Think  what  ye  are,  in  sufferings  tried  ; 

And  think  of  what  your  sons  must 
I  be  .  ."^ 

Even  as  ye  make  them  .  .  slaves  or  free! 


CARMEN  TRIUMPHALE 


449 


Strains  such  as  these  from  Spain's 

three  seas. 

And  from  the  fartliest  Pyrenees, 

Rung  through  the  region.     Vengeance 

was  the  word  ; 
One  impulse  to  all  hearts  at  once  was 

given  ; 
From  ovoiy  voice  the  sacred  cry  was 

hoard,  120 

And  borne  abroad  by  all  the  winds  of 

Heaven. 
Heaven  too,  to  whom  the  Spaniards 

look'd  for  aid, 

A  spirit  equal  to  the  hour  bestow' d  ; 

And  gloriously  the  debt  they  paid. 

Which  to  their  valiant  ancestors  they 

owed ;  [France 

And  gloriously  against  the  power  of 

Maintain' d  their  children's  proud 

inheritance. 

Their  steady  purpose  no  defeat  could 

move,  [mind ; 

No  horrors  could  abate  their  constant 

Hope  had  its  source  and  resting-place 

above,  130 

And  they,  to  loss  of  all  on  earth 

resign' d, 

Suffer  d,  to  save  their  country,  and 

mankind. 

What  strain  heroic  might  suffice  to  tell, 

How  Zaragoza  stood,  and  how  she  fell? 

Ne'er  since  yon  sun  began  his  daily 

round. 

Was  higher  virtue,  holier  valour,  found 

Than  on  that  consecrated  ground. 


Alone  the  noble  Nation  stood, 
When  from  Coruna,  in  the  main. 
The  star  of  England  set  in  blood.  140 

Ere  long  on  Talavera's  plain. 

That  star  resplendent  ro.se  again  ; 

And  though  that  day  was  doom'd  to  l>c 

A  day  of  frustrate  victory. 

Not  vainly  bled  the  brave  ; 

For  French  and  Spaniard  there  might 

see  [save ; 

That  England's  arm  was  strong  to 

Fair  promise  there  the  Wellesley  gave, 

And  well  in  sight  of  earth  and  Heaven 

Did  he  redeem  the  pledge  which  there 

was  given.  150 


XII 


Lord  of  r<)n.|U08t,  lu'ir  r.f  Fftnic. 

From  rescued  Portugal  ho  cawo. 

Kodrigo'.s  wiili.s  in  vain  opjxx-..  ; 

Jn  vain  (hy  l»ulwarkH.  Badiijoz  ;  ' 

And  Salamanca's  heigiits  pnK-laim 

The  Conqueror'.s  j^rai.se,  the  Wollctjiey's 

name. 

Oh,  had  the  sun  stood  still  that 

hour, 
When  Marmont  and  his  broken 

jxiwcr 

Fled  from  their  Held  of  ehame  ! 

Spain  felt  through  all  her  realms  the 

electric  blow  ;  160 

Cadiz  in  peace  expands  her  gates 

again  ; 
And  Beti.s,  who,  to  bondage  long 

resign' d. 
Flow'd  mournfully  along  the  silent 

])lain. 

Into  her  joyful  bosom  unconfined 

Receives  once  more  the  treasures  of 

the  main. 

XIII 

What  now  shall  check  the  Wellesley, 
when  at  length 
Onward  he  goes,  rejoicing  in  his 
strength  ? 
From  Douro,  from  Castillo's  extended 
plain. 
The  foe,  a  numerous  band. 
Retire  ;   amid  the  heights  which  over- 
hang 170 
Dark  Ebro's  bed.  they  think  to  make 

their  stand. 

He  reads  their  i)urpose.  and  prevents 

their  speed  ; 

And  still  as  they  recede, 

Impetuously  ho  pre.s.se8  on  their 

way ; 

Till  by  Vittoria'fl  walls  they  stood  at 

bay. 
And  drew  their  battle  up  in  fair  array. 


Vain  their  array,  their  valour  vain 

There  did  the  practised  Frrnchmnn 

find 

A  master  arm,  a  master  mind  ! 

Behold  his  veteran  army  driven    i«o 

Like  dust  before  tho  bn>ath  «if  H«viv«»fi, 


450 


CARMEN  TRIUMPHALE 


Like  leaves  before  tbe  autumnal 

The  yoke  is  broken  now  :  .  .  A 

w-ind ! 

mightier  hand 

Now,  Britain,  now  thv  brow  with 
laurels  bind ; 

Hath  dash'd,  .  .  in  pieces  dash'd,  .  . 

the  iron  rod. 

Raise  now  the  song  of  joy  for  rescued 

To  meet  her  Princes,  the  deliver' d 

Spain  ! 

land 

And  Europe,  take  thou  up  the 

Pours  her  rejoicing  multitudes  abroad; 

awakening  strain  .  . 

The  happy  bells,  from  every  town 

Glory  to  God  !  Deliverance  for  Man- 

and tower, 

kind  ! 

Roll  their  glad  peals  upon  the  joyful 

wind  ; 
And  from  all  hearts  and  tongues,  with 

XV 

From  Spain  the  living  spark  went 

one  consent. 

forth : 

The  high  thanksgiving  strain  to  heaven 

The  flame  hath  caught,  the  flame  is 

is  sent,  .  . 

spread  ! 

Glory  to  God  !  Deliverance  for 

It  warms,  .  .  it  fires  the  farthest  North. 

Mankind  ! 

Behold!  the  awaken' d Muscovite   190 

Meets  the  Tyrant  in  his  might ;  ^ 

xvn 

The  Brandenburg,  at  Freedom's  call, 

Egmont  and  Horn,  heard  ye  that  holy 

Rises  more  glorious  from  his  fall ; 

cry,                           220 

And  Frederick,  best  and  greatest  of 

Martyrs  of  Freedom,  from  your  seats 

the  name. 

in  Heaven  ? 

Treads  in  the  path  of  duty  and  of 

And  William  the  Deliverer,  doth  thine 

ame. 

eye 

See  Austria  from  her  painful  trance 

Regard  from  yon  empyreal  realm  the 

awake  ! 

land 

The  breath  of  God  goes  forth,  .  .  the 

For  which  thy  blood  was  given  ? 

dry  bones  shake  ! 

What  ills  hath  that  poor  Country 

Up  Germany  !  .  .  with  all  thy  nations 

suffer' d  long  ! 

rise  ! 

Deceived,  despised,  and  plunder' d,  and 

Land  of  the  virtuous  and  the  wise. 

oppress' d. 

No  longer  let  that  free,  that  mighty 

Mockery  and  insult  aggravating 

mind,                         200 

wrong ! 

Endure  its  shame  !  She  rose  as  from 

Severely  she  her  errors  hath  atoned. 

the  dead. 

And  long  in  anguish  groan' d, 

She  broke  her  chains  upon  the  op- 

Wearing the  patient  semblance  of 

pressor's  head  .  .  ^ 

despair,                        230 

Glory  to  God  !  DeHverance  for  Man- 

While fervent  curses  rose  \\ith  every 

kind  ! 

prayer: 

In  mercy  Heaven  at  length  its  ear 

XVI 

inclined ; 

Open  thy  gates,  0  Hanover  !  display 

The  avenging  armies  of  the  North 

Thy  loyal  banners  to  the  day  ; 

draw  nigh, 

Receive  thy  old  illustrious  line  once 

Joy  for  the  injured  Hollander  !  .  .  the 

more  ! 

cry 

Beneath  an  Upstart's  yoke  opprest. 

Of  Orange  rends  the  sky  ! 

Long  hath  it  been  thy  fortune  to 

All  hearts  are  now  in  one  good  cause 

deplore 

combined,  .  . 

That  line,  whose  fostering  and  paternal 

Once  more  that  flag  triumphant  floats 

sway 

on  high,  .  . 

So  many  an  age  thy  grateful  children 

Glory  to  God  !  Deliverance  for 

blest.                         210 

Mankind ! 

CARMEN  TRIUMPHALE 


451 


XVIII 

When  shall  the  Dovo  go  forth  ?  Oh     \ 
when  i 

Shall  Peace  return  anionic'  the  Sons  of    I 
Men  ?  240  I 

Hasten  benignant  Heaven  the  blessed 
day  ! 
Justice  must  go  before. 
And  Retribution  must  make  plain  the 
way  ; 
Force  must  be  crushed  by  Force, 
The  power  of  EWl  by  the  power  of 

Good, 

Ere  Order  bless  the  suffering  world 

once  more, 

Or  Peace  return  agaui. 

Hold  then  right  on  in  your  auspicious 

course, 
Ye  Princes,  and  ye  People,  hold  right 
on  ! 
Your  task  not  yet  is  done  :       250 


Pursue  the  blow,  .  .  yo  know  your 

foe,  .  . 
Comi)lo(o  the  happy  work  bo  w»iI1 

l)egini. 

Hold  on.  and  bo  your  aim  with  all 

your  strongth 

Loudly  proclaim' d  and  stoadily 

pursued  ; 

80  shall  this  fatal  Tyranny  at  length 

Before  the  arms  of  Freedom  fall 

subdued. 

Then,  when  the  waters  of  the  flood 

abate, 

The  Dove  her  resting-place  secure  may 

find: 
And  France  restored,  and  shaking  ofT 

her  chain. 

Shall  join  the  Avengers  in  the  joyful 

strain,  260 

Glory  to  God  !  Deliverance  for 

^lankind  ! 


NOTES  TO  CARMEN  TRIUMPHALE 


1  Torres  Vedras.  Turres  Veteres,  .  .  a 
name  so  old  as  to  have  been  given  when  the 
Latin  tongue  was  the  language  of  Portugal. 
This  town  is  said  to  have  been  founded  by 
the  Turduli,  a  short  time  before  the  com- 
mencement of  the  Christian  /Era. 

In  remembering  the  lines  of  Torres  Vedras, 
the  opinion  of  the  wise  men  of  the  North 
ought  not  to  be  forgotten,  '  If  they  (the 
French)  do  not  make  an  effort  to  drive  us 
out  of  Portugal,  it  is  because  we  are  better 
there  than  any  where  else.  We  fear  they 
will  not  leave' us  on  the  Tagus  many  days 
longer  than  suits  their  o\ni  purposes.' — 
Edinburgh  Review,  No.  XXVII,  p.  203. 

The  opinion  is  delivered  with  happy  pre- 
cision of  language :  .  .  Our  troops  were 
indeed,  to  use  the  same  neat  and  felicitous 
expre.ssion,  '  better  there  than  any  where 
else.' 

2  No  cruelties  recorded  in  history  exceed 
those  which  were  systematically  committed 
by  the  French  during  their  retreat  from 
Portugal.  '  Their  conduct,'  (says  Lord 
Wellington  in  hLs  dispatch  of  the  14th  of 
March,  1811,)  '  throughout  this  retreat,  has 
been  marked  by  a  barbarity  seldom  equalled, 
and  never  surpassed. 

'  Even  in  the  towns  of  Torres  Novas, 
Thomar,  and  Pernes,  in  which  the  head- 


I  quarters  of  some  of  the  corps  had  been  for 
I  four  months,  and  in  which  the  inhabitants 
j  had  been  induced  by  promises  of  good  treat- 
ment to  remain,  they  were  plundered,  and 
many  of  their  houses  destroyed  on  the  night 
the  enemy  witlidrew  from   their  position  ; 
and  they  liave  since  burnt  ever}'  town  arul 
'  village   through   which   they   have   p.xssod. 
The   Convent  of   Alcoba^uwas   burnt   by 
!  order  from  the  French  head-quarters.     The 
I  Bishop's   Palace,   and   the  whole   town   of 
!  Leyria,  in  which  General  Drouet  had  had 
j  his  head-quarters,   shared   the  s.ain**   fate ; 
and  there  is  not  an  inhabitant  of  the  countr}*, 
of  any  class  or  descrijition,  who  hns  had  any 
dealing  or  coiiununieation  with  the  French 
army  who  has  not  had  reast)n  to  repent  of 
:  it,   or   to   complain   of   them.     This  Is   the 
j  mode  in  which  the  promises  have  Ixvn  per- 
I  formed,  and  the  a'^uranc«'s  have  Imvu  ful- 
'  fille<l,  which  were  held  out  in  tlie  pro.  l.iMia- 
tion  of  tlif  French  coiiunandi-r-in-thn'f,  in 
which  he  told  the  inhabitants  of  rortiijfal, 
j  that  he  was  not  come  to  make  war  upon 
I  them,   but  with   a  powerfid  anny  of  ono 
I  hundred  and  ten  thousand  nun  to  driv.«  the 
!  English  into  the  sea.     It  Is  to  be  IiotmhI,  tJiat 
I  the  example  of  what  lias  (xviimxl  in  thiM 
I  country  will  tearh  the  jMViple  ofrthin  aiid 
i  other  nations  what  v;due  they  ouglit  to  pla<^ 


452 


NOTES  TO   CARMEN  TRIUMPHALE 


on  such  promises  and  assurances,  and  that, 
there  is  no  security  for  hfe  or  for  any  thing 
that  renders  Hfe  valuable,  except  in  decided 
resistance  to  the  enemy.' 

As  exact  an  account  of  these  atrocities 
was  collected  as  it  was  possible  to  obtain,  .  . 
and  that  record  will  for  ever  make  the 
French  name  detested  in  Portugal.  In  the 
single  diocese  of  Coimbra,  2,969  persons, 
men,  women,  and  children,  were  murdered, 
.  ,  every  one  with  some  shocking  circum- 
stance of  aggravated  cruelty.  .  .  '  Nem 
huma  s6  das  2969  mortem  com'mettidas  pelo 
inimigo  deixou  de  ser  atroz  e  dolorosissima.' 
(Breve  Memoria  dos  Estragos  Causados  no 
Bispado  de  Coimbra  pelo  Exercito  Francez, 
commandado  pelo  General  Massena.  Extra- 
hida  das  Enformagoens  que  deram  os 
Reverendos  Parocos,  e  remettida  a  Junta 
dos  Socorros  da  Subscripsam  Britannica, 
pelo  Reverendo  Provisor  Governador  do 
mesmo  Bispado,  p.  12.)  Some  details  are 
given  in  this  brief  Memorial.  '  A  de  tel 
forfaits,'  says  J.  J.  Rousseau,  '  celui  qui 
detourne  ses  regards  est  un  lache,  un 
deserteur  de  la  justice :  la  veritable 
humanite  les  envisage  pour  les  connoitre, 
pour  les  juger,  pour  les  detester.'  {Le 
Livite  d'Ephraim.)  I  will  not,  however,  in 
this  place  repeat  abominations  which  at 
once  outrage  humanity  and  disgrace  human 
nature. 

When  the  French,  in  1792,  entered  Spire, 
some  of  them  began  to  commit  excesses 
which  would  soon  have  led  to  a  general 
sack.  Custine  immediately  ordered  a  cap- 
tain, two  officers,  and  a  whole  company  to 
be  shot.  This  dreadful  example,  he  told 
the  National  Convention,  he  considered  as 
the  only  means  of  saving  the  honour  of  the 
French  nation,  .  .  and  it  met  with  the 
approbation  of  the  whole  army.  But  the 
French  armies  had  not  then  been  systemati- 
cally brutalized.  It  was  reserved  for 
Buonaparte  to  render  them  infamous,  as 
well  as  to  lead  them  to  destruction. 

The  French  soldier,  says  Capmany,  is 
executioner  and  robber  at'  the  same  time  : 
he  leaves  the  unhappy  \\Tetch  who  is 
delivered  over  to  his  mercy,  naked  to  the 
skin,  .  .  stripping  off  the  clothes  that  they 
may  not  be  torn  by  the  musket-shot !  .  . 
The  pen  falls  from  my  hand,  and  I  cannot 
proceed  ! 

'  Para  que  se  jimte  A  esta  crueldad  la 
mayor  infamia,  el  soldado  Frances  es  ver- 
dugo  y  ladron  en  una  pieza  ;  dexa  en  cueros 
vivos  al  malaventurado  que  entregan  k  su 
discrecion,  quitandole  la  ropa  antes  que  los 


fusilazos  se  la  destrozen.  La  pluma  se  cae 
de  la  mano,  y  no  puede  proseguir.' — Cen- 
tinela,  contra  Franceses,  P.  ii,  p.  35. 

Yet  the  Edinburgh  Review  says,  '  the 
hatred  of  the  name  of  a  Frenchman  in  Spain 
has  been  such  as  the  reality  Avill  by  no 
means  justify ;  and  the  detestation  of  the 
French  government  has,  among  the  inferior 
orders,  been  carried  to  a  pitch  wholly 
unauthorized  by  its  proceedings  towards 
them.'— No.  XXVII,  p.  262.  This  passage 
might  be  read  with  astonishment,  if  any 
thing  absurd,  any  thing  mischievous,  or 
any  thing  false,  could  excite  surprise  when 
it  comes  from  that  quarter. 

3  Fuentes  d'Onoro.  This  name  has  some- 
times been  rendered  Fountains  of  Honour, 
by  an  easy  mistake,  or  a  pardonable  licence. 

4  '  The  fate  of  Spain,  we  think,  is  decided, 
and  that  fine  and  misguided  country  has 
probably  yielded,  by  this  time,  to  the  fate 
which  has  fallen  on  the  greater  part  of 
continental  Europe.  Her  European  do- 
minions hax'e  yielded  already  to  the  unrelaxing 
grasp  of  the  insatiable  conqueror.^ — Edin- 
burgh Beview,  No.  XXVI,  p.  298. 

'  The  fundamental  position  which  we 
ventured  to  lay  doAAti  respecting  the  Spanish 
question  was  this  :  .  .  that  the  spirit  of  the 
people,  however  enthusiastic  and  universal, 
was  in  its  nature  more  uncertain  and  short- 
lived, more  likely  to  be  extinguished  by 
reverses,  or  to  go  out  of  itself  amidst  the 
delays  of  a  protracted  contest,  than  the 
steady,  regular,  moderate  feeling  which 
calls  out  disciplined  troops,  and  marshals 
them  under  known  leaders,  and  supplies 
them  by  systematic  arrangements :  .  .  a 
proposition  so  plain  and  obvious,  that  if  it 
escaped  ridicule  as  a  truism,  it  might  have 
been  reasonably  expected  to  avoid  the 
penalties  of  heresy  and  paradox.  The  event 
has  indeed  icoefully  proved  its  truth.' — Edin- 
burgh Review,  No.  XXVII,  p.  246. 

These  gentlemen  could  see  no  principle 
of  permanence  in  the  character  of  the 
Spaniards,  and  no  proof  of  it  in  their  history; 
.  .  and  they  could  discover  no  principle  "of 
dissolution  in  the  system  of  Buonaparte;  .  . 
a  system  founded  upon  force  and  falsehood, 
in  direct  opposition  to  the  interest  of  his 
own  subjects  and  to  the  feelings  of  human 
nature. 

5  The  Cid,  Rodrigo  Diaz  de  Bivar. 

^  '  Ecce  iterum  Crispinus  !  '  What  says 
the  Edinburgh  Review  concerning  Russia  ? 
*  Considering  how  little  that  power  has 
shown  itself  capable  of  effecting  for  the 
salvation  of  Europe,  .  .  how  wretched  the 


NOTES   TO   CARMEN   TK1UM141ALE 


4^3 


state  of  its  subjects  is  under  the  present 
government,  .  .  how  trifling  an  acquisition 
of  strength  the  common  enemy  could  expect 
to  obtain  from  the  entire  possession  of  its 
resources,  we  acknowledge  that  we  should 
contem])late  with  great  composure  any 
change  which  might  lay  the  foundation  of 
future  imjtrovement,  and  scatter  the  forces 
of  France  over  the  dominion  of  the  Czars.' — 
No.  XXVIII,  p.  400. 

Tiiis  is  a  choice  passage.  The  reasoning 
is  worthy  of  the  writer's  judgement,  the 
feeling  perfectly  consistent  with  his  liheralil;/, 
and  the  conclusion  as  consistent  Mith  his 
politics. 

■^  Hear  the  Edinburgh  Reviewer  !  '  It 
Avould  be  as  chimerical  to  expect  a  mutiny 
among  the  vassal  states  of  France  who  are 
the  most  impatient  of  her  yoke,  as  amongst 
the  inhabitants  of  Bourdeaux,  or  the  con- 
scripts of  the  year  1808  and  1809.  In 
making  this  comparison,  we  are  indeed 
putting  the  case  much  more  strongly  against 


France  than  the  fuct«  wurraiit,  for  with  Uio 
execution  of  Holhuid,  and  the  Stulrj*  into 
which  the  con.scri[iUon  h.i.s  been  inlroiliice*!, 
either  innnediatdy,  or  by  nu-aas  of  Im^n 
requisitions  of  men  mailc  to  (h.-ir  (iovern- 
ments,*  the  cluuig.'s  elT.Htixl  by  the  French 
invasion  have  been  favourable  to  thn 
individual  !»appine.s.s  of  the  inhabit-ant«  t,  no 
that  the  hatrcxl  of  France  is  liabli'  to  con- 
siderable diminution,  in;Lsmuch  -.is  the 
national  antipathy  and  si)irit  of  indcjK'n- 
dence  are  gradually  unclerniintHJ  by  tho 
solid  benelits  which"  th<'  change  of  niaslcm 
h;w  conferred.'— No.  XXVIII,  p.  158. 

Great  as  a  statesman,  |)rofound  an  a 
philosopher,  amiable  as  an  optimist  of  the 
Pangloss  school,  .  .  but  not  altogether  for- 
tunate as  a  Prophet ! 

*  N.B.  These  little  excipti<>iis  include  all 
tlic  countries  wliicli  wero  annexed  to  the 
French  Knipire,  all  Italy,  and  all  tlic  Statca  of 
the  Confederation  of  the  Hliine. 

t  Particularly  tliu  commercial  jart  of  tlicm. 


EPISTLE  TO  ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM 


[First  published  in  The  Anniccrsari/,  1829. J 


I    Well,    Heaven    be    thank' d !     friend 

Allan,  here  I  am, 
Once  more  to  that  dear  dwelling  place 

return  d, 
Where  I  have  pass'd  the  whole  mid  stage 

of  hfe, 
Not  idly,  certes  ;   not  unwortliily,  .  . 
Ho  let  me  hope  :    where  Time  upon  my 

head 
Hath  laid  his  frore  and  monitory  hand  ; 
And  when  tliis  iX)or  frail  earthly  taber- 
nacle 
Shall  be  dissolved,  .  .  it  matters  not  how 

soon 
Or  late,  in  God's  good  time,  .  .  where 

I  would  fain 
Be  gathered  to  my  cliildren,  earth  to 

earth.  lo 

Needless  it  were  to  say  how  willingly 
I  bade  tho  huge  metropolis  farewell. 
Its  din,  and  dust,  and  dirt,  and  smoke, 

and  smut, 
Thames'   watei',   paviour's  ground,  and 

London  sky  ; 


^V'eary    of    hurried    days    and    rcstleaa 

nights, 
Watchmen,  whoso  oflico  is  to  murder 

sleep 
When  sleep  might  else  have  wcigh'd 

one's  eyelids  down, 
Rattle  of  carriages,  and  roll  of  carta, 
And  tramp  of  iron  hoofs  ;    and  worse 

than  all,  .  . 
C'onfusion  being  worse  confounded  then, 
With    coachmen's    (luarrels    and    with 

footmen's  shouts,  21 

My  next-door  neighbours,  in  a  street  not 

yet 
Macadamized,  (mo  miserable  \)  af  home  \ 
For  then  had  wo  from  midnight  until 

morn 
House-quakes,      street- thunders,     and 

door- batteries. 
0  tJovernmont !  in  thy  wisdom  and  thy 

want. 
Tax  knockers;  .  .  in  comiwission  lo  tho 

sick. 
And  tlio.-o  whu.-^e  sober  habitu  are  not 

yet 


454 


EPISTLE  TO   ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM 


Inverted,  topsy-turvying  night  and  day, 

Tax  them  more  heavily  than  thou  hast 
charged  30 

Armorial  bearings  and  bepowder'd  pates. 

And  thou,  0  Michael,  ever  to  be  praised. 

Angelic  among  Taylors  !    for  thy  laws 

Antifuliginous,  extend  those  laws 

Till  every  chimney  its  own  smoke  con- 
sume, 

And  give  thenceforth   thy  dinners  un- 
lampoon'd. 

Escaping  from  all  this,  the  very  whirl 

Of  mail-coach  wheels  bound  outward 
from  Lad-lane, 

Was  peace  and  quietness.     Three  hun- 
dred miles 

Of  homeward  way  seem'd  to  the  body 
rest,  40 

And  to  the  mind  repose. 

Donne  ^  did  not  hate 

More  perfectly  that  city.     Not  for  all 

Its  social,  all  its  intellectual  joys,  .  . 

Which  having  touch' d,  I  may  not  con- 
descend 

To  name  aught  else  the  Demon  of  the 
place 

Might  for  his  lure  hold  forth  ; .  .  not  even 
for  these 

Would  I  forego  gardens  and  green- field 
walks. 

And  hedge-row  trees,   and  stiles,   and 

shady  lanes. 
And  orchards,  were  such  ordinary  scenes 
Alone  to  me  accessible  as  those  50 

Wherein  I  learnt  in  infancy  to  love 
The  sights  and  sounds  of  Nature;  .  . 

wholesome  sights 
Gladdening  the  eye  that  they  refresh  ; 

and  sounds 
Which,  when  from  life  and  happiness 

they  spring. 
Bear  with  them  to  the  yet  unharden'd 

heart 
A  sense  that  thrills  its  cords  of  sym- 
pathy ; 

1  This    poet    begins    his    second    Satire 
thus : — 

'  Sir,  though  (I  thank  God  for  it)  I  do  hate 
Perfectly  all  this  town,  yet  there  's  one  state 
In  all  ill  things  so  excellently  best, 
That  hate  towards  them  breeds  pity  towards 
the  rest.' 


Or,    when    proceeding    from    insensate 

things. 
Give  to  tranquillity  a  voice  wherewith 
To    woo    the    ear    and    win    the    soul 

attuned  ;  .  .  59 

Oh  not  for  all  that  London  might  bestow 
Would  I  renounce  the  genial  influences 
And  thoughts  and  feelings  to  be  found 

where'er 
We  breathe  beneath  the  open  sky,  and 

see 
Earth's  liberal  bosom.     Judge  then  by 

thyself, 
Allan,  true  child  of  Scotland,  .  .  thou 

who  art 
So  oft  in  spirit  on  thy  native  hills, 
And  yonder  Solway  shores,  .  .  a  poet 

thou. 
Judge  by  thyself  how  strong  the  ties 

which  bind 
A  poet  to  his  home ;    when,  .  .  making 

thus 
Large  recompense  for  all  that  haply  else 
Might    seem    perversely    or    unkindly 

done,  .  .  71 

Fortune  hath  set  his  happy  habitacle 
Among  the  ancient  hills,  near  mountain 

streams 
And  lakes  pellucid,  in  a  land  sublime 
And  lovely  as  those  regions  of  Romance 
Where  his  young  fancy  in  its  day-dreams 

roam'd, 
Expatiating  in  forests  wild  and  wide, 
Loegrian,  or  of  dearest  Faery-land. 

Yet,  Allan,  of  the  cup  of  social  joy 
No  man  drinks  freelier,  nor  with  heartier 

thirst,  80 

Nor  keener  relish,  where  I  see  around 
Faces  which  I  have  known  and  loved  so 

long. 
That  when  he  prints  a  dream  upon  my 

brain 
Dan    Morpheus    takes    them    for    his 

readiest  types. 
And  therefore  in  that  loathed  metro- 
polis 
Time  measured  out  to  m©  some  golden 

hours. 
They  were  not  leaden-footed  while  the 

clay 
Beneath  the  patient  touch  of  Chautrey's 

hand 


EPISTLE   TO   ALLAN   CUNNINGHAM 


455 


Grew  to  the  semblanceof  iny  linoamonts. 
Lit  up  in  memory's  landscape,  like  green 

spots  90 

Of  sunshine,  are  tlio  mornings,  when  in 

talk 
With  him  and  thee,  and  Bedford  (my 

true  friend 
Of  forty  yeai-s),  I  saw  the  work  proceed, 
JSubject  the  while  myself  to  no  restraint. 
But    pleasureably    in    frank    discourse 

engaged  : 
Pleased  too,  and  with  no  imbocoming 

pride 
To  think  this  countenance,  such  as  it  is, 
So  oft  by  rascally  mislikeness  wrong' d, 
Should  faithfully  to  those  who  in  his 

works 
Have  seen  the  inner  man  pourtray'd,  be 

shown,  100 

And  in  endui'ing  marble  should  partake 
Of  our  great  sculptor's  immortality. 

I  have  been  libell'd,  Allan,  as  thou 

knowest, 
Through  all  degrees  of  calumny ;    but 

they 
Who    fix    one's  name  for   public   sale 

beneath 
A  set  of  features  slanderously  unlike. 
Are   the   worst   libellers.     Against   the 

wrong 
Which  they  inflict  Time  hath  no  remedy. 
Injuries  there  are  which  Time  redresseth 

best, 
Being  more  sm*o  in  judgement,  though 

perhaps  no 

Slower  in  process  even  than  the  court 
Where  justice,  tortoise-footed  and  mole- 
eyed. 
Sleeps  undisturb'd,  fann'd  by  the  lulling 

wings 
Of  harpies  at  their  prey.     We  soon  live 

down 
Evil  or  good  report,  if  undeserved. 
Let  then  the  dogs  of  Faction  bark  and 

bay. 
Its  bloodhounds,  savaged  by  a  cross  of 

wolf, 
Its  full-bred  kennel  from  the  Blatant- 
beast  ; 
And  from  my  lady's  gay  veranda,  lot 
Her   pamj)er'd   lap-dog   with   liis   fetid 

breath  120 


In   bold   bravado  join,  and  snap  and 

growl, 
With  jxstulant  consoquentialnoee  olato, 
There  in  his  imbecility  at  once 
Ridiculous  and  aixio ;  though  all  give  cry, 
Whiggery's     sleek     8i)aniol8,     and     ita 

lurchers  lean. 
Its  iwodles  by  unlucky  training  marr'd, 
Mongrel  and  cur  and  bob-tail,  let  them 

yelp 
Till  weariness  and  hoarseness  shall  at 

length 
Silence  the  noisy  pack  ;    meantime  bo 

SU1X5 

I  will  not  stoop  for  stones  to  cast  among 

them.  130 

The  foumarts  and  the  skunks  may  bo 

secure 
In  their  own  scent ;   and  for  that  viler 

swarm. 
The  vermin  of  the  press,  both  those  that 

skip. 
And  those  that  creep  and  crawl,  I  do  not 

catch 
And  pin  thcni  for  exposure  on  the  page, 
Their  tilth  is  their  defence. 

But  I  appeal 
Against  the  limner's  and  the  graver's 

>vrong ; 
Their  evil  works  survive  them.    Bilder- 

dijk. 
Whom  I  am  privileged  to  call  my  friend, 
SufiFering  by  graphic  libels  in  likewise. 
Gave  his  wrath  vent  in  verse.    Would  I 

could  give  mi 

The  life  and  spirit  of  his  vigorous  Dutch, 
As  his  dear  consort  hath  transfused  my 

strains 
Into  her  native  speech  ;  and  made  them 

known 
On  Rhine  and  Yssel,  and  rich  Amstel's 

banks ; 
And  wheresoe'er  the  voice  of  Vonde!  still 
Is  heard,  and  still  Antonides  and  Hooft 
Are  Hving  agencies  ;   and  Father  Cata, 
The   household   poet,    teachcth   in   hifl 

songs 
The  love  of  all  things  lovely,  all  things 

pure :  »5<» 

Best   poet,    who   delights   the  cheerful 

mind 
Of  childhood.  storcH  with  moral  strength 

the  Ir-iuI 


456 


EPISTLE  TO   ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM 


Of  youth,  with  wisdom  maketh  mid-life 

rich, 
And  fills  with  quiet  tears  the  eyes  of  age. 

Hear    then   in   English   rhyme    how 
Bilderdijk 
Describes  his  wicked  portraits,  one  by 


'  A  madman   who  from   Bedlam   hath 
broke  loose ; 
An  honest  fellow  of  the  numskull  race; 
And  pappyer-headed  still,  a  very  goose 
Staring  with  eyes  agast  and  vacant 
face ;  i6o 

A    Frenchman    who    would   mirthfully 
display 
On  some  poor  idiot  his  malicious  wit ; 
And  lastly,  one  who,  train' d  up  in  the 
way 
Of  worldly  craft,  hath  not  forsaken  it, 
But    hath    served   Mammon    with    his 
whole  intent, 
A  thing  of  Nature's  worst  materials 
made, 
Low-minded,  stupid,  base  and  insolent. 
I,  .  .  I,  .  .  a  Poet,  .  .  have  been  thus 
pourtray'd. 
Can  ye  believe  that  my  true  effigy 

Among  these  vile  varieties  is  found  ? 
What  thought,  or  line,  or  word,  hath 
fallen  from  me  171 

In  all  my  numerous  works  whereon 
to  ground 
The  opprobrious  notion  ?   Safely  I  may 
smile 
At  these,  acknowledging  no  likeness 
here. 
But   worse  is  yet  to  come ;     so,   soft 
awhile  ! 
For  now  in  potter's  earth   must   I 
appear, 
And  in  such  workmanship,  that,  sooth 
to  say, 
Humanity  disowns  the  imitation, 
And  the  dolt  image  is  not  worth  its  clay. 
Then  comes  there  one  who  will  to 
admiration  180 

In  plastic  wax  my  perfect  face  present ; 
And  what  of  his  performance  comes 
at  last  ? 
Folly  itself  in  every  lineament ! 
Its  consequential  features  overcast 


With  the  coxcombical  and  shallow  laugh 

Of  one  who  would,  for  condescension, 

hide. 

Yet  in  his  best  behaviour,  can  but  half 

Suppress  the  scornfulness  of    empty 

pride.' 

'  And  who  is  Bilderdijk  ? '    methinks 

thou  sayest, 
A  ready  question  ;  yet  which,  trust  me, 

Allan,  190 

Would  not  be  ask'd,  had  not  the  curse 

that  came 
From  Babel,  dipt  the  wings  of  Poetry. 
Napoleon  ask'd  him  once  with  cold  fix'd 

look, 
'  Art  thou  then  in  the  world  of  letters 

known  ?  ' 
'  I  have  deserved  to  be,'  the  Hollander 
RepHed,  meeting  that  proud  imperial 

look 
With  calm  and  proper  confidence,  and 

eye 
As  Httle  wont  to  turn  away  abash' d 
Before  a  mortal  presence.     He  is  one 
Who  hath  received  upon  his  constant 

breast  200 

The  sharj^est  arrows  of  adversity  ; 
Whom  not  the  clamours  of  the  multitude 
Demanding  in  their  madness  and  their 

might 
Iniquitous  things,   could  shake  in  his 

firm  mind ; 
Nor  the  strong  hand  of  instant  tyranny, 
From  the  straight  path  of  duty  turn 

aside. 
But  who  in  public  troubles,  in  the  wreck 
Of  his  own  fortunes,   in  proscription, 

exile, 
Want,  obloquy,  ingratitude,  neglect, 
And  what  severer  trials  Providence    210 
Sometimes  inflicteth,  chastening  whom 

it  loves, 
In  all,  through  all,  and  over  all,  hath 

borne 
An  equal  heart,  as  resolute  toward 
The  world,  as  humbly  and  religiously 
Beneath    his    heavenly    Father's    rod 

resign'  d. 
Right-minded,  happy- minded,  righteous 

man, 
True  lover  of  his  country  and  his  kind  ; 
In  knowledge,  and  in  inexhaustive  stores 


EPISTLE   TO  ALLAN  CUNiNkNcillAM 


457 


of  native  genius  rich  ;   philosopher, 
Poet,    and   siige.     The   language   of    a 

iStato  220 

Inferior  in  illustrious  deeds  to  none. 
Hut  circumscribed  by  narrow  bounds, 

and  now 
Sulking  in  irrecoverable  decline, 
Hath   pent   witliin   its  sphere  a   name 

wherewith 
Europe  should  else  have  rung  from  side 

to  side. 

Such,    Allan,    is    the    Hollander    to 

whom 
Josteem  and  admiration  have  attach'd 
^!y  soul,  not  less  than  pre-consent  of 

mind, 
And  gratitude  for  benefits,  when  being 
A    stranger,    sick,    and    in    a    foreign 

land,  230 

He    took    me    like   a    brother    to    his 

house, 
And  ministered  to  me,  and  made  a  time 
W'liich  had  been  wearisome  and  careful 

else. 
So  pleasurable,  that  in  my  kalendar 
There  are  no  whiter  days.     'Twill  be  a 

joy 
For  us  to  meet  in  Heaven,  though  wo 

should  look 
Upon  eacli  other's  earthly  face  no  more. 
.    .    This   is   this   world's  complexion ! 

'  cheerful  thoughts 
Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind,'  and 

these  again 
'  ;ive  place  to  calm  content,  and  stead- 
fast hope,  240 
And  happy  faith  assured.  .  .  Return  we 

now, 
With  such  transition  as  our  daily  life 
Imposes  in  its  wholesome  discipline. 
To  a  lighter  strain  ;  and  from  the  gallery 
(Jf  the  Dutch  Poet's  mis-resemblances 
Pass  into  mine ;  where  I  shall  show  thee, 

Allan, 
Such  an  array  of  villainous  visages. 
That  if  among  them  all  there  were  but 

one 
Which  as  a  likeness  could  bo  proved 

upon  me. 
It   were  enough   to   make   nio  in   mere 

shame  250 

Take  up  an  alias,  and  forswear  myself. 


Whom  have  wo  tirst  ?   A  daiuty  geo« 

tleman. 
His  sleepy  eyes  half-clobod,  and  coua- 

tonanco 
To  no  expression  stronger  than  mi^ht 

suit 
A  simjKr,  capable  of  being  iuo\cd: 
Sawney  and  sontinicntal  ;    with  an  air 
So  lack-thought  and  so  lackadai.sycal, 
Vou  might  suppwe  the  volume  in  iiis 

hand 
Must  needs  bo  Zimmcrmann  on  Solitudo. 

Then  comoH  a  jovial  landlord,  who 

hath  made  it  360 

Part  of  his  trade  to  bo  the  shoeing  horn 
For    liis   commercial    customers.     (Jod 

Bacchus 
Hath  not  a  thirstier  votary.   Many  a  pipe 
Of  Porto's  vintage  hath  contributccl 
To  give  his  cheeks  that  deep  carmino 

engrain' d, 
And  many  a  runlet  of  right  Nantes,  I 

ween. 
Hath  suffer' d  percolation  through  that 

trunk. 
Leaving  behind  it  in  the  boozoy  eyea 
A  swoln  and  red  suffusion,  glazed  and 

dim. 

Our  next  is  in  the  evangelical  line,  270 
A  leaden- visagod  specimen  ;   demure. 
Because  ho  hath  put  on  his  Suiiday'a 

face  ; 
Dull  by  formation,  by  complexion  sad. 
By  bile,  opinions,  and  dyspepay  sour. 
One  of  the  sons  of  Jack,  .  .  I  know  not 

which. 
For  Jack  hath  a  most  numerous  pro- 
geny, .  . 
Made  up  for  Mr.  Colburn'a  Magazine 
This  pleasant  composite  ;    a  bust  8U1>« 

plied 
The  features ;    look,    exi)ro.Hsion,   char- 
acter. 
Are  of  the  artist's  fancy  and  fne  grace. 
Such  wa.s  that  fellow's  birth  and  ]>arcflt- 


ago. 


aSi 


The  rascal  proved  prolific ;    ono  of  hi4 

breed. 
By  Docteur  Pichot  intro<lutod  in  Franco, 
Passes     for     Monsieur     s.w.f.  ;       inul 

another,  .  . 
3 


458 


EPISTLE  TO   ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM 


An  uglier  miscreant  too,  .  .  the  brothers 
Schumann 

And  their  most  cruel  copper-scratcher 
Zschoch, 

From  Zwickau  sent  abroad  through 
Germany. 

I  wish  the  Schumen  and  the  copper- 
scratcher 

No  worse  misfortune  for  their  recom- 
pence, 

Than  to  encounter  such  a  cut-throat 
face  290 

In  the  Black  Forest  or  the  Odenwald. 

And  now  is  there  a  third  derivative 
From  Mr.   Colburn's  composite,  which 

late 
The   Arch- Pirate   Galignani   hath   pre- 
fix d, 
A  spurious  portrait  to  a  faithless  life, 
And  bearing  lyingly  the  libell'd  name 
Of  Lawrence,  impudently  there  insculpt. 

The  bust  that  was  the  innocent  fore- 
father 
To  all  this  base,  abominable  brood, 
I  blame  not,  Allan.     'Twas  the  work  of 
Smith,  300 

A  modest,  mild,  ingenious  man,  and  errs, 
Where  erring,  only  because  over-true, 
Too  close  a  likeness  for  similitude  ; 
Fixing  to  every  part  and  lineament 
Its  separate  character,  and  missing  thus 
That  which  results  from  all. 

Sir  Smug  comes  next ; 
Allan,  I  own  Sir  Smug  !   I  recognize 
That  visage  with  its  dull  sobriety  ; 
I  see  it  duly  as  the  day  returns, 
When  at  the  looking-glass  with  lather' d 
chin  310 

And  razor- weapon' d  hand  I  sit,  the  face 
Composed  and  apprehensively  intent 
Upon  the  necessary  operation 
About  to  be  perform'  d,  with  touch,  alas, 
Not  always  confident  of   hair-breadth 

skill. 
Even  in  such  sober  sadness  and  con- 
strain' d 
Composure  cold,  the  faithful  Painter's 

eye 
Had  fix'd  me  like  a  spell,  and  I  could  feel 
My  features  stiffen  as  he  glanced  upon 
them. 


And  yet  he  was  a  man  whom  I  loved 

dearly,  320 

My  fellow-traveller,  my  familiar  friend, 

My    household    guest.     But    when    he 

look'd  upon  me. 
Anxious  to  exercise  his  excellent  art. 
The  countenance  he  knew  so  thoroughly 
Was  gone,  and  in  its  stead  there  sate 
Sir  Smug. 

Under  the  graver's  hand,  Sir  Smug 

became 
Sir  Smouch,  .  .  a  son  of  Abraham.    Now 

albeit. 
For  rather  would  I  trace  my  lineage 

thence 
Than  with  the  oldest  line  of  Peers  or 

Kings 
Claim  consanguinity,  that  cast  of  fea- 
tures 330 
Would  ill  accord  with  me,  who  in  all 

forms 
Of  jDork,  baked,  roasted,  toasted,  boil'd 

or  broil' d. 
Fresh,  salted,  pickled,  seasoned,  moist 

or  dry. 
Whether  ham,  bacon,  sausage,  souse  or 

brawn. 
Leg,  bladebone,  baldrib,  griskin,  chine, 

or  chojD, 
Profess  myself  a  genuine  Philopig. 

It    was,    however,    as   a   Jew    whose 

portion 
Had  fallen  unto  him  in  a  goodly  land 
Of  loans,  of  omnium,  and  of  three  per 

cents, 
That  Messrs,   Percy  of  the  Anecdote- 
firm  340 
Presented  me  unto  their  customers. 
Poor  Smouch  endured  a  worse  judaiza- 

tion 
Lender  another  hand.     In  this  next  stage 
He  is  on  trial  at  the  Old  Bailey,  charged 
With  dealing  in  base  coin.     That  he  is 

guilty 
No  Judge  or  Jury  could  have  half  a 

doubt 
When  they  saw  the  culprit's  face  ;   and 

he  himself. 
As  you  may  plainly  see,  is  comforted 
By  thinking  he  has  just  contrived  to 


EPISTLE   TO   ALL.Vi\   CUx\MM;ilAM 


400 


Out  of  rope's  roach,  and  will  como  oil 

this  time  350 

For  tran.sportiitioii. 

Stand  thou  forth  for  trial, 
Now,  William  Dartou.  of  the  Society 
Of  Friends  ealled  Quakera  ;    thou  who 

in  4th  montii 
Uf  the  year  24.  on  Holborn  Hill, 
At  Xo.'")8..  didst  wilfully, 
Falsely,  and  knowing  it  was  falsely  done, 
Publish  upon  a  card,  as  Robert  Southey's. 
A  face  which  might  be  just  as  liko  Tom 

Fool's, 
Or  John,  or  Richard  Any-body-olso's  ! 
What  had  I  done  to  thoc,  thou  William 

Darton, 
That  thou  shouldst  for  the  lucre  of  base 

gain,  361 

Yea,  for  the  sake  of  tilthy  fourpenccs, 
Palm  on  my  coimtrymen  that  face  for 

mine  '! 

0  William    Darton,    lot    the    Yearly 

Meeting 
Deal  with  thee  for  that  falseness  !    All 

the  rest 
Are  traceable  ;   Smug's  Hebrew  family  ; 
The  German  who  might  properly  adorn 
A  gibbet  or  a  wheel,  and  Monsieur  Sootc, 
Sons  of  Fitzbust  the  Evangelical ;  .  . 

1  recognize  all  these  unlikcncsses,  370 
Spurious  abominations  though  they  be. 
Each  filiated  on  some  original ; 

But  thou,  Friend  Darton,  and .  .  observe 

me,  man. 
Only  in  courtesy,  and  quasi  Quaker, 
I  call  thee  Friend  !  .  .  hadst  no  original ; 
No  likeness  or  unlikeness,  silhouette. 
Outline,  or  plaster,  representing  me. 
Whereon  to  form  thy  misrejn-esentation. 
If  I  guess  rightly  at  the  pedigree 


Of  thy  bad  groataworth,  thou  didst  got 

a  barl)er  jg^ 

To  iKM-sonate  my  injured  Lauroatc«hip ; 
An  advertising  barber,  .  .  one  who  kiH|w 
A  bear,  and  when  ho  put.**  to  death  [toor 

Hruin 
Soils  his  grciwe,  fresh  a,s  from  tiio  carca*Hj 

cut. 
Pro  bono  {)ublico,  the  price  ikt  |)ound 
Twelve  shillings  and  no  more.     From 

such  a  barber, 

0  unfriend  Darton  !    was  timt  portrait 

made 

1  think,  or  jKradvcuture  from  his  block. 

Next  comes  a  minion  worthy  to  \)o  set 
In  a  wooden  frame  ;    and  here  1  might 

invoke  390 

Avenging  Nemesis,  if  I  did  not  feel 
Just  now  God  Cynthius  pluck  mo  by 

the  oar. 
But,  Allan,  in  what  shajxj  Go<I  Cynthius 

comes. 
And  wherefore  he  admonisheth  me  thus, 
Nor  thou  nor  I  will  tell  the  world;   here- 
after 
The   commentators,    my   Maloncs  and 

Rcids, 
May  if  they  can.     For  in  my  gallery 
Though    there    remaincth    undcscribcd 

good  store. 
Yet  '  of  enough  enough,  and  now  no 

more,' 
(As  honest  old  Cioorgo  Gascoigno  said 

of  yore.)  400 

Save  only  a  last  couplet  to  express 
That  I  am  always  truly  yours, 


K.S. 


Keswick,  August,  lti28. 


MADOC. 

f  OMNE  SOLUM  FORTl  PATRIA.' 

TO 

CHARLES  WATKIN  WILLIAMS  WYNN, 
THIS  POEM 

WAS   ORIGINALLY   INSCRIBED,    IN    1805, 

AS   A    TOKEN    OF    SIXTEEN   YEARS   OF   UNINTERRUPTED   FRIENDSHIP; 

AND    IS   NOW   RE-INSCRIBED    WITH   THE   SAME   FEELING, 

AFTER   AN   INTERVAL   OF    THIRTY-TWO. 


PREFACE   TO   THE    FIRST 
EDITION 

The  historical  facts  on  which  this 
Poem  is  founded  may  be  related  in  a  few 
words.  On  the  death  of  Owen  Gwyneth, 
king  of  North  Wales,  a.d.  1169,  his 
children  disputed  the  succession.  Yor- 
werth,  the  elder,  was  set  aside  without 
a  struggle,  as  being  incapacitated  by  a 
blemish  in  his  face.  Hoel,  though 
illegitimate,  and  born  of  an  Irish 
mother,  obtained  possession  of  the 
throne  for  a  while,  till  he  was  defeated 
and  slain  by  David,  the  eldest  son  of  the 
lat-e  king  by  a  second  wife.  The  con- 
queror, who  then  succeeded  without 
opposition,  slew  Yorworth,  imprisoned 
Rodri,  and  hunted  others  of  his  brethren 
into  exile.  But  Madoc,  meantime, 
abandoned  his  barbarous  country,  and 
sailed  away  to  the  West  in  search  of 
some  better  resting-place.  The  land 
which  he  discovered  pleased  him  :  he 
left  there  part  of  his  people,  and  went 
back  to  Wales  for  a  fresh  supply  of 
adventurers,  with  whom  he  again  set 
sail,  and  was  heard  of  no  more.  Strong 
evidence  has  been  adduced  that  he 
reached  America,  and  that  his  posterity 
exist  there  to  this  day,  on  the  southern 
branches  of  the  Missouri,  retaining  their 
complexion,  their  language,  and,  in 
some  degree,  their  arts. 


About  the  same  time,  the  Aztecas,  an 
American  tribe,  in  consequence  of  cer- 
tain   calamities,    and    of    a    particular 
omen,     forsook     Aztlan,     their     own\ 
country,  under  the  guidance  of  Yuhid-|^ 
thiton.     They  became  a  mighty  people, 
and  founded  the  Mexican  empire,  taking 
the  name  of  Mexicans,   in   honour  of 
MexitU,  their  tutelary  god.     Their  emi- 
gration   is    here    connected    with    the 
adventures  of  Madoc,  and  their  super- 
stition is  represented  as  the  same  which  |- 
their  descendants  practised,  when  dis- 
covered by  the  Spaniards.     The  man- 
ners of  the  Poem,  in  both  its  parts,  will 
be  found  historically  true.     It  assumes 
not  the  degraded  title  of  Epic  :  and  the 
question,  therefore,  is  not  whether  the  , 
story  is  formed  upon  the  rules  of  Aris-  ~ 
totle,  but  whether  it  be  adapted  to  the 
purposes  of  poetry. 

Keswick,  1805. 

'  Three  things  must  be  avoided  in  Poetry ; 
the  frivolous,  the  obscure,  and  the  super- 
fluous. 

'  The  three  excellencies  of  Poetry ;  sim- 
plicity of  language,  simplicity  of  subject, 
and  simplicity  of  invention. 

'  The  three  indispensable  purities  of 
Poetry ;  pure  truth,  pure  language,  and 
pure  nianner.s. 

'  Three  things  should  all  Poetry  be ; 
thoroughly  erudite,  thoroughly  animated, 
and  thoroughly  natural.' — Triads. 


THE    RETURN  TO  WALES 


461 


COitE,  USTEX  TO  A  TALE  OP  TfMKS  OF  OLD  ! 
COME,  FOR  YE  KNOW  ME.     I  AM  HE  WHO  SANO 
THE  MAID  OF  ARC,  AND  I  AM  HK  WHO  FRAMED 
OF  THALAUA  THE  WILD  AND  WONDROUS  SONQ. 
COire,    LISTEN    TO   MY    LAY,    AND    YE    SHALL 

HEAR 
HOW  MADOC  FROM  THE  SHORES   OF  BRITAIN 

SPREAD 


THE     ADVENTUROITS     SAIL,     EXPLORED     THE 

OCEAN  PATHS, 
AND      QVELLED      RARRARIAN      POWER,      AND 

OVERTHREW 
THE  ni-OODY  ALTARS  OF  IIXU.VTRV, 
AND  PLANTED  IN  ITS  FANES  TRIl  MPHANTLY 
THE    CROSS    OF    CHRIST.       COME,    LISTEN    TO 

MY  LAY  ! 


MADOC   IN   WALES:    PART   I 


I.    THE   RETURN  TO   WALES 

Fair  blows  the  wind. .  .  the  vessel  drive.s 

along. 
Her  streamers  fluttering  at  their  length, 

her  sails 
All  full,  .  .  she  drives  along,  and  round 

her  prow 
Scatters  the  ocean  spray.    What  feelings 

then 
Fiird  every  bosom,  when  the  mariners, 
I  After  the  j^eril  of  that  weary  way, 
7  Beheld  their  own  dear  country  !    Hero 

stands  one 
Stretching  his  sight  toward  the  distant 

shore, 
And  as  to  well-known  forms  his  busy 

joy 

Shapes  the  dim  outline,  eagerly  he 
points  10 

The  fancied  headland  and  the  cape  and 
bay. 

Till  his  eyes  ache  o'erstraining.  This 
man  shakes 

His  comrade's  hand  and  bids  him  wel- 
come home. 

And  blesses  Ood,  and  then  ho  weeps 
aloud  : 

Hero  stands  another,  wlio  in  secret 
prayer 

Calls  on  the  Virgin  and  his  patron  Saint, 

Renewing  his  old  vows  of  gifts  and 
alms 

And  pilgrimage,  so  he  may  find  all  well. 

Silent  and  thoughtful  and  apart  from  all 

Stood  Madoc  ;   now  his  noble  onterprizo 

Proudly  remembering,  now  in  dreams  of 
hope,  21 

Anon  of  bodings  full  and  doubt  and  fear. 


Fair    smiled     the     evening,     and     the 

favouring  gale 
Sung    in    the    shrouds,    and    swift    the 

st^>ady  bark 
Rusird  roaring  through  the  waves. 

The  sun  gm-s  ddwn  : 
Far  off  his  light  is  on  the  naked  crags 
Of  Penmanmawr,  and  Arvon's  ancient 

hills  ; 
And  the  last  glory  lingers  yet  awhile. 
Crowning  old  Snowdon's  venerable  head, 
That  rose  amid  his  mountains.     Now 

the  ship  30 

Drew  nigh  where  Mona,  the  dark  Island, 

stretch' d 
Her  shore  along  the  ocean's  lighter  line. 
There  through  the  mist  an(l  twilight, 

many  a  tiro 
Up-flaming  stream'd  upon  the  level  !*c& 
Red  lines  of  lengthening  light, which,  far 

away 
Rising  and  falling,  tlash'd  athwart  the 

waves. 
Thereat  full  many  a  thought  of  ill  dis- 

turb'd 
Prince  ^fadoc's  mind  ;  .  .  did  some  new 

conqueror  .seize 
The  throne  of  David  ?   had  the  tyrant'fl 

guilt 
Awaken' d   vengeance   to   the   deed   of 

death  ?  40 

Or  blazed  they  for  a  brother's  obsoquiea. 
The  sport  an(l  mirth  of  murder  ?  .  .  Like 

the  lights 
Which  there  upon  Aberfraw'a  royal  walls 
Are  waving  with  the  wind,  the  painful 

doubt 
Fluctuates  within  him.  .  .  <  )nwanl  <lrivos 

the  gale,  .  . 


462 


MADOC   IN  WALES 


On   flies   the   bark  ;   .    .    and  she   hath 

reach' d  at  length 
Her   haven,   safe  from   her   unequall'd 

way  ! 
And  now,  in  louder  and  yet  louder  joy 
Clamorous,  the  happy  mariners  all-hail 
Their  native  shore,  and  now  they  leap  to 

land.  so 

There  stood  an  old  man  on  the  beach 

to  wait 
The  comers  from  the  ocean ;    and  he 

ask'  d, 
Is  it  the  Prince  ?    And  Madoc  knew  his 

voice, 
And  turn'd  to  him  and  fell  upon  his 

neck  ; 
For  it  was  Urien  who  had  foster' d  him, 
Had  loved  liim  like  a  child  ;  and  Madoc 

loved, 
Even  as  a  father  loved  he  that  old  man. 
My  Sister  ?  quoth  the  Prince.  .  .  Oh,  she 

and  I 
Have  wept  together,   Madoc,   for  thy 

loss,  .  . 
That  long  and  cruel  absence  !  .  .  She 

and  I,  60 

Hour  after  hour  and  day  by  day,  have 

look'd 
Toward  the  waters,  and  with  acliing  eyes 
And  aching  heart,  sate  watching  every 

sail. 

And  David  and  our  brethren  ?   cried 

the  Prince, 
As  they  moved  on.  .  .  But  then  old 

Urien' s  lips 
Were  slow  at  answer ;    and  he  spake, 

and  paused 
In  the  first  breath  of  utterance,  as  to 

choose 
Fit  words  for  uttering  some  unhappy 

tale. 
More  blood,  quoth  MadOc,  yet  ?    Hath 

David's  fear 
Forced    him    to    still    more    cruelty  ? 

Alas  .  .  70 

Woe  for  the  house  of  Owen  ! 

Evil  stars. 
Replied  the  old   man,   ruled  o'er  thy 

brethren's  birth. 
From  Dolwyddelan  driven,  his  peaceful 

home, 


Poor    Yorwerth    sought    the    church's 

sanctuary  ; 
The  murderer  follow'd;  .  .  Madoc,  need 

I  say 
Who  sent  the  sword  ?  .  .  Llewelyn,  his 

brave  boy,  [realm, 

Where  wanders  he  ?   in  this  his  rightful 
Houseless  and  hunted  ;  richly  would  the 

King 
Gift  the  red  hand  that  rid  him  of  that 

fear  ! 
Ririd,  an  outlaw' d  fugitive,  as  yet        80 
Eludes  his  deadly  purpose  ;   Rodi"i  lives, 
A  prisoner  he,  .  .  I  know  not  in  what  fit 
Of  natural   mercy  from   the  slaughter 

spared. 
Oh,  if  my  dear  old  master  saw  the  wreck 
And  scattering  of  his  house  !  .   .  that 

princely  race  ! 
The   beautiful   band  of   brethren  that 

they  were  ! 

Madoc  made  no  reply, .  .  he  closed  his 

eyes. 
Groaning.     But  Urien,  for  his  heart,  was 

full. 
Loving  to  linger  on  the  woe,  pureued : 
I  did  not  think  to  live  to  such  an  hour  90 
Of  joy  as  this  !  and  often,  when  my  sight 
Turn'd  dizzy  from  the  ocean,  overcome 
With   heavy  anguiali,   JIadoc,    I   have 

prayed 
That  God  would  please  to  take  me  to  his 

rest. 

So  as  he  ceased  his  speech,  a  sudden 
shout 

Of  popular  joy  awakened  Madoc' s  ear  ; 

And  calling  then  to  mind  the  festal  fires. 

He  ask'd  their  import.     The  old  man 
replied, 

It  is  the  giddy  people  merry-making 

To  welcome  their  new  Queen  ;   unheed- 
ing they  100 

The  shame  and  the  reproach  to  the  long 
line 

Of  our  old  royalty  !  .  .  Thy  brother  weds 

The  Saxon's  sister. 

What !  .  .  in  loud  reply 

Madoc  exclaim' d,  hath  he  forgotten  all  ? 

David  !  King  Owen's  son, .  .  my  father's 
son,  .  . 

He  wed  the  Saxon,  .  .  the  Plantagenet ! 


THE   RETURN   TO   WALES 


463 


Quoth  Urien,  He  so  doats,  as  she  had 

dvopt 
Somp  philtiv  in  his  cup.  to  Irthargi/.o 
The  British  blood  (hat  ranu«  from  Owen's 

veins. 
Three  days  his  halls  liavo  echoed  to  the 
song  110 

Of  joyaimco. 

Shame  !  foul  shame  !  that 
they  should  hear 
/Songs    of    such    joyaunco !     cried    the 
7         indignant  Prince  : 
Oh    that    my    Father's    iiall,    where   I 

have  heard 
The  songs  of  Corwen  and  of  Keiriog's 

day. 
Should  echo  this  pollution  !    Will  the 
chiefs 
Y  Brook  this  alliance,  this  unnatural  tie  ? 

There  is  no  face  but  wears  a  courtly 

smile, 
Urien     replied :      Aberf raw's     ancient 

towers 
Beheld  no  pride  of  festival  like  this. 
No  like  solemnities,  when  Owen  came 
In  conquest,  and  Gowalchmai  struck  the 

harp.  121 

^l  Only  Goervyl,  careless  of  the  pomp, 
Sits  in  her  solitude,  lamenting  thee. 

Saw  ye  not  then  my  banner  ?    quoth 

the  Lord 
Of    Ocean ;     on    the    topmast- head    it 

stood 
To  tell  the  tale  of  triumph  ;  .  .  or  did 

night 
Hide  the  glad  signal,  and  the  joy  hath 

yet 
To  reach  her  ? 

Now  had  they  almost  attain  d 
The   palace   portal.     L^rien   stopt   and 

said, 
Tlie  child  should  know  your  coming  ;   it 
^1         is  long  130 

I  Since  she  hath  heard  a  voice  that  to  her 

heart 
Spake  gladness  ;  .  .  none  but  I  must  tell 

her  this. 
So    Urien    sought    Goervyl,    whom    ho 

found 
Alone    and   gazing   on    tlie    moonlight 


Oh  ymi  are  wolcomo.  Urion  !  criM  th« 

maid 
Thoro  wiM  a  ship  camo  wviling  hither- 

ward  .  . 
I  could  not  SCO  his  banner,  for  tho  ni^ht 
Closed  in  so  fa.st  aroiind  her  ;    l)ut  my 

hejirt 
Indulged  a  foolish  hope  ! 

The  old  man  rrplicd. 
With  difficult  effort  kocj)ing  his  heart 

down,  140 

God  in  his  goodneas  may  roservo  for  uh 
That  blessing  yet  !  I  have  yet  life  mow 
To  trust  that  I  shall  live  to  mh^  tlio  day. 
Albeit  the  numlxjr  of  my  years  well  nigh 
Be  full. 

Ill-judging  kindness!    said  the 

maid. 
Have  I  not  nursed  for  two  long  wTctchrd 

years 
That  miserable  hope,  which  every  day 
(Jrew  weaker,  like  a  baby  sick  to  death. 
Yet  dearer  for  its  weakness  day  by  day  ! 
No,  never  shall  we  see  his  daring  bark  ! 
I  knew  and  felt  it  in  the  evil  hour  151 
When  forth  she  fared  !    I  felt  it  then  ! 

that  kiss 
Was  our  death  parting  !   .   .   And  she 

paused  to  curb 
The  agony  :  anon, . .  But  thou  haat  been 
To  learn  their  tidings,   Urien  ?  .  .   Ho 

replied. 
In  half-articulate  words,  .  .  They  said, 

my  child. 
That  Madoc  lived, .  .  that  soon  ho  would 

bo  here. 

She  had  received  tiie  shock  of  happi- 
ness : 

Urion!  she  cried . .  thou  art  not  mocking 
me  ! 

Nothing  the  old  man  spako,  but  «proa<l 
his  arms  «6o 

Sobbing  aloud.     Goervyl  from  their  hold 

Started,  and  sunk  upon  her  hrother'n 
breast. 

Recoverinc  first,  tho  agwl  Trion  wiid. 
Enough  of  this,  .  .  there  will  l>o  timo  for 

this. 
My  children  !   Ix-ttor  it  bohovw  yo  now 
To    seek    the    King.     And.    Mft«lor.    I 

beseech  theo. 


464 


MADOC   IN   WALES 


Bear  with  thy  brother  !  gentlj^  bear  with 

him, 
My  gentle  Prince  !   he  is  the  headstrong 

slave 
Of  passions  unsubdued  ;    he  feels  no  tie 
Of  kindly  love,  or  blood  ; .  .  provoke  him 

not,  170 

Madoc  !  .  .  It  is  his  nature's  malady. 

Thou    good    old    man  !     replied    the 

Prince,  be  sure 
I  shall  remember  what  to  him  is  due, 
What  to  myself ;  for  I  was  in  my  youth 
Wisely  and  well  train' d  up;  nor  yet  hath 

time 
EflPaced  the  lore  my  foster-father  taught. 

Haste,  haste  !   exclaim' d  Goervyl  ;  .  . 

for  her  heart 
Smote  her  in  sudden  terrorat  thethought 
Of   Yorwerth,   and   of   Owen's   broken 

house  ;  .  . 
I  dread  his  dark  suspicions  ! 

Not  for  me 
Sufifer  that  fear,  my  sister  !    quoth  the 

Prince.  181 

Safe  is  the  straight  and  open  way  I 

tread ; 
Nor  hath  God  made  the  human  heart  so 

bad 
That  thou  or  I  should  have  a  danger 

there. 
So  saying,  they  toward  the  palace  gate 
Went  on,  ere  yet  Aberfraw  had  received 
The    tidings    of    her    wanderer's    glad 

return. 


II.    THE   MARRIAGE  FEAST 

The  guests  were  seated  at  the  festal 

board ; 
Green  rushes  strew' d  the  floor  ;   high  in 

the  hall 
Was  David  ;   Emma,  in  her  bridal  robe, 
In  youth,  in  beauty,  by  her  husband's 

side 
Sate     at     the     marriage     feast.     The 

monarch  raised 
His  eyes,  he  saw  the  mariner  approach  ; 
Madoc  !      he    cried ;     strong    nature's 

impulses 


Prevail' d,  and  with  a  holy  joy  he  met 
His  brother's  warm  embrace. 

With  that  what  peals 
Of  exultation  shook  Aberfraw" s  tower  ! 
How  then  re-echoing  rang  the  home  of 

Kings,  II 

When  from  subdued  Ocean,  from  the 

World 
That  he  had  first  foreseen,  he  first  had 

found, 
Came     her     triumphant     child !      The 

mariners, 
A  hapjjy  band,  enter  the  clamorous  hall ; 
Friend  greets  with  friend,  and  all  are 

friends ;    one  joy 
Fills  with   one  common  feeling  every 

heart, 
And  strangers  give  and  take  the  wel- 
coming 
Of    hand    and    voice    and    eye.     That 

boisterous  joy 
At  length  allay' d,  the  board  was  sprealf 

anew,  20 

Anew  the  horn  was  brimm'  d,  the  central 

hearth 
Built  up  anew  for  later  revelries. 
Now  to  the  ready  feast !   the  seneschal 
Duly  below  the  pillars  ranged  the  crew  ; 
Toward  the  guest's  most  honourable  seat 
The  King  himself  led  his  brave  brother  ; 

.  .  then, 
Eyeing  the  lovely  Saxon  as  he  spake. 
Here,  Madoc,  see  thy  sister  !   thou  hast 

been 
Long  absent,  and  our  house  hath  felt 

the  while 
Sad  diminution  ;    but  my  arm  at  last  30 
Hath  rooted  out  rebellion  from  the  land ; 
And  I  have  stablish'd  now  our  ancient 

house, 
Grafting  a  scyon  from  the  royal  tree 
Of  England  on  the  sceptre ;    so  shall 

peace 
Bless  our  dear  country. 

Long  and  happy  years 
Await  my  sovereigns  !    thus  the  Prince 

replied. 
And  long  may  our  dear  country  rest  in 

peace ! 
Enough  of  sorrow  hath  our  royal  house 
Known  in  the  field  of  battles,  .  .  yet  we 

reap'd 
The  harvest  of  renown 


THE    MARRIAGE   FEAST  466 


Ay,  .  .  many  a  day.  40 
David  replied.  togetluM'  hav*'  we  led 
The  onset.  .  .  Dost  thou  not  ienienil>or, 

brother, 
/  How  in  that  hot  antl  iinoxjK'eted  charge 
On  Keiriosi's  hank,  we  gave  the  enemy 
Tlieir  welcoming  ? 

And  Berwyn's  after-strifo ! 
Quoth  Madoc,  aa  the  moniory  kindled 

him  : 
The  fool  that  day,  who  in  his  masque 

attire 
Sported  before  King  Henry,  wished  in 

vain 
Fitlier  habiliments  of  javelin-proof  ! 
And  yet  not  more  precipitate  tliat  fool 
Dropt    his    mock    weapons,    than    the 

archers  cast  51 

Desperate  their  bows  and  quivers-full 

away, 
Wlien  we  leapt  on,  and  in  tlie  mire  and 

blood 
Trampled  their  banner  ! 

.  That,  exclaimed  the  King, 
That  was  a  day  indeed,  which  I  may  still 
Proudl}'  remember,  proved  as  I  have 

been 
In  conflicts  of  such  perilous  assay, 
That  Saxon  combat  seem'd  like  woman's 

war. 
When  with  the  traitor  Hoel  I  did  wage 
The  deadly  battle,  then  was  I  in  truth  60 
Put  to  the  proof ;    no  vantage-ground 

was  there. 
Nor  famine,  nor  disease,  nor  storms  to 

aid, 
But  equal,  hard,  close  battle,  man  to 

man, 
Briton  to  Briton.     By  my  soul,  pursued 
The  tyrant,  heedless  how  from  Madoc's 

eye 
Flash' d  the  quick  wrath  like  lightning, . . 

though  I  knew 
The   rebel's    worth,    his   prowess   then 

excited 
Unwelcome  wonder ;   even  at  the  last, 
When    stiff    with    toil   and    faint    with 

wounds,  he  raised 
Feebly  his  broken  sword,  .  . 

Then  Madoc's  grief 
Found  utterance ;     W'herefore,   David, 

dost  thou  rouse  7» 

The  memory  now  of  that  unhappy  day, 


That  thou  should'st  wish  to  hidr  from 

earth  and  heaven  ? 
Not  in  AlM«rfraw.  .  .  not  to  me  tluH  tnlc  | 
Tell  it  the  Saxon  !  .  .  ho  will  join  thy 

triuin])h,  .  . 
Ho  hates  the  race  of  Owen  !    .  .  btit  I 

loved 
My  brother  Hoel,  .  .  loved  him  ?  .  .  that 

ye  knew  ! 
T  wa,s  to  him  the  dearest  of  his  kin. 
And  he  niy  own  heart's  brother. 

J)avid*H  cheek 
drew  pale  and  dark  ;    he  IxMit  hi«  broad 

})laek  brow  80 

FullujxinAradoc's  glowing  countenance; 
Art  thou  ret  urn' d  to  brave  me  ?    to  my 

teeth 
To  pi'aise  the  rebel  l)astard  ?    to  insult 
The  royal  Saxon,  my  artianced  friend  ? 
T  hate  the  Saxon  !  Madoc  cried  ;  not  yet 
Have  I  forgotten,  how  from  Keiriog's 

shame 
Flying,  the  coward  wreak' d  his  cruelty 
On  our  poor  brethren  !  .  .  David,  seest 

thou  never 
Those  eyeless  spectres  by  tliy  bridal  bed? 
Forget  that  horror  ?  .  .  may  the  fire  of 

God  90 

Blast  my  right  hand,  or  ever  it  be  link'd 
With  that  accursed  Plant agenet's  ! 

The  while. 
Impatience    struggled    in    the    heaving 

breast 
Of  David  :   every  agitated  limb 
Shook  with  ungovernable  wrath  ;    the 

page. 
Who  chafed  his  feet,  in  fear  fiuspendu  his 

ta.sk  ; 
In  fear  the  guests  gaze  on  liim  silently  ; 
His  eyeballs  flash'(l.  strong  anger  choked 

his  voice. 
He  started  up.  .  .  Him  Emma,  by  the 

hand  99 

Gently  retaining,  held,  with  gentle  wordfl 
Calming  his  rage.  Goej-vyl  too  in  tears 
Besought  her  generous  brother  :   ho  had 

met 
Emma's  reproaching  glance,   and  wlf- 

reproved. 
While  the  warm  blood  fluuh'd  doo|)cr  oVr 

his  cheek. 
Thus  he  replied  ;     T   pray  yoti   pardon 

ni<'. 


466 


MADOC  IN  WALES 


My  Sister- Queen  !  nay,  you  will  learn  to 

lovo 
This  high  affection  for  the  race  of  Owen, 
Yourself  the  daughter  of  lus  royal  house 
By  better  ties  than  blood. 

Grateful  the  Queen 
Replied,  by  wiilning  smile  and  eloquent 

eye  no 

Thanking  the  gentle  Prince :  a  moment's 

pause 
Ensued ;     Goervyl    then    with    timely 

speech 
Thus   to  the   wanderer  of   the  waters 

spake : 
Madoc,   thou  hast  not  told  us  of  the 

world 
Beyond  the  ocean  and  the  paths  of  man. 
A  lovely  land  it  needs  must  be,   my 

brother. 
Or  sure  you  had  not  sojourn' d  there  so 

long. 
Of  me  forgetful,  and  my  heavy  hours 
Of    grief    and    solitude   and   wretched 

hope. 
Where   is    Cadwallon  ?     for    one    bark 

alone  120 

I  saw  come  sailing  here. 

The  tale  you  ask 
Is  long,  Goervyl,  said  the  mariner. 
And  I  in  truth  am  weary.     Many  moons 
Have  wax'd  and  waned,  since  from  that 

distant  world. 
The  country  of  my  dreams  and  hope  and 

faith. 
We  spread  the  homeward  sail :  a  goodly 

world, 
My  Sister  !   thou  wilt  see  its  goodliness, 
And  greet  Cadwallon  there.  .  .  But  this 

shall  be 
To-morrow's  tale ;  .  .  indulge  we  now 

the  feast !  .  . 
You  know  not  with  what  joy  we  mariners 
Behold  a  sight  like  this. 

Smiling  he  spake,  131 
And  turning,  from  the  sewer's  hand  he 

took 
The  flowing  mead.     David,  the  while, 

relieved 
From  rising  jealousies,  with  better  eye 
Regards  his  venturous  brother.     Let  the 

Bard, 
Exclaim' d  the  King,  give  his  accustom' d 

lay; 


For  sweet,  I  know,  to  Madoc  is  the  song 
He  loved  in  earlier  years. 

Then,  strong  of  voice, 
The  officer  proclaimed  the  sovereign  will, 
Bidding   the   hall   be   silent ;     loud   he 

spake,  140 

And  smote  the  sounding  pillar  with  his 

wand, 
And  hush'd  the  banqueters.     The  chief 

of  Bards 
Then  raised  the  ancient  lay. 

Thee,  Lord  !  he  sung, 
0  Father  !    Thee,  whose  wisdom,  Thee, 

whose  power, 
Wliose  love,  .  .  all  love,  all  power,  all 

wisdom.  Thou  ! 
Tongue  cannot  utter,  nor  can  heart  con- 
ceive. 
He  in  the  lowest  depth  of  Being  framed 
The     imperishable     mind ;      in     every 

change, 
Through  the  great  circle  of  progressive 

life. 
He  guides  and  guards,  till  evil  shall  be 

known,  150 

And  being  known  as  evil,  cease  to  be  ; 
And  the  pure  soul,  emancipate  by  Death, 
The  Enlarger,  shall  attain  its  end  pre- 

doom'd. 
The  eternal  ne\vness  of  eternal  joy. 

He  left  this  lofty  theme  ;   he  struck  the 

harp 
To  Owen's  praise,  swift  in  the  course  of 

wrath. 
Father  of  Heroes.     That  proud  day  he 

sung, 
W^hen  from  green  Erin  came  the  insult- 
ing host, 
Lochlin's  long  burthens  of  the  flood,  and 

they 
W^ho  left  their  distant  homes  in  evil 

hour,  160 

The  death- doom' d  Nor  men.     There  was 

heaviest  toil, 
There  deeper  tumult,  where  the  dragon 

race 
Of  Mona  trampled  down  the  humbled 

head 
Of    haughty    power ;      the    sword     of 

slaughter  carved 
Food    for    the    yellow-footed    fowl    of 

heaven, 


THE  MARRIAGE  FEAST 


407 


And  ^Fenni's  waters,  hurst  \vith  plnnpo 

on  plurij/e. 
Curlinij  ahove  tlieir  banks  with  tompcst- 

swell 
Their  bloody  billows  heaved. 

The  JonLT-paat  days 
Camo  on  the  mind  of  Madoe.  as  he  heard 
That  song  of  triumpli  ;   on  his  sun-burnt 

brow  170 

Sat<^  extiltation  :  .  .  other  ( houghts  arose. 
As  on  the  fate  of  all  his  gallant  house 
Moui-nful  he  mused  ;  oppressive  memory 

s  weird 
His  bosom,  over  his  lix'd  eye-balls  swam 
The   tear's   dim   lustre,   and   the   loud- 
toned  harp 
Rung  on  his  ear  in  vain  ;  .  .  its  silence 

iirst 
Roused  him  from  dreams  of  days  that 

were  no  more. 


III.  CADWALLON 

Then  on  tlie  morrow,  atthe  festal  board, 
The  Lord  of  Ocean  thus  began  his  tale. 

My  heart  beat  high  when  with  the 

favouring  wind 
We  sail'd  away  ;   Abei"fraw  !    when  thy 

towers. 
And  the  huge  headland  of  my  mother 

isle. 
Shrunk  and  were  gone. 

But.  Madoe.  I  would  learn, 
Quoth  David,  how  this  enterprize  arose. 
And  the  wild  ho]x^  of  worlds  beyond  the 

sea  ; 
For,  at  thine  outset,  being  in  the  war, 
I  did  not  hear  from  vague  and  common 

fame  10 

The    moving    cau.se.     Sprung    it    from 

bardic  lore. 
The  hidden  wisdom  of  the  years  of  old, 
Forgotten  long  ?   or  did  it  visit  thee 
In  dreams  that  come  from  Heaven  ? 

The  Prince  replied, 
Thou  shalt  hear  all  ;  .  .  but  if,  amid  the 

tale. 
Strictly  sincere.  I  haply  should  rehear.se 
Aught  to  the  King  ungrateful,  let  my 

brother 
Be  patient  with  the  involuntary  fault. 


I  was  the  pucat  of  Rhya  at  l)ii,rv«wr. 
And  tiien*  the  tidings  found  nie.  tlmi 

our  siro  ^ 

U'asgather'd  to  Iuh  fatherH:  .  .  not  alone 
The  sorrow  camo  ;     the  wiuie  ill   njcs- 

senger 
Told  of  the  strife  that  shook  our  royal 

hou.se. 
When   Hoel.   proud   of   pr.)we.H.M,   wized 

the  throne 
Which  vou,  for  elder  claim  and  lawful 

birth. 
Challenged  in  arms.    With  all  a  brother's 

love.         i 
I  on  the  instant  hurrie<l  to  prevent 
The  impious  battle  :  .  .  all  tlu- day  I  sjx'd; 
Night   did   not  stay   me   on   my   eager 

way  .  . 
Where'er  I  paas'd.  new  rumour  rai.s<'d 

new  fear.  .  .  30 

Midnight,  and  morn,  ami  noon,  I  hur- 
ried on. 
And  the  late  eve  was  darkening  when 

I  reach' d 
Arvon,  the  fatal  field.  .  .  The  sight,  the 

sounds. 
Live  in  my  memory  now,  .  .  for  all  was 

done  ! 
For  hor.se  and  horseman,  side  by  side  in 

death. 
Lay  on  the  bloody  plain  ;  .  .  a  host  of 

men. 
And  not  one  living  soul,  .  .  and  not  one 

sound. 
One  human  sound  ;  .  .  only  the  raven's 

wing. 
Which  rose  before  ray  coming,  and  tho 

neigh 
Of  wounded  horses,  wanderintr  o'er  the 

plain.  40 

Night  now  was  coming  on  ;    a  man 

approach' d 
And  bade  me  to  hi.i  dwelling  nigh  at 

hand. 
Thither   T   turr.'d.   too   weak    to   travel 

more  ; 
For  T  was  overspent  with  wearinesH, 
And  having  now  no  hope  to  l>ear  me  up. 
Trouble  and  bodily  labour  ma-^terM  me. 
I  a.sk'd  him  of  the  battle  :  .  .  who  hud 

fallen 
He  knew  not,  nor  to  whom  the  lot  of  war 


468 


MADOC   IN  WALES 


Had  given  my  feather's  sceptre.     Here, 

said  he, 
I  came  to  seek  if  hapl}"  I  might  find    50 
Some  wounded  wretch,  abandon' d  else 

to  death. 
My  search  was  vain,  the  sword  of  civil 

war 
Had  bit  too  deeply. 

8oon  we  reach' d  his  home, 
A  lone  and  lowly  dwelling  in  the  hills, 
By  a  grey  mountain  stream.     Beside  the 

hearth 
There  sate  an  old  blind  man  ;    his  head 

was  raised 
As   he   were   listening   to   the   coming 

sounds, 
And  in  the  fire-light  shone  his  silver 

locks. 
Father,  said  he  who  guided  me,  I  bring 
A  guest  to  our  poor  hospitality  ;         60 
And  then  he  brought  me  water  from  the 

brook, 
And  homely  fare,  and  I  was  satisfied  : 
That  done,   he  piled  the  hearth,   and 

spread  around 
The  rushes  of  repose.     I  laid  me  down; 
But  worn  with  toil,  and  full  of  many 

fears. 
Sleep  did  not  visit  me  :  the  quiet  sounds 
Of    nature    troubled    my    distemper' d 

sense ; 
My  ear  was  busy  with  the  stirring  gale, 
The   moving   leaves,   the   brook's  per- 
petual flow.  69 

So  on  the  morrow  languidly  I  rose, 
And  faint  with  fever  :    but  a  restless 

wish 
Was  working  in  me,  and  I  said,  My  host. 
Wilt  thou  go  with  me  to  the  battle-field. 
That  I  may  search  the  slain  ?  for  in  the 

fray 
My  brethren  fought ;    and  though  with 

all  my  speed 
I  strove  to  reach  them  ere  the  strife 

began, 
Alas,  I  sped  too  slow  ! 

Grievest  thou  for  that  ? 
He  answer' d,  grievest  thou  that  thou  art 

spared 
The  shame  and  guilt  of  that  unhappy 

strife,  79 

Briton  with  Briton  in  unnatural  war  ? 


Nay,  I  replied,  mistake  me  not  !   I  came 
To   reconcile   the   chiefs ;     they    might 

have  heard 
Their  brother's- voice. 

Their  brother's  voice  ?   said  he. 
Was  it  not  so  ?  .  .  And  thou,  too,  art  the 

son 
Of  Owen  ! .  .  Yesternight  I  did  not  know 
The  cause  there  is  to  pity  thee.     Alas, 
Two  brethren  thou  wilt  lose  when  one 

shall  fall  !  .  . 
Lament  not  him  whom  death  may  save 

from  guilt ; 
For  all  too  surely  in  the  conqueror 
Thou  wilt  find  one  whom  his  own  fears 

henceforth  90 

Must  make  to  all  his  kin  a  perilous  foe. 

I    felt    as    though    he    wi'ong'd    my 

father's  sons. 
And  raised  an  angry  eye,  and  answer' d 

him,  .  . 
My  brethren  love  me. 

Then  the  old  man  cried, 
Oh  what  is  Princes'  love  ?  what  are  the 

ties 
Of  blood,  the  affections  growing  as  we 

grow, 
If  but  ambition  come  ? .  .  Thou  deemest 

sure 
Thy  brethren  love  thee ;   .   .   ye  have 

play'd  together 
In  childhood,  shared  your  riper  hopes 

and  fears. 
Fought  side  by  side  in  battle  :  .  .  they 

may  be  100 

Brave,    generous,    all   that   once   their 

father  was, 
Whom  ye,  I  ween,  call  virtuous. 

At  the  name. 
With  pious  warmth,  I  cried.  Yes,  he  was 

good, 
And  great,   and  glorious !    Gwyneth's 

ancient  annals 
Boast  not  a  name  more  noble.     In  the 

war 
Fearless  he  was,  .  .  the  Saxon  found  him 

so  ; 
Wise  was  his  counsel,  and  no  supplicant 
For  justice  ever  from  his  palace-gate 
Unrighted  tum'd  away.     King  Owen's 

name  109 

Shall  live  to  after  times  without  a  blot ! 


CADWALLUN 


469 


There  were  two  brethren  once  of  kingly 

hue. 
The  old  man  replied  ;    they  loved  each 

other  well. 
And  when  the  one  waa  at  hia  dymg  liour. 
It  then  was  comfort  to  him  that  he  left 
»So  dear  a  brother,  who  would  iluly  l>ay 
A  fathers  duties  to  his  orphan  boy. 
And  sure  he  loved  the  orphan,  and  the 

boy 
With  all  a  child's  sincerity  loved  liim. 
And  learnt  to  call  him  father  :    so  the 

3-ears 
Went  on,  till  when  the  orphan  gain'd 

the  ago  120 

Of  manhood,  to  the  throne  his  uncle 

came. 
The  young  man  claimed  a  fair  inherit- 
ance, 
His  father's  lands  ;    and  .  .  mark  what 

follows.  Prince  ! 
At  midnight  he  was  seized,  and  to  his 

eyes 
The  brazen  plate  was  held.  .  .  He  cried 

aloud, 
He  look'd  around  for  help,  .  .  he  only 

saw 
His  Uncle's  ministers,  prepared  to  do 
Their  wicked  work,  who  to  the  red  hot 

brass 
Forced  liis  poor  eyes,  and  held  the  oi)en 

Hds,  129 

Till  the  long  agony  consumed  the  sense  ; 
And   when   their  hold  relax' d,   it  had 

been  worth 
The  wealth  of  worlds  if  ho  could  then 

have  seen. 
Dreadful  to  him  and  hideous  as  they 

were. 
Their  rufKan  faces  !  .  .  I  am  blind,  young 

Prince, 
And  I  can  tell  how  sweet  a  thing  it  is 
To  see  the  blessed  light ! 

Must  more  be  told  ? 
What  farther  agonies  he  yet  endured  t 
Or  hast  thou  known  the  consummated 

crime. 
And  heard  Cynetha's  fate  t 

A  painful  glow 
Inflamed  my  cheek,  and  for  my  father's 

crime  140 

T  felt  the  ehame  of  guilt.     The  dark- 
brow' d  man 


Behold  the  burning  Hush,  tho  unoa«y 

eye. 
That  know  not  where  to  rcwt.     Cooio ! 

we  will  search 
The  slain  !  arising  fnun  hi.sM'ai.  honaid. 
I  follow'd  ;   to  tho  licld  of  light  wo  wont. 
And  over  steeds  and  arms  and  men  uo 

held 
Our  way  in  silence.     Hero  it  wju-,  <iuoth 

he, 
Tho  fiercest  war  wad  waged  ;    lo  !    in 

what  hea])s 
Man  uiK)n  man  fell  slaughter'd  !    Then 

my  heart 
Smote  mc.  and  my  knees  shook  ;    for 

1  beheld  150 

Where,  on  his  con(|Ucr'd  foemen,  Hovl 

lay- 
He  paused,  his  heart  was  full,  and  on 

his  tongue 
The  imperfect  utterance  died  ;  a  general 

gloom 
Sadden' d  the  hall,  and  David's  check 

grew  pale. 
Commanding  first  his  ftHjlings,  Madoc 

broke 
The  oppressive  siJcnce. 

Then  Cad  wall  on  took 
My  hand,  and,  pointing  to  his  dwelling, 

cried, 
Prince,  go  and  rest  thoe  there,  for  thou 

hast  need 
Of  rest;  .  .the  care  of  sepulture  be  mine. 
Nor  did  1  then  comply,  refu.'^ing  rest,  160 
Till  I  had  seen  in  holy  ground  inearth'd 
My  poor  lost  brother.     Wherefore,   ho 

exclaim' (1. 
(And  I  was  awed  by  his  severer  eye) 
Wouldst  thou   bo  iMimpering  thy  di»« 

tempered  mind  ? 
Affliction   is  not  sent  in   vain,   young 

man. 
From    that   good    Cod,    who   chaatcna 

whom  ho  lovas. 
Oh  !    there  is  healing  in  the  bitter  cup  ! 
Co  yonder,  and  before  the  unerring  will 
Bow,  and  have  comfort !    To  tho  hut 

I  went. 
And  there  beside  tho  lonely  mountain- 
stream,  «7« 
I  vcil'd  my  head,  and  brooded  on  tho 

past. 


470 


IVIADOC  IN  WALES 


He  tarried  long  ;  I  felt  the  houra  pass 

by, 

As  in  a  dream  of  morning,  when  the 

mind, 
Half  to  reality  awaken' d,  blends 
With  airy  visions  and  vague  phantasies 
Her  dim  perception  ;    till  at  length  his 

step 
Aroused  me,  and  he  came.     I  question' d 

him. 
Where  is  the  body  "/   hast  thou  bade  the 

priests 
Perform  due  masses  for  his  soul's  re- 


He  answer'  d  me.  The  rain  and  dew  of 
heaven  i8o 

Will  fall  upon  the  turf  that  covers  him, 

And  greener  grass  will  flourish  on  his 
grave. 

But  rouse  thee,  Prince  !    there  will  be 
hours  enough 

For  mournful  memory ;  .  .  it  befits  thee 
now 

Take  counsel  for  thyself  :  .  .  the  son  of 
Owen 

Lives  not  in  safety  here. 

I  bow'd  my  head 

Opprest  by  heavy  thoughts  :  all  wretch- 
edness 

The  present ;  darkness  on  the  future  lay ; 

Fearful  and  gloomy  both.     I  answer' d 
not. 

Hath  power  seduced  thy  wishes  ?   he 

pursued,  190 

And  wouldst  thou  seize  upon  thyfather's 

throne  ? 
Now  God  forbid  !    quoth  I.     Now  God 

forbid  ! 
Quoth  he  ;  .  .  but  thou  art  dangerous, 

Prince  !  and  what 
Shall  shield  thee  from  the  jealous  arm 

of  power  ? 
Think  of  Cynetha  ! .  .  the  unsleei)ing  eye 
Of  justice   hath   not   closed   upon   his 

wrongs  ; 
At  length   the  avenging   arm  is  gone 

abroad. 
One  woe  is  past,  .  .  woe  after  woe  oomes 

on,  .  . 
There  is  no  safety  here,  .  .  here  thou 

must  be 


The  victim  or  the  murderer  !   Does  thy 

heart  200 

Shrink  from  the  alternative  "/  .  .  look 

round  !  .  .  behold 
What  shelter,  .  .  whither  wouldst  thou 

fly  for  peace  ? 
What  if  the  asylum  of  the  Chm-ch  were 

safe,  .  . 
Were  there  no  better  purposes  ordain"  d 
For  that  young  arm,  that  heart  of  noble 

hopes  ? 
Son  of  our  kings,  .  .  of  old  Cassibelan, 
Great  Caratach,  immortal  Arthm-'s  line. 
Oh,  shall  the  blood  of  that  heroic  race 
Stagnate  in  cloister-sloth  ? . .  Or  wouldst 

thou  leave 
Thy  native  isle,  and  beg  in  awkward 

phrase  210 

Some     foreign     sovereign's     charitable 

gi-ace,  .  . 
The  Saxon  or  the  Frank,  .  .  and  earn  his 

gold,^ 
The  hireling  in  a  war  whose  cause  thou 

know'st  not, 
Whose  end  concerns  not  thee  ? 

I  sate  and  gazed. 
Following  his  e3^e  with  wonder,  as  he 

paced 
Before  me  to  and  fro,  and  listening  still, 
Though  now  he  paced  in  silence.     But 

anon, 
The  old  man's  voice  and  step  awakened 

us 
Each  from  his  thought ;  I  will  come  out, 

said  he. 
That  I  may  sit  beside  the  brook,  and 

feel  220 

The    comfortable    sun.     As    forth    he 

came, 
I  could  not  choose  but  look  upon  his  face: 
Gently  on  him  had  gentle  nature  laid 
The  weight  of  years ;    all  passions  that 

disturb 
Were  pass'd  away  ;  the  stronger  lines  of 

grief 
Soften' d  and  settled,  till  they  told  of 

grief 
By  patient  hope  and  piety  subdued  : 
His   eyes,    wliich    had   their   hue   and 

brightness  left, 
Fix'd  lifelessly,  or  objectless  they  roll'd, 
Nor  moved  by  sense,  nor  animate  with 

thought.  230 


("ADW'ALLOX 


471 


On  a  smooth  stono  bosido  tho  ytrcam  ho 

took 
His  wonted  aeixl  in  tlio  sunshine.     Tliou 

hast  lost 
A  brother,  Prince,  ho  said  .  .  or  tin-,  tlull 

ear 
Uf  ago  deceived  nie.     Peace  be  with  his 

soul  ! 
And  may  tho  curse  that  lies  upon  tho 

house 
Of  Owen  turn  away  !    Wilt  thou  come 

liithcr. 
And  let  me  feel  thy  face  / .  .  1  wondei*ed 

at  him  • 
Yet  wliilo  his  hand  perused  my  linea- 
ments 
Deep  awe  and  reverence  fill'd  me.  O  my 

God, 
Bless   this  young  man  !    he    cried ;    a 

l)erilous  state  240 

Is  liis ;  .  .  but  let  not  thou  his  father  s 

sins 
Be  visited  on  him  ! 

I  raised  my  eyes 
Enquiring,  to  Cadw  allon  ;    Nay,  young 

Prince, 
Despise  not  thou  the  blind  man' sprayer! 

he  cried ; 
It  might  have  given  thy  father's  dying 

hour 
A  hope,  that  sure  he  needed .  .  for,  know 

thou. 
It  is  the  victim  of  thy  father's  crime, 
\Vho  asks  a  blessing  on  thee  ! 

At  his  feet 
I  fell,  and  clasp' d  his  knees  :    he  raised 

me  up ;  . . 
Blind  as  I  was,  a  mutilated  wretch,  250 
A  thing  that  nature  owns  not,Isiu'vived, 
Loathing  existence,  and  with  impious 

voice 
Accused  the  will  of  heaven,  and  groan' d 

for  death. 
Years  pa&s'd  away  ;  this  universal  blank 
Became  familiar,  and  my  soul  reposed 
On   God,    and   I   had  comfort   in   my 

prayers. 
But  there  were  blessings  for  me  yet  in 

store. 
Thy  father  knew  not,  when  his  bloody 

fear 
All  hoj)e  of  an  avenger  had  cut  off, 
How  there  existed  then  an  unborn  babe, 


Child  of  my  lawloaa  lovo.     Year  after 

year  ,6, 

I  lived  a  lonely  and  forgotten  wrotcli, 
Before  C'iuhvallun  knew  his  fatluTH  faU-, 
Long  years  and  years  before  1  knew  uiy 

son  ; 
For  never,  till  his  mother's  dyiiifs'  hour, 
Learnt    ho    his    dangerous    birth.     Ho 

sought  mo  then  ; 
Ho  woke  my  soul  once  more  to  human 

ties  ;  .  . 
I   ho])e  ho  hath  not  weand  my  heart 

from  heaven. 
Life  is  so  precious  now  I  .  . 

Dear  good  old  man  I 
And  lives  ho  still  1    Goervyl  a«k'd,  in 

tears ;  270 

Madoc  n'plied,  1  scarce  can  liojw  to  find 
A  father's  welcome  at  my  distant  home. 
I  left  him  full  of  days, and  riix-  for  death; 
And  the  last  prayer  Cynetua  breathed 

upon  me 
Went  hkc  a  death- bed  blessing  to  my 

heart ! 

When    evening    came,     toward    tho 

echoing  shore 
I  and  Cadwallon  walk'd  together  forth  : 
Bright  with  dilated  glor}' shone  the  west ; 
But  brighter  lay  the  ocean-flood  below. 
The  burnish'd  silver  sea,   that  heaved 

and  Hash'd  a8o 

Its  restless  rays,  intolerably  bright. 
Prince,  quoth  Cadwallon,  thou  hast  redo 

the  waves 
In    tTiumph,    when    the    invaders    felt 

thine  arm. 
Oh  what  a  nobler  conquest  might   be 

won. 
There,  .  .  upon  that  wide  field  !  .  .  What 

meanest  thou  ? 
I  cried.  .  .  That  yonder  waters  are  not 

spread 
A  boundless    waste,   a   bourne  in)j)a«8- 

able  !  .  . 
That  man  should  rule  the  Element8 !  .  . 

that  there 
Might   manly   courage,    manly   wi.'^dom 

tind 
Some    happy    isle,    some    undiscovered 

shore,  »9o 

Some  resting  place  for  jwacu.  .  .  Oh  that 

my  soul 


472 


MADOC  IN  WALES 


Ciould  seize  the  wings  of  Morning  !  soon 

would  I 
Behold  that  other  world,  where  yonder 

sun 
JSpeeds  now,  to  dawn  in  glory  ! 

As  he  spake, 
Conviction  came  upon  my  startled  mind, 
Like  lightning  on  the  midnight  traveller. 
Icaught  his  hand; .  .  Kinsman  and  guide 

and  friend, 
Yea,  let  us  go  together  !  .  .  Down  we 

sate, 
Full  of  the  vision  on  the  echoing  shore  ; 
One   only   object   tilFd   ear,    eye,    and 

thought :  300 

We   gazed   upon   the   aweful    world   of 

waves, 
And  talk'd  and  dreamt  of  years  that 

were  to  come. 


IV.    THE   VOYAGE 

Not  with  a  heart  unmoved  I  left  thy 

shores. 
Dear  native  isle  !    oh  .  .  not  without  a 

pang, 
As  thy  fair  uplands  lessen'  d  on  the  view. 
Cast  back  the  long  involuntary  look  ! 
The  morning  cheer' d  our  outset ;  gentle 

airs 
Curl'd  the  blue  deep,   and  bright  the 

summer  sun 
Play'd  o'er  the  summer  ocean,  when  our 

barks 
Began  their  way. 

And  they  were  gallant  barks, 
As  ever  through  the  raging  billows  rode  ; 
And  many  a  tempest's  buffeting  they 

bore.  10 

Their  sails  all  swelling  with  the  eastern 


Their   tighten' d  cordage   clattering   to 

the  mast, 
Steady  they  rode  the  main  :    the  gale 

aloft 
Sung    in    the    shrouds,    the    sparkling 

waters  hiss'd 
Before,   and  froth' d  and  whiten' d  far 

behind. 
Day  after  day,  with  one  auspicious  wind, 
Right  to  the  setting  sun  we  held  our 

course. 


My  hope  had  kindled  every  heart ;  they 

blest 
The  unvarying  breeze,  whose  unabating 

strength 
Still  sped  us  onward ;    and  they  said 

that  Heaven  20 

Favour' d  the  bold  em  prize. 

How  many  a  time, 
Mounting     the     mast-tower-top,     with 

eager  ken 
They  gazed,  and  fancied  in  the  distant 

sky 
Their    promised    shore,     beneath    the 

evening  cloud. 
Or  seen,  low  lying,  through  the  haze  of 

mom. 
I  too  with  eyes  as  anxious  watch' d  the 

waves. 
Though  patient,  and  prepared  for  long 

delay  ; 
For  not  on  wild  adventure  had  I  rush'd 
With  giddy  speed,  in  some  delirious  fit 
Of  fancy  ;   but  in  many  a  tranquil  hour 
Weigh' d   well    the   attempt,    till   hope 

matured  to  faith.  31 

Day  after  day,  day  after  day  the  same, .  . 
A  weary  waste  of  waters !  still  the  breeze 
Hung  heavy  in  our  sails,  and  we  held  on 
One  even  course  :    a  second  week  was 

gone, 
And  now  another  past,   and  still  the 

same. 
Waves  beyond  waves,  the  interminable 

sea ! 
What  marvel,  if  at  length  the  mariners 
Grew   sick    with   long   expectance  ?     I 

beheld 
Dark  looks  of  growing  restlessness,   I 

heard  40 

Distrust's  low  murmurings  ;  nor  avail' d 

it  long 
To  see  and  not  perceive.     Shame  had 

awhile 
Represt  their  fear,  till  like  a  smother' d 

fire 
It  burst,  and  spread  with  quick  con- 
tagion round, 
And  strengthen' d  as  it  spread.     They 

spake  in  tones 
Which  might  not  be  mistaken  ;  .  .  They 

had  done 
What  men  dared  do,   ventured  where 

never  keel 


THE   VOYAGE 


473 


Had  cut  the  deep  before :    still  all  was 

sea, 
The  same  unbounded  ocean  !  .  .  to  pro- 
ceed 
Were  tempting  heaven. 

I  heard  with  feign' d  surprise. 
And,  pointing  then  to  where  our  fellow 

bark,  51 

Gay  with  her  fluttering  streamers  and 

full  sails, 
Rode,  as  in  triumph,  o'er  the  element, 
I  ask'd  them  what  their  comrades  there 

would  deem 
Of  those  so  bold  ashore,  who,  when  aday, 
Perchance  an  hour,  might  crown  their 

glorious  toil, 
Shrunk  then,  and  coward-like  return' d 

to  meet 
Mockery  and  shame  ?    True,  they  liad 

ventm'cd  on 
In  seas  imknown,  beyond  where  ever 

man 
Had  ploughed  the  billows  yet :    more 

reason  so  60 

Why  they  should  now,  like  him  whose 

happy  speed 
Well  nigh  hath  run  the  race,  with  higher 

hope 
Press  onward  to  the  prize.     But  late 

they  said, 
Marking  the  favour  of  the  steady  gale, 
That   Heaven   was   with   us ;     Heaven 

vouchsafed  us  still 
Fair  seas  and  favouring  skies  :  nor  need 

we  pray 
For  other  aid,  the  rest  was  in  ourselves  ; 
Nature  had  given  it,  when  slie  gave  to 

man 
Courage  and  constancy. 

They  answer' d  not, 
Awliile    obedient ;      but    I    saw    with 

dread  70 

The  silent  sullenness  of  cold  assent. 
Then,    with    what   fearful    eagerness   I 

gazed 
At  earliest  daybreak,  o'er  the  distant 

deep  ! 
How  sick   at   heart   with   hope,    when 

evening  closed. 
Gazed  through  the  gathering  shadows  ! 

.  .  but  I  saw 
The  sun  still   sink   below   the  endless 

waves. 


And  still  at  morn,  beneath  the  fart  host 

sky, 
Unbounded  ocean  heaved.     Day  after 

day 
Before  the  steady  gale  we  drove  along, . . 
Day  after  day!    The  fouilh  week  now 

had  i)ass'd;  80 

Still  all  around  was  t»ea,  .  .  the  etcnml 

sea  ! 
So  long  that  we  had  voyaged  on  so  faat. 
And  still  at  morning  where  we  were  at 

night, 
And  where  wo  were  at  mom,  at  nightfall 

still. 
The  centre  of  that  drear  circumference. 
Progressive,  yet  no  change  !  .  .  almost  it 

sccm'd 
That  wo  had  pass'd  the  mortal  bounds 

of  space. 
And  sx)eed  was  toiling  in  infinity, 
^fy  days  wero  days  of  fear,  my  hours  of 

rest 
Were  like  a  t^iant's  slumber.     Sullen 

looks,  90 

Eyes  tum'd  on  me,  and  whispers  meant 

to  meet 
My  ear,  and  loud  desj^ndenc}',  and  talk 
Of  home,  now  never  to  bo  seen  again,  .  . 
I  Buffer'd  these,  dissembling  as  f  could. 
Till  that  avail' d  no  longer.     Resolute 
The  men  came  round  me  :    They  had 

shown  enough 
Of  courage  now,  enougli  of  constancy  ; 
Still  to  pursue  the  desjK^ratc  entcrprizo 
Were    impious    madness !      they     had 

deem'd,  indeed. 
That  Heaven  in  favour  gave  the  un- 
changing gale  ;  .  .  100 
More  reason  now  to  think  offended  (Jod, 
When  man's  presumptuous  folly  strove 

to  jmss 
The  fated  limits  of  tho  world,  had  sent 
His  winds,  to  waft  us  to  the  deatli  we 

sought. 
Their  lives   were   dear,   they   bade   mo 

know,  and  they 
Afany.  and  I,  the  obstinate,  but  one. 
With    that,    attending    no    reply,    they 

hail'd 
Our  feUow   bark,   and   toM   their   lix'd 

resolve. 
A    shout    of     joy     approved.       Thus, 

des|)erato  now, 


474 


MADOC  IN  WALES 


I  sought  my  solitary  cabin  :  there      no 

Confused  v^ith  vague  tumultuous  feel- 
ings lay. 

And  to  remembrance  and  reflection  lost, 

Knew  only  I  was  wretched. 

Thus  entranced 

Cadwallon  found  me  ;  shame,  and  grief, 
and  pride, 

And  baffled  hope,  and  fruitless  anger 
swell' d 

Within  me.     All  is  over  !  I  exclaim'  d  ; 

Yet  not  in  me,  my  friend,  hath  time 
produced 

These  tardy  doubts  and  shameful  fickle- 
ness ; 

I  have  not  fail'd,  Cadwallon  !    Nay,  he 
said, 

The  coward  fears  which  persecuted  me 

Have  shown  what  thou  hast  suffer' d. 
We  have  yet  121 

One  hope  .  .  I  pray'd  them  to  proceed  a 
day,  .  .  ' 

But  one  day  more ;  .  .  this  little  have 
I  gain'd. 

And  here  will  wait  the  issue  ;  in  yon  bark 

I  am  not  needed,  .  .  they  are  masters 
there. 

One  only  day ! . .  The  gale  blew  strong, 

the  bark 
Sped  through  the  waters  ;  but  the  silent 

hours, 
Who  make  no  pause,   went  by ;    and 

center' d  still. 
We  saw  the  dreary  vacancy  of  heaven 
Close  round  our  narrow  view,  when  that 

brief  term,  130 

The  last  poor  respite  of  our  hopes,  ex- 
pired. 
They   shorten' d   sail,    and  call'd   with 

coward  prayer 
For  homeward  winds.     Why,  what  poor 

slaves  are  we, 
In    bitterness    I    cried ;     the   sport  of 

chance ; 
Left  to  the  mercy  of  the  elements, 
Or  the  more  wayward  ^^ill  of  such  as 

these, 
Blind  tools  and  victims  of  their  destiny  ! 
Yea,  Madoc  !    he  replied,  the  Elements 
Master  indeed  the  feeble  powers  of  man  ! 
Not  to  the  shores  of  Cambria  will  thy 

ships  140 


Win  back  their  shameful  way  !  .  .  or  He, 

whose  will 
Unchains  the  winds,  hath  bade  them 

minister 
To  aid  us,  when  all  human  hope  was  gone, 
Or  we  shall  soon  eternally  repose 
From  life's  long  voyage. 

As  he  spake,  I  saw 
The  clouds  hang  thick  and  heavy  o'er 

the  deep. 
And  hea^-ily,  upon  the  long  slow  swell, 
The  vessel  labour' d  on  the  labouring  sea. 
The  reef-points  rattled  on  the  shivering 

sail ; 
At  fits  the  sudden  gust  howl'd  ominous, 
Anon  with  unremitting  fury  raged ;    151 
High  roU'd  the  mighty  billows,  and  the 

blast 
Swept    from    their    sheeted    sides    the 

showery  foam. 
Vain  now  were  all  the  seamen's  home- 
ward hopes, 
Vain  all  their  skill  !  .  .  we  drove  before 

the  storm. 

'Tis  pleasant,  by  the  cheerful  hearth, 

to  heap 
Of  tempests  and  the  dangers  of  the  deep. 
And  pause  at  times,  and  feel  that  we  are 

Bafe ;  158 

Then  listen  to  the  perilous  tale  again, 
And  with  an  eager  and  suspended  soul, 
Woo  terror  to  delight  us.  .  .  But  to  hear 
The  roaring  of  the  raging  elements,  .  . 
To  know  all  human  skill,   all  human 

strength, 
Avail  not,  .  .  to  look  round,  and  only  see 
The  mountain  wave  incumbent  with  its 

weight 
Of    bursting    waters    o'er    the    reeling 

bark,  .  . 
0  God,  this  is  indeed  a  dreadful  thing  ! 
And  he  who  hath  endured  the  horror  once 
Of  such  an  hour,  doth  never  hear  the 

storm 
Howl  round  his  home,  but  he  remembers 

it,  170 

And  thinks  upon  the  suffering  mariner. 

Onward  we  drove  :    with  unabating 
force 
The  tempest  raged  ;  night  added  to  the 
storm 


THE   VOYAGE 


475 


New  horrors,  and  tho  morn  aroso  o'or- 

spreacl 
With     heavier     eloucls.       The     weary 

mariners 
CalTd  on  Saint  Cyric's  aiil  ;    and  1  too 

placed 
My  hope  on  Heaven,  rehixing  not   the 

while 
Our  human  otforts.     Ye  who  dwell  at 

home. 
Ye  do  not  know  the  terrors  of  the  main  ! 
A\'hen  the  winds  blow,  ye  walk  along 

the  shore,  i8o 

And  as  the  curling  billows  leap  and  toss, 
Fable  that  Ocean's  mermaid  Shepherdess 
Drives  lier  wliite  Hocks  alield,  and  warns 

in  time  [warn'd 

The  wary  fisherman.  Gwenhidwy 
When  we  had  no  retreat  !    My  secret 

heart 
Almost  had  fail'd  me.   .   .   Were   tho 

Elements 
Confounded  in  perpetual  conflict  here, 
Sea,   Air,   and  Heaven  ?    Or  were  wo 

jx^rishing, 
Where  at  their  source  tho  Floods,  for 

ever  thus. 
Beneath    the   nearer   inlluencc    of    the 

moon,  190 

Labour' d  in  these  mad  workings  ?   Did 

the  Waters 
Here  on  their  outmost  circle  meet  the 

void. 
The  verge  and  brink  of  Chaos  '!   Or  this 

Earth,  .  . 
Was  it  indeed  a  living  thing, .  .  its  breath 
The  ebb  and  flow  of  Ocean  ?  and  had  wc 
Reach' d  the  storm  rampart  of  its  Sanc- 
tuary, 
The   insuperable   boundary,    raised   to 

guard 
Its  mysteries  from-  the  eye  of  man  pro- 
fane '1 

Three  dreadful  nights  and  days  wc 

drove  along  ; 

Tho    fourth    tho    welcome    rain    came 

rattling  down,  200 

4  The  wind  had  fallen,  and  through  the 

broken  cloud 

Appeared   the   bright   dilating   blue   of 

heaven. 
Embolden'dnow.IcaU'd  the  mariners: .  . 


Vain  were  it  should  wo  bend  a  homo- 
ward  course. 

Driven  by  tho  storm  so  far;  they  uaw 
our  barks. 

For  service  of  that  long  and  |)t'rilouH  way 

Disabletl.  and  our  food  belike  to  fail. 

Silent  they  heard,  reluctant  in  a«**cnt  ; 

Anon,  they  shouted  joyfully,  .  ,  I  look'd 

And  saw  a  bird  slow  sailing  overhead, 

His  long  white  pinions  by  tho  sunbeam 
edged  211 

As  though  with  buniish'd  silver;  .  . 
never  yet 

Heard  I  so  sweet  a  music  a«  his  cry  ! 

Yet  three  days  more,  luid  hojKj  more 

eager  now. 
Sure  of  the  signs  of  land,  .  .  weed-shoal.'^, 

and  birds 
\Mio  flock'd  the  main,  and  gentle  airs 

which  breathed. 
Or  seem'd  to  breathe,  fresh  fragrance 

from  the  shore. 
On  the  last  evening,  a  long  shadowy  lino 
Skirted  the  sea  ;  .  .  how  fast  the  night 

closed  in  ! 
I  stood  upon  the  deck,  and  watch' d  till 

dawn.  220 

But  who  can  tell  what  feelings  fill'd  my 

heart. 
When  like  a  cloud  tho  distant  land  aroso 
Grey  from  the  ocean, .  .  when  wo  left  tho 

ship. 
And  cleft,  with  rapid  oai-s,  the  shallow 

wave, 
Andstood  triumphant  on  another  world ! 


V.     LINCOYA 

Madoc  had  paused  awhile  ;    but  every 

eye 
Still  watch'd  his  lips,  and  every  voice 

was  hush'd. 
Soon  as  I  leapt  ashore,  pursues  tho  Lord 
Of  Ocean,  prostrate  on  my  ftwo  I  fell, 
Kiss'd  the  dear  earth,  anil  pruy'tl  with 

thankful  tejirs. 
Hard  by  a  brook  waa  flowing  ;  .  .  uovor 

yet. 
Even  from  tho  gold-tipt  horn  of  victory 
A\ith  harp  and  song  amid  luy  fathor'n 

hall. 


476 


MADOC  IN  WALES 


Pledged  I  so  sweet  a  draught,  as  lying 
there. 

Beside  that  streamlet's  brink  !  .  .  to  feel 
the  ground,  lo 

To  quaff  the  cool  clear  water,  to  inhale 

The    breeze   of   land,    while   fears    and 
dangers  past 

Recurr'd  and  heighten' d  joy,  as  summer 
storms 

Make  the  fresh  evening  lovelier  ! 

To  the  shore 

The  natives  throng' d;   astonish' d,  they 
beheld 

Our    winged    barks,    and    gazed    with 
wonderment 

On  the  strange  garb,  the  bearded  coun- 
tenance 

And  the  white  skin,  in  all  unlike  them- 
selves. 

I  see  with  what  enquiring  eyes  you  ask 

What  men  were  they  ?    Of  dark-brown 
colour,  tinged  20 

With  sunny  redness  ;  wild  of  eye  ;  their 
brows 

So  smooth,  as  never  j^et  anxiety 

Nor  busy  thought  had  made  a  furrow 
there ; 

Beardless,  and  each  to  each  of  linea- 
ments 

So   like,    they   seem'd    but    one    great 
family. 

Their  loins  were  loosely  cinctured,  all 
beside 

Bare  to  the  sun  and  wind ;    and  thus 
their  limbs 

Unmanacled  display' d  the  truest  forms 

Of  strength  and  beauty.     Fearless  sure 
they  were. 

And  while  they  eyed  us  grasp' d  their 
spears,  as  if,  30 

Like  Britain's  injured  but  unconquer'd 
sons, 

They  too  had  known  how  perilous  it  was 

To  let  a  stranger,  if  he  came  in  arms. 

Set  foot  upon  their  land. 

But  soon  the  guise 

Of  men  nor  purjDorting  nor  fearing  ill, 

Gain'd  confidence;    their  wild  distrust- 
ful looks 

Assumed  a  milder  meaning  ;    over  one 

T  cast  my  mantle,  on  another's  head 

The  velvet  bonnet  placed,  and  all  was 
joy. 


We  now  besought  for  food ;    at  once 

they  read  40 

Our  gestures,  but  I  cast  a  hopeless  eye 
On    hills    and    thickets,    woods,    and 

marshy  plains, 
A  waste  of  rank  luxuriance  all  around. 
Thus  musing  to  a  lake  I  followed  them. 
Left  when  the  rivers  to  their  summer 

course 
Withdrew  ;   they  scatter' d  on  its  water 

drugs 
Of  such  strange  potency,  that  soon  the 

shoals 
Coop'd  there  by  Nature  prodigally  kind, 
Floated  inebriate.     As  I  gazed,  a  deer 
Sprung  from  the  bordering  thicket ;   the 

true  shaft  50 

Scarce  with  the  distant  victim's  blood 

had  stain' d 
Its  point,  when  instantly  he  dropt  and 

died, 
Such  deadly  juice  imbued  it ;    yet  on 

this 
We   made   our   meal   unharm'd;     and 

I  perceived 
The  wisest  leech  that  ever  in  our  world 
Cull'd  herbs  of  hidden  virtue,  was  to 

these 
A  child  in  knowledge. 

Sorrowing  we  beheld 
The  night  come  on  ;   but  soon  did  night 

display 
More  wondei-s  than  it  veil'd  :   innumer- 

ous  tribes 
From    the    wood-cover    swarm' d,    and 

darkness  made  60 

Their  beauties  visible ;    one  while  they 

stream'  d 
A    bright    blue   radiance   upon   flowers 

which  closed 
Their  gorgeous  colours  from  the  63^6  of 

day; 
Now  motionless  and  dark  eluded  search, 
Self-shrouded ;    and  anon  starring  the 

sky 
Rose  like  a  shower  of  fire. 

Our  friendly  hosts 
Now  led  us  to  the  hut,  our  that  night's 

home, 
A  rude  and  spacious  dwelling  :    twisted 

bouffhs, 
And  canes  and  withies  formed  the  walls 

and  roof ; 


LINCOYA 


477 


And   from    tho   unliewii    trunks   which 

pillar'd  it,  70 

Low    nets    of    interwoviMi    loi^ds    woro 

hung. 
With     shouts     of     honoin-     hero     thoy 

gather' (1  round  lue. 
Ungnrmented  my  limbs,  and  in  a  uet 
Witii  softest  featliers  lined,  a  pleasant 

couch. 
They  laid  and  left  rao. 

To  our  ships  return' d. 
Aft<?r  soft  sojourn  hero  we  coasted  on, 
Insatiate     of     the     wonders    and     tho 

charms 
Of  earth  and  air  and  sea.     Thy  summer 

woods 
Are  lovely,  0  my  mother  isle  !  the  birch 
Light  bending  on  thy  banks,  tiiy  el  my 

vales,  80 

Thy  venerable  oaks  !  .  .  But  there,  what 

forms 
Of  beauty  clothed  the  inlands  and  the 

shore ! 
All  these  in  stateliest  growth,  and  mixt 

with  these 
Dark  spreading  cedar,  and  the  cypress 

tall. 
Its  pointed  summit  waving  to  the  wind 
Like  a  long  beacon  flame  ;   and  loveliest 
Amid  a  thousand  strange  and  lovely 

shapes, 
The  lofty  palm,  that  with  its  nuts  sup- 
plied 
Beverage   and   food ;     they   edged   the 

shore  and  crowTi'd 
The    far-ofT    highland    summits,    their 

straight  stems  90 

Bare  without  leaf  or  bough,  erect  and 

smooth, 
Their    tresses   nodding   like   a   crested 

helm. 
The  plumage  of  tho  grove. 

Will  ye  believe 
The  wonders  of  the  ocean  ?    how  its 

shoals 
Sprang   from    tho   wave,  like   flashing 

light,  .  .  took  wing. 
And  twinkling  with  a  silver  glitteranco, 
Flew  through  the  air  and  sunshine  ?  yet 

were  these 
To  sight  less  wondrous  than  the  tribe 

who  swam, 
Following  Uke  fowlers  with  uplifted  eye 


Their  falling  quarry  : .  .  lanjruago  CAnnot 

paint  ,00 

Their  H})lendid  tints;    though  in   bluo 

ocean  wm, 
Blue,  darkly,  deeply,  beautifully  Wuo, 
In  all  its  rich  variety  of  shadoM, 
SulTusod  with  glowing  gold. 

Heaven  tern  had  I  hero 
Its   wonders :   .    ,   from   a  deep,   black. 

heavy  cloud. 
What  shall  I  say  '/ .  .  a  shoot,  .  .  a  trunk, 

.  .  an  arm 
Came  down  :  .  .  yea !    like  a  Demon's 

arm,  it  seized 
The  waters,  Ocean  smoked  beneath  its 

touch. 
And  rose  like  dust  before  tho  whirlwind's 

force. 
But  we  sail'd  onward  over  tranquil  soa.s. 
Wafted  by  airs  so  exquisitely  mild,   iii 
That  even  to  breathe  been  me  an  act  of 

will 
And  sense  and  pleasure.     Not  a  cloud 

by  day 
With    purple    islanded    the    dark-blue 

deep  ; 
By  night  the  quiet  billows  heaved  and 

glanced 
Under  the  moon, . .  that  heavenly  Moon! 

so  bright. 
That  many  a  midnight  have  I  paced  tho 

deck, 
Forgetful  of  the  hours  of  due  rejwso 
Yea  till  the  Sun  in  his  full  majesty 
Went  forth,  like  Ood  beholdini:  his  own 

works.  iw 

Once  when  a  chief  was  feaating  us  on 

shore, 
A  captive  served  the  food  :    I  mark'd 

the  youth. 
For  he  had  features  of  a  gentler  race  ; 
And  oft^ntinie^s  his  eye  wa.H  fix'd  on  mc. 
With  looks  of  more  than  wonder.     Wo 

return' d 
At  evening  to  our  ships  ;  at  night  a  voieo 
Came  from  the  sea,  tho  intvllik'iblo  voico 
Of  earnest  supplication  ;    he  had  «wum 
To  trust  our  merry  ;    up  tho  wdo  ho 

sprang. 
And  look'd  among  the  crow,  and  wngling 

mo  »3o 

Fell  at  ray  foot.    Such  friendly  tokeninga 


478 


MADOC  IN  WALES 


As  our  short  commerce  with  the  native 
tribes 

Had  taught,  I  proffer' d,  and  sincerity 

Gave  force  and  meaning  to  the  half- 
learnt  forms. 

For  one  we  needed  who  might  speak  for 
us ; 

And  well  I  liked  the  youth, — the  open 
lines 

Which  character' d  his  face,  the  fearless 
heart. 

Which  gave  at  once  and  won  full  con- 
fidence. 

So  that  night  at  my  feet  Lincoya  slept. 

When    I    display' d    whate'er    might 

gratify,  140 

Whate'er  surprise,  with  most  delight  he 

view'  d 
Our  arms,  the  iron  helm,  the  pliant  mail, 
The  buckler  strong  to  save ;    and  then 

he  shook 
The  lance,  and  grasp' d  the  sword,  and 

turn'd  to  me 
With    vehement    words    and   gestures, 

every  limb 
Working  with  one  strong  passion  ;   and 

he  placed 
The  falchion  in  my  hand,  and  gave  the 

shield. 
And  pointed  south  and  west,   that  I 

should  go 
To  conquer  and  protect ;   anon  he  wept 
Aloud,  and  clasp' d  my  knees,  and  falling 

fain  150 

He  would  have  kiss'd  my  feet.     Went 

we  to  shore  ? 
Then  would  he  labour  restlessly  to  show 
A  better  place  lay  onward ;    and  in  the 

sand. 
To  south  and  west  he  drew  the  line  of 

coast. 
And  figured  how  a  mighty  river  there 
Ran  to  the  sea.     The  land  bent  west- 
ward soon. 
And  thus  confirm' d  we  voyaged  on  to 


The  river  inlet,  following  at  the  wall 
Of  our  new  friend  :   and  we  learnt  after 

him. 
Well  pleased  and  proud  to  teach,  what 

this  was  call'd,  160 

What  that,  with  no  unprofitable  pains. 


Nor  light  the  joy  I  felt  at  hearing  first 
The    pleasant    accents    of    my    native 

tongue. 
Albeit  in  broken  words  and  tones  un- 
couth. 
Come  from  these  foreign  lips. 

At  length  we  came 
Where  the  great  river,  amid  shoals  and 

banks 
And  islands,  growth  of  its  own  gathering 

spoils. 
Through   many   a   branching   channel, 

mde  and  full, 
Rush'd   to    the   main.     The   gale   was 

strong ;    and  safe. 
Amid  the  uproar  of  conflicting  tides,  170 
Our  gallant  vessels  rode.     A  stream  as 

broad 
And  turbid,  when  it  leaves  the  Land  of 

Hills, 
Old  Severn  rolls ;    but  banks  so  fair  as 

these 
Old  Severn  %iews  not  in  his  Land  of 

Hills, 
Nor  even  where  his  turbid  waters  swell 
And  sully  the  salt  sea. 

So  we  sail'd  on 
By  shores  now  cover' d  with  impervious 

woods. 
Now  stretching  wide  and  low,  a  reedy 

waste, 
And  now   through   vales   where   earth 

profusely  pour'd 
Her  treasures,  gather"  d  from  the  first  of 

days.  180 

Sometimes  a  savage  tribe  would  wel- 
come us, 
Bj'  wonder  from  their  lethargy  of  life 
Awaken' d  ;    then  again  we  voyaged  on 
Through  tracts  all  desolate,  for  days  and 

days, 
League    after    league,    one    green    and 

fertile  mead, 
That  fed  a  thousand  herds. 

A  different  scene 
Rose  on  our  view,  of  mount  on  mountain 

piled, 
Which  when  I  see  again  in  memory. 
Star-gazing  Idris's  stupendous  seat 
Seems  dwarf' d,  and  Snowdon  with  its 

eagle  haunts  190 

Shrinks,  and  is  dwindled  like  a  Saxon 

hill. 


LINCOYA 


479 


Here  with  Cadwallon  and  a  chosen 

band, 
I  loft  tlie  ships.     Lincoya  miided  u.s 
A  toilsome  way  among  the  heights  ;    at 

dusk 
Wo  reach'd  the  village  skirts  ;    he  bade 

US  halt, 
And  raised  his  voice ;   the  elders  of  the 

land 
Came  forth,  and  led  us  to  an  ample  hut. 
Which  in  the  centre  of  thoir  dwellings 

stood. 
The  Stranger's  House.     They  eyed  as 

wondering. 
Yet   not   for    wonder   ceased   they    to 

observe  200 

Their  hospitable  rites  ;  from  hut  to  hut 
The   tidings   ran    that   strangers    were 

arrived. 
Fatigued  and  hungry  and  atliirst;  anon, 
Each  from  his  means  suppl_ying  us,  came 

food 
And  beverage  such  as  cheers  the  weary 

man. 


VI.    ERILLYAB 

fAT  morning  their  high-priest  Ayayaca 
Game  with  our  guide :    the  venerable 
I  man 

I  With  reverential  awe  accosted  us, 
j  For  we,  he  ween'd,  were  children  of  a 

race 
Mightier  than  they,  and  wiser,  and  by 

heaven 
Beloved  and  favour' d  more  :    he  came 

to  give 
,  Fit  welcome,  and  he  led  us  to  the  Queen. 
The  fate  of  war  had  reft  her  of  her  realm; 
Yet  with  affection  and  habitual  awe, 
And    old    remembrances,    which    gave 

their  love  10 

A  deeper  and  religious  character, 
Fallen  as  she  was,  and  humbled  as  they 

were, 
Her  faithful  people  still  in  all  they  could 
Obey'd  Erillyab.     She  too  in  her  mind 
Those  recollections  cherish'd,  and  such 

thoughts 
As,  though  no  hope  allay' d  their  bitter- 
ness. 
Gave  to  her  eye  a  spirit  and  a  strength, 


And  pride  to  features  which  bolike  had 

borne. 
Had  tliey  bt>rn  fawliiond  by  n  happier 

fate,  ,^ 

Cleaning  more  gentle  and  more  womanly, 
Yet  not  more  worthy  of  osttM  in  and  lovo. 
She  sate  upon  the  threshold  of  lior  hut ; 
For  in  the  palace  whcru  her  aires  had 

i*eign'd 
The  conqueror  dwelt.     Her  son  was  at 

her  side. 
A  boy  now  near  to  manhood ;    by  the 

door. 
Bare  of  its  bark,  the  head  and  branchee 

shorn. 
Stood  a  young  tree  with  many  a  weapon 

hung, 
Her  husband's  war-polo,  and  his  monu- 
ment. 
There   had   his   quiver   moulder' d,    his 

stone-axe 
Had  there  grown  green  with  moss,  his 

bow-string  there  30 

Sung  as  it  cut  the  wind. 

She  welcom'd  us 
With  a  proud  sorrow  in  her  mien  ;   fresh 

fruits 
Were  spread  before  us,  and  her  gestures 

said 
That  when  he  lived  whose  hand  was 

wont  to  wield 
Those  weapons, .  .  that  in  better  days, . . 

that  ere 
She  let  the  tresses  of  her  widowhood 
Grow   wild,   she   could   have   given   to 

guests  like  us 
A  worthier  welcome.     Soon  a  man  ap- 
proach'd. 
Hooded  with  sable,  his  half-naked  limbs 
Smear' d  black  ;    the  people  at  his  sight 

drew  round,  4° 

Tlie    women     wail'd    and    wept,     the 

children  tum'd 
And  hid  their  faces  on  thoir  mothers' 

knees. 
He  to  the  Queen  addrefit  his  speoch,  then 

look'd 
Around  the  children,  and  laid  hand«  on 

t  wo. 
Of  difTcrent  sexes  but  of  ago  alike 
Some  six  years  each,  who  at  hi«  touch 

shriek'd  out. 
But  then  Lincoya  rose,  and  to  my  f<H't 


480 


MADOC  IN  WALES 


Led  them,  and  told  me  that  the  con- 
querors claim' d 
These  innocents  for  tribute  ;    that  the 

Priest  49 

Would  lay  them  on  the  altar  of  his  god, 
Pluck  out  their  little  hearts  in  sacritice, 
And  with  his  brotherhood  in  impious 

rites 
Feast  on  their  flesh  !    .  .  I  shudder' d, 

and  my  hand 
Instinctively  unsheathed  the  avenging 

sword, 
As   he   with   passionate   and   eloquent 

signs. 
Eye-speaking  earnestness  and  quivering 

lips, 
Besought  me  to  preserve  liimself,  and 

those 
Who  now  fell  suppliant  round  me,  .  . 

youths  and  maids. 
Grey-headed   men,   and   mothers   with 

their  babes. 

I  caught  the  little  victims  up,  I  kiss'd 
Their  innocent  cheeks,  I  raised  my  eyes 

to  heaven,  6i 

I  call'd  upon  Almighty  God  to  hear 
And  bless  the  vow  I  made ;  in  our  own 

tongue 
Was  that  sworn  promise  of  protection 

pledged  .  . 
Impetuous  feeling  made  no  pause  for 

thought. 
Heaven  heard  the  vow ;    the  suppliant 

multitude 
Saw  what  was  stirring  in  my  heart ;  the 

Priest, 
With  eye  inflamed  and  rapid  answer, 

raised 
His    menacing    hand ;     the    tone,    the 

bitter  smile. 
Interpreting  his  threat. 

Meanwhile  the  Queen,  70 
With  watchful  eye  and  steady  coun- 
tenance. 
Had  listen' d ;   now  she  rose  and  to  the 

Priest 
Address'd   her   speech.     Low   was   her 

voice  and  calm, 
As  one  who  spake  with  effort  to  subdue 
Sorrow  that  struggled  still ;    but  while 

she  spake 
Her  features  kindled  to  more  majesty, 


Her  eye  became  more  animate,  her  voice 
Rose  to  the  height  of  feeling  ;  on  her  son 
She    call'd,    and   from    her    husband's 

monument 
His  battle-axe  she  took  ;  and  I  could  see 
That  when  she  gave  the  boy  his  father's 

arms,  8i 

She  call'd  his  father's  spirit  to  look  on 
And  bless  them  to  his  vengeance. 

Silently 
The  tribe  stood  listening  as  Erillyab 

spake. 
The  very  Priest  was  awed :    once  he 


To  answer  ;    his  tongue  fail'd  him,  and 
his  lip 

Grew  pale  and  fell.     He  to  his  country- 
men 

Of  rage  and  shame  and  wonder  full,  re- 
turn'd, 

Bearing   no   victims   for   their   shrines 
accurst, 

But  tidings  that  the  Hoamen  had  cast 
off  90 

Their   vassalage,    roused   to    desperate 
revolt 

By  men  in  hue  and  speech  and  garment 
strange, 

Who  in  their  folly  dared  defy  the  power 

Of  Aztlan. 

When  the  King  of  Aztlan  heard 

The  unlock' d-f or  tale,  ere  yet  he  roused 
his  strength. 

Or  pitying  our  rash  valour,  or  perhaps 

Curious  to  see  the  man  so  bravely  rash. 

He  sent  to  bid  me  to  his  court.     Sur- 
prised, 

I  should  have  given  to  him  no  credulous 
faith, 

But  fearlessly  Erillyab  bade  me  trust  100 

Her  honourable  foe.     Unarm' d  I  went, 

Lincoya  with  me  to  exchange  our  speech 

So  as  he  could,  of  safety  first  assured ; 

For  to  their  devilish  idols  he  had  been 

A  victim  doom'd,  and  from  the  bloody 
rites 

Flying  been  carried  captive  far  away. 

From  early  morning  till  the  midnoon 

hour 
We  travell'd  in  the  mountains;    then 

a  plain 
Open'd  below,  and  rose  upon  the  sight, 


ERILLYAB 


481 


Like  boundless  ocean  from  a  hill-top 

seen.  no 

A  beautiful  and  populous  plain  it  was ; 
Fair  woods   were  there  and  fertihzing 

streams. 
And     pastures    spreading     wide,     and 

villages 
In     fruitful     groves     embower' d,     and 

stately  towns. 
And  many  a  single  dwelling  spooking  it, 
As  though  for  many  a  year  the  land  had 

been 
The  land  of  peace.     Below  us,  where  the 

base 
Of   the   great   mountain   to   the   level 

sloped, 
A  broad  blue  lake  extended  far  and  wide 
Its  waters,  dark  beneath  the  light  of 

noon.  120 

There  Aztlan  stood  upon  the  farther 

shore  : 
Amid  the  shade  of  trees  ita  dwellings 

rose. 
Their  level  roofs  with  turrets  set  around, 
And    battlements    all  burnish' d  white, 

which  shone 
[  Like  silver  in  the  sunshine.     I  beheld 
I  The  imperial  city,  her  far-circling  walls, 
;   Her  garden  groves  and  stately  palaces. 
Her  temple's  mountain-size,  her  thou- 
i  sand  roofs  ; 

I  And  when  I  saw  her  might  and  majesty 
My  mind  misgave  me  then. 

We  reach' d  the  shore  : 
A  floating  islet  waited  for  me  there,  131 
The  beautiful  work  of  man.     I  set  my 

feet 
Upon  green-growing  herbs  and  flowers, 

and  sate 
Embower' d  in   odorous   shrubs  :     four 

long  light  boats 
Yoked  to  the  garden,  with  accordant 

song. 
And  dip  and  dash  of  oar  in  harmony. 
Bore  me  across  the  lake. 

Then  in  a  car 
Aloft  by  human  bearers  was  I  borne  ; 
And  through  the  city  gate,  and  through 

long  lines 
Of  marshall'd  multitudes  who  throng' d 

the  way,  140 

We    reach' d    the    palace    court.     Four 

priests  were  there  ; 


Each  held  a  burning  censor  in  his  hand. 
And  strew' d  the  precious  gum  ix»  I  drew 

nigh. 
And  held  the  steaming  fragrance  forth 

to  me. 
Honouring  me  like  a  god.     They  led  mo 

in. 
Where  on  his  throne  the  royal  Aztooa 
C'oanocotzin  8at<».     Stranger,  said  he. 
Welcome  ;    and  bo  this  coming  to  thy 

weal  ! 
A  desperate  warfare  doth  thy  courage 

court ; 
But  thou  shalt  see  the  people  and  the 

power  150 

Whom  thy  deluded  zeal  would  call  to 

arms  ; 
So  may  the  knowledge  make  thee  timely 

wise. 
The  valiant  love  the  valiant.  .  .  Come 

with  me  ! 
So  saying  he  rose ;    wo  went  together 

forth 
To  the  Great  Temple.     'Twas  a  huge 

square  hill, 
Or  rather  like  a  rock  it  seem'd,  hewn  out 
And  squared  by  patient  labour.     Never 

yet 
Did  our  forefathers,  o'er  beloved  chief 
Fallen  in  his  glory,  heap  a  monument 
Of  that  prodigious  bulk,  though  every 

sliield  x6o 

Was  laden  for  his  grave,  and  every  hand 
Toil'd  unremitting  at  the  willing  work 
From  morn  till  eve,  all  the  long  summer 

day. 

The  ascent  was  lengthened  with  pro- 
voking art. 

By  steps  which  led  but  to  a  wearj-ing 
path 

Round  the  whole  structure;  then 
another  flight. 

Another  road  around,  and  thus  a  third. 

And  yet  a  fourth,  before  wo  reach'd  the 
height. 

Lo,  now,  Coanocotzin  cried,  thou  seeat 

The  cities  of  this  widely  jx'opled  plain  ; 

And  wert  thou  on  yon  farthent  temple- 
top.  «7« 

Yet  OH  far  onward  wouldst  thou  see  the 
land  fmen. 

Well   husbanded  like  thin,  and  full  of 


n 


482 


MADOC  IN  WALES 


They  tell  me  that  two  floating  palaces 
Brought  thee  and  all  thy  people  ;  .  . 

when  I  sound 
The  Tambour  of  the  God,  ten  Cities  hear 
Its  voice,  and  answer  to  the  call  in  arms. 

In  truth  I  felt  my  weakness,  and  the 

view 
Had  wakened  no  unreasonable  fear, 
But  that  a  nearer  sight  had  stirr'd  my 

blood ;  180 

For  on  the  summit  where  we  stood  four 

Towers 
Were  piled  with  human  skulls,  and  all 

around 
Long  files  of  human  heads  were  strung 

to  parch 
And  whiten  in  the  sun.     What  then  I 

felt 
Was  more  than  natural  courage  .  .  'twas 

a  trust 
In  more  than  mortal  strength  .  .  a  faith 

in  God,  .  . 
Yea,  inspiration  from  Him  !..  I  ex- 
claim'd, 
Not  though  ten  Cities  ten  times  told 

obey'd 
The  King  of  Aztlan's  bidding,  should 

I  fear  189 

The  power  of  man  ! 

Art  thou  then  more  than  man  ? 
He  answered ;    and  I  saw  his  tawny 

cheek 
Lose  its  life-colour  as  the  fear  arose  ; 
Nor  did  I  undeceive  him  from  that  fear, 
For  sooth  I  knew  not  how  to  answer  him, 
And  therefore  let  it  work.     So  not  a 

word 
Spake  he,  till  we  again  had  reach' d  the 

court. 
And  I  too  went  in  silent  thoughtfulness  : 
But  then  when,  save  Lincoya,  there  was 

none 
To  hear  our  speech,  again  did  he  renew 
The  query  .  .  Stranger !   art  thou  more 

than  man,  200 

That  thou  shouldst  set  the  power  of  man 

at  nought  ? 

Then  I  replied,  Two  floating  palaces 
Bore  me  and  all  my  people  o'er  the  seas. 
When  we  departed  from  our  mother- 
land. 


The  Moon  was  newly  born  ;  we  saw  her 

wax 
And  wane,  and  witnessed  her  new  birth 

again ; 
And  all  that  while,  alike  by  day  and 

night. 
We    travell'd    through    the    sea,    and 

caught  the  winds, 
And  made  them  bear  us  forward.     We 

must  meet 
In  battle,  if  the  Hoamen  are  not  freed 
From  your  accursed  tribute,  .  .  thou 

and  I,  211 

My  people  and  thy  countless  multitudes. 
Your  arrows  shall  fall  from  us  as  the 

hail 
Leaps  on  a  rock,  .  .  and  when  ye  smite 

with  swords. 
Not  blood  but  fire  shall  follow  from  the 

stroke. 
Yet  think  not  thou  that  we  are  more 

than  men  ! 
Our  knowledge  is  our  power,  and  God 

our  strength, 
God,  whose  almighty  will  created  thee. 
And  me,  and  all  that  hath  the  breath  of 

life. 
He  is  our  strength  ;  .  .  for  in  His  name 

I  speak,  .  .  220 

And  when  I  tell  thee  that  thou  shalt  not 

shed 
The  life  of  man  in  bloody  sacrifice, 
It  is  His  holy  bidding  which  I  speak  : 
And  if  thou  wilt  not  listen  and  obey, 
When  I  shall  meet  thee  in  the  battle- 
field, 
It  is  His  holy  cause  for  which  I  fight, 
And  I  shall  have  His  power  to  vanquish 

thee! 

And    thinkest    thou    our   Gods    are 

feeble  ?  cried 
The  King  of  Aztlan ;  thinkest  thou  they 

lack 
Power  to  defend  their  altars,  and  to 

keep  230 

The    kingdom    which    they    gave    us 

strength  to  win  ? 
The  Gods  of  thirty  nations  have  opposed 
Their  irresistible  might,   and  they  lie 

now 
Conquer' d  and  caged  and  fetter'd  at 

their  feet. 


ERILLYAB 


483 


That  we  who  servo  them  are  no  coward 

race. 
Let  prove  the  ample  realm  we  won  in 

iums  :  .  . 
And  1  their  leader  am  not  of  the  sons 
Of  the  feeble  !   As  he  spake,  ho  reach'd 

a  mace. 
The  trunk  and  knotted  root  of  some 

young  tree. 
Such  as  old  Albion  and  liis  monster- 
brood  240 
From  the  oak-forest  for  their  weapons 

pluck' d. 
When  father  Brute  and   Corineus  set 

foot 
j  On   the   White  Island   first.     Lo  this, 
i  quoth  he, 

I  My  club  !   and  he  threw  back  his  robe  ; 
1  and  this 

The  arm  that  \nelds  it !  .  .  'Twaa  my 

father's  once  : 
Erillyab's  husband.  King  Tepollomi, 
He  felt  its  weight.  .  .  Did  1  not  show 
I  thee  him  ? 

j  He  lights  me  at  my  evening  banquet. 
1  There, 

1  In  very  deed,  the  dead  Tepollomi 
Stood  up  against  the  wall,  by  devilish 

art  250 

Preserv'd ;     and   from    his    black    and 

shrivell'd  hand 
The  steady  lamp  hung  down. 

My  spirit  rose 
At  tliat  abomination  ;   I  exclaimed 
Thou  art  of  noble  nature,  and  full  fain 
Would  I  in  friendship  plight  my  hand 

with  thine  ; 
But  till  that  body  in  the  grave  be  laid. 
Till  thy  polluted  altars  be  made  pure. 
There  is  no  peace  between  us.     May  my 

God, 
Who,  though  thou  know'st  Him  not,  is 

also  thine. 
And  after  death  will  be  thy  dreadful 

Judge,  260 

May  it  please  Him  to  visit  thee,  and 

shed 
His  mercy  on  thy  soul.  .  .  But  if  thy 

heart 
Be  harden' d  to  the  proof,  come  when 

thou  wilt  ! 
I  know  thy  power,  and  thou  shalt  then 

know  mine. 


VIl.   THK    BATTLE 

Now  then  to  inc<«t  llu-  war  !    Krillyab'ii 
call 

Roused  all  her  people  to  revenge  llioir 
wrongs  ; 

And  at  Lincoya's  voice,  the  mountain 
tribes 

Aro.se  and  broke  their  bondage.    I  mean- 
time 

Took  counsel  with  Cadwallon  and  hia 
sire, 

And  told  them  of  the  numbers  we  must 
meet. 

And  what  advantage  from  the  moun- 
tain-straits 

I  thought,  as  in  the  Saxon  wars,  to  win. 

Thou  saw'st  their  weapons  then,  Cad- 
wallon said  ; 

Are    they    like    these    rude    works    of 
ignorance,  to 

Bone-headed  shafts,  and  spears  of  wood, 
and  shields, 

Strong  only  for  such  strife  ? 

We  had  to  cojh' 

With  wiser  enemies,  and  abler  arm'd. 
i  What  for  the  sword  they  yielded  was 
a  staff 

Set   thick   with   stones   athwart  ;    you 
would  have  deem'd 

The  uncouth  shape  was  cumbrous  ;   Init 
a  hand 

Expert,  and  practised  to  its  use.  could 
drive 

The  sharpen'd  flints  with  deadly  impulse 
down. 

Their  mail,  if  mail  it  may  be  call'd.  wns 
woven 

Of  vegetable  down,  like  finest  flax.    20 

Bleach' d  to  the  whiteness  of  the  new- 
fallen  snow. 

To  every  bend  and  motion  flexible. 

Light   as   a   warrior's   summer-garb   in 
peace  ; 

Yet,  in  that  lightest,  softest,  habergeon, 

Harmless  the  sharp  stone  arrow-head 
would  hang. 

Others,  of  higher  oftice.  were  array'd 

In  feathery  breast-plates  of  more  gor- 
geous hue 

Than  the  gay  plumair*'  of  tin*  mountnin- 
cock, 


484 


MADOC   IN  WALES 


Or  pheasant's  glittering  pride.  But 
what  were  these. 

Or  what  the  thin  gold  hauberk,  when 
opposed  30 

To  arms  like  ours  in  battle  ?  What  the 
mail 

Of  wood  fire-harden' d,  or  the  wooden 
helm, 

Against  the  iron  arrows  of  the  South, 

Against  our  northern  spears,  or  battle- 
axe. 

Or  good  sword,  wielded  by  a  British 
hand  ? 

Then,  quoth  Cadwallon,at  the  wooden 

helm, 
Of  these  weak  arms  the  weakest,  let  the 

sword 
Hew,   and  the  spear  be   thrust.     The 

mountaineers, 
So  long  inured  to  crouch  beneath  their 

yoke. 
We  will  not  trust  in  battle ;    from  the 

heights  40 

They  with  their  arrows  may  annoy  the 

foe ; 
And  when  our  closer  strife  has  won  the 

fray, 
Then  let  them  loose  for  havoc. 

0  my  son, 
Exclaim' d    the    blind    old    man,    thou 

counsellest  ill  ! 
Blood  will  have  blood,  revenge  beget 

revenge, 
Evil  must  come  of  evil.     We  shall  win, 
Certes,  a  cheap  and  easy  victory 
In  the  first  field  ;   their  arrows  from  our 

arms 
Will  fall,  and  on  the  hauberk  and  the 

helm 
The  flint-edge  blunt  and  break ;    while 

through  their  limbs,  50 

Naked,  or  vainly  fenced,  the  griding  steel 
Shall  sheer  its  mortal  way.     But  what 

are  we 
Against  a  nation  ?   Other  hosts  will  rise 
In  endless  warfare,  with  perpetual  fights 
Dwindling  our  all-too-few ;    or  multi- 
tudes 
Will  wear  and  weary  us,  till  we  sink  sub- 
dued 
By  the  very  toil  of  conquest.     Ye  are 

strong  ; 


But  he  who  puts  his  trust  in  mortal 

strength 
Leans  on  a  broken  reed.     First  prove 

your  power  ; 
Be  in  the  battle  terrible,  but  spare       60 
The  fallen,  and  follow  not  the  flying  foe  : 
Then  may  ye  win  a  nobler  victory. 
So  dealing  with  the  captives  as  to  fill 
Their   hearts   with   wonder,   gratitude, 

and  awe. 
That  love  shall  mingle  with  their  fear, 

and  fear 
'Stablish  the  love,  else  wavering.     Let 

them  see. 
That  as  more  pure  and  gentle  is  your 

faith. 
Yourselves  are  gentler,  purer.     Ye  shall 

be 
As  gods  among  them,  if  ye  thus  obey 
God's  precepts. 

Soon  the  mountain 

tribes,  in  arms  70 

Rose  at  Lincoya's  call :    a  numerous 

host, 
More  than  in  numbers,  in  the  memory 
Of  long  oppression,  and  revengeful  hope, 
A  formidable  foe.     I  station' d  them 
Where  at  the  entrance   of   the  rocky 

straits, 
Secure  themselves,  their  arrows  might 

command 
The  coming  army.     On  the  plain  below 
W^e  took  our  stand,  between  the  moun- 
tain-base 
And  the  green  margin  of  the  waters. 

Soon 
Their  long  array  came  on.     Oh  what 

a  pomp  80 

And  pride  and  pageantry  of  war  was 

there ! 
Not  half  so  gaudied,  for  their  May- day 

mirth, 
All  wreathed  and  ribanded,  our  youths 

and  maids. 
As  these  stern  Aztecas  in  war  attire  ! 
The  golden  glitterance,  and  the  feather- 
mail, 
More   gay   than   glittering   gold ;     and 

round  the  helm 
A  coronal  of  high  upstanding  plumes 
Green  as  the  spring  grass  in  the  sunny 

shower ; 
Or  scarlet  bright,  as  in  the  wintry  wood 


THE   BATTLE 


486 


Tlie  cluster' d  holly  ;  or  of  purple  tint, .  . 
Whereto  shall  that  bo  liken' d  "/   to  what 

gem  9» 

Indiadem'd,  .   .   what  flower,  .   .   what 

insect's  wing  1 
^^'ith  war  songs  and  wild  music  they 

camo  on. 
We  the  while  kneeling,  raised  with  one 

accord 
The  hymn  of  supplication. 

Front  to  front. 
And  now  the  embattled  armies  stood  : 

a  band 
Of    priests,    all    sable-garmented,    ad- 
vanced ; 
The}'  piled  a  heap  of  sedge  before  our 

host. 
And  warn'd  us,  .  .  Sons  of  Ocean  !   from 

the  land 
Of   Aztlan,    while   ye    may,    depart   in 

jxjace !  loo 

Before   the   tire   shall    be  extinguish'd, 

hence  ! 
Or,  even  as  you  dry  sedge  amid  the 

flame, 
80  ye  shall   be  consumed  .  •  The  arid 

heap 
They  kindled,  and  the  rapid  flame  ran 

up. 
And  blazed,  and  died  away.     Then  from 

his  bow, 
With  steady  hand,  their  chosen  archer 

loosed 
The  Arrow  of  the  Omen.     To  its  mark 
The  shaft  of  divination  fled  ;   it  smote 
Cadwallon's  plated  breast ;    the  brittle 

point 
Rebounded.    He,  contemptuous  of  their 

faith,  no 

Stoopt  for  the  shaft,   and  while  with 

zealous  speed 
To    the    rescue    they    rushed    onward, 

snapping  it 
Asunder,  toss'd  the  fragments  back  in 

scorn. 

Fierce  was  their  onset ;   never  in  the 

field   ^ 
Encounter' d  I  with  braver  enemies. 
Nor  marvel  ye,  nor  think   it   to  their 

shame. 
If  soon  they  stagger'd,  and  gave  way, 

and  fled. 


So  many  from  so  few  ;    thoy  saw  their 

(lar'ts 

Recoil,  their  lances  ehivcr,  and  their 
swords 

Fall  inetlcctual,  blunted  with  the  blow. 

Think  ve  no  shame  of  Aztlan  that  they 
tied.  121 

When  the  bowmen  of  Deheubarth  pliod 
so  well 

Their  shafts  with  fatal  aim  ;  through 
the  tiiin  goKl 

Or  fcatiier-mail,  while  Owyneth's  deep- 
driven  8j)ears 

Pierced  to  the  bono  and  vitals ;  when 
they  saw 

The  falchion,  flashing  late  so  lightning- 
like, 

Quench'd  in  their  own  life-blood.  Our 
mountaineers 

Shower' d  from  the  heights,  meantime, 
an  arrowy  storm. 

Themselves  secure  ;  and  we  who  bore 
the  brunt 

Of  battle,  iron  men,  impa«.'<able,         130 

Stood  in  our  strength  unbroken.  .Marvel 
not 

If  then  the  brave  felt  fear,  alrea<ly  im- 
press'd 

That  day  by  ominous  thoughts,  to  fear 
akin  ; 

For  so  it  chanced,  high  Heaven  ordain- 
ing so. 

The  King,  who  should  have  led  his 
people  forth. 

At  the  army- head,  as  they  began  their 
march, 

Was  with  sore  sickness  stricken  ;  an<l 
the  stroke 

Came  like  the  act  and  arm  of  very  (iotl. 

So  suddenly,  and  in  that  point  of  time. 

A  gallant    man   was   he   who  in   his 

stead  MO 

That  day  commanded  Aztlan  :   hia  long 

hair. 
Tufted  with  many  a  cotton  UkU,  pro- 

clairn'd 
Of     ])rinc('ly     pr<»W(SH     in/iny     a     fmt 

achieved 
111  many  a  field  of  fame.     Oft   had  Im 

led" 
'I'he  Azteeas.  with  happy  fortune,  f<»rtli ; 
Vet  could  nut  now  Vuhidlhiton  inspire 


486 


MADOC  IN  WALES 


His  host  with  hope  :    he,  not  the  less, 

that  day, 
True  to  his  old  renown,  and  in  the  hour 
Of  rout  and  ruin  \nth  collected  mind, 
Sounded  his  signals  shrill,  and  in  the 

voice  150 

Of  loud  reproach  and  aiiger,  and  brave 

shame, 
Call'd  on  the  people  .  .  But  when  nought 

avail' d, 
Seizing   the   standard   from   the   timid 

hand 
Which  held  it  in  dismay,  alone  he  turn'd, 
For    honourable    death    resolved,    and 

praise 
That  would  not  die.    Thereat  the  braver 

chiefs 
Rallied,  anew  their  signals  rung  around, 
And  Aztlan,  seeing  how  we  spared  her 

flight, 
Took  heart,  and  roll'd  the  tide  of  battle 

back. 
But  when  Cadwallon  from  the  chieftain's 

grasp  160 

Had  cut  the  standard-staff  away,  and 

stunn'  d 
And  stretched  him  at  his  mercy  on  the 

field. 
Then  fled  the  enemy  in  utter  rout, 
Broken  and  quell' d  at  heart.     One  chief 

alone 
Bestrode  the  body  of  Yuhidthiton  ; 
Bareheaded  did  j'oung  Malinal  bestride 
His   brother's   body,    wiping   from   his 

brow 
With  the  shield- hand  the  blinding  blood 

awaj% 
And  dealing  frauticly  with  broken  sword 
Obstinate  wrath,  the  last  resisting  foe. 
Him,  in  his  own  despite,  we  seized  and 

saved.  171 

Then  in  the  moment  of  om*  victory. 

We  purified  our  hands  from  blood,  and 
knelt. 

And  pour'd  to  heaven  the  grateful 
prayer  of  praise 

And  raised  the  choral  psalm.  Trium- 
phant thus 

To  the  hills  we  went  our  way ;  the 
mountaineers 

With  joy,  and  dissonant  song,  and  antic 
dance ; 


The  captives  sullenly,  deeming  that  they 

went 
To  meet  the  certam  death  of  sacrifice, 
Yet  stern  and  undismay'd.     We  bade 

them  know  180 

Ours  was  a  law  of  mercy  and  of  love  ; 
We  heal'd  their  wounds,  and  set  the 

prisoners  free. 
Bear  ye,  quoth  I,  my  bidding  to  your 

King  ; 
Say  to  him.  Did  the  stranger  speak  to 

thee 
The  words  of  truth,  and  hath  he  proved 

his  power  ? 
Thus  saith  the  Lord  of  Ocean,  in  the 

name 
Of  God,  Almighty,  Universal  God, 
Thy   Judge   and   mine,    whose   battles 

I  have  fought, 
Whose   bidding  I   obey,   whose   will  I 

speak ;  189 

Shed  thou  no  more  in  impious  sacrifice 
The  life  of  man  ;  restore  unto  the  grave 
The  dead  TepoUomi ;    set  tliis  people 

free, 
And  peace  shall  be  between  us. 

On  the  morrow- 
Came  messengers  from  Aztlan,  in  reply. 
Coanocotzin  with  sore  malady 
Hath,  by  the  Gods,  been  stricken  :   will 

the  Lord 
Of  Ocean  visit  his  sick  bed  ?  .  .  He  told 
Of  wrath,  and  as  he  said,  the  vengeance 

came  ; 
Let  him  bring  healing  now,  and  'stablish 

peace. 


VIIL    THE   PEACE 

Again,   and  now  with  better  hope,  I 

sought 
The  city  of  the  King  !    there  went  with 
.  me 

;  lolo,  old  lolo,  he  who  knows 
The  virtue  of  all  herbs  of  mount  or  vale, 
I  Or  greenwood  shade,  or  quiet  brooklet's 

bed ; 
j  Whatever  lore  of  science,  or  of  song. 
Sages  and  Bards  of  old  have  handed 

down. 
Aztlan    that    day    pour'd    forth    her 
i  swarming  sons, 


THE   PKACK 


487 


To  wait  my  coming.     \\  ill  he  ask  bis 

God 
To  stay  the  hand  of  anger  ?    was  the 

cry,  10 

The  general  cry,  .  .  and  will  he  save  the 

King  ? 
Coanocotzin  too  had  nurst  that  thought, 
And  the   strong  hope  upheld  him  ;    he 

put  forth 
His  hand,  and  raised  a  quick  and  anxious 

eye,  .  . 
Is  it  not  peace  and  mercy  t  .  .  thou  art 

come 
To  pardon  and  to  save  ! 

I  answer' d  him. 
That  power,  O  King  of  Aztlan,  is  not 

mine  ! 
Such  help  as  liunian  cunning  can  bestow, 
Such  human  help  1  bring  ;    but  health 

and  hfe 
Are  in  the  hand  of  God,  who  at  his  will 
Gives  or  withdraws  ;   and  what  he  wills 

is  best.  21 

Then  old  lolo  took  his  arm,  and  felt 
The  symptom,  and  he  bade  him  have 

good  hope, 
For  life  was  strong  within  him.     So  it 

proved  : 
The  drugs  of  subtle   virtue  did   their 

work  : 
They  quelTd  the  venom  of  the  malady, 
And  from  the  frame  expell'd  it,  .  .  that 

a  sleep 
Fell  on  the  King,  a  sweet  and  natural 

sleep, 
And  from  its  healing  he  awoke  refresh' d 
Though  weak,  and  joyful  as  a  man  who 

felt  30 

The  peril  pass'd  away. 

Ere  long  we  spake 
Of  concord,  and  how  best  to  knit  the 

bonds 
Of  lasting  friendship.     When  we  won 

this  land. 
Coanocotzin  said,  these  fertile  vales 
Were  not.  as  now,  with  fruitful  groves 

embower' (1, 
Nor    rich    with    towns    and    populous 

villages. 
Abounding,  as  thou  seest,  with  life  and 


and   savannahs   wide 
From 


joy; 
Our   fathers   found    bleak    heath, 
desert  moor, 


Wild    woodland, 

and  wjiste. 
Rude  country  of  rude  dwellers. 

our  arms  ^ 

They  to  the  mountain  fuHtncssos  retired. 
And  long  with  obstinate  and  harassing 

war 
Provoked  us,  hoping  not  for  victorv. 
Yet  mad  for  vengeance  ;    till  'rrpoilomi 
Fell   by   my  father's  hand  ;    and   with 

their  King, 
The   strength   and   flower   of   all    their 

youth  cut  otT, 
All  in  one  desolating  day,  they  took 
The    yoke    u|)on    their    necks.      What 

wouldest  thou 
That   to  these   Hoamen   I  should  now 

concede  ? 
Lord  of  the  Ocean,  speak  ! 

Let  them  be  frt-e  I  50 
Quoth  I.     I  come  not  from  my  native 

isle 
To  wage  the  war  of  contiuest,  and  cast 

out 
Your  people  from  the  land  which  time 

and  toil 
Have    rightly    made    their    own.     The 

land  is  wide  ; 
There  is  enough  for  all.     So  they  be  freed 
From  that  accursed  tribute,  and  ye  shed 
The  life  of  man  no  more  in  sacriHce, 
In  the  most  holy  name  of  CJod  I  say, 
Let  there  be  jx?ace  between  us  I 

Thou  hast  won 
Their  liberty,  the  King  replied  :  hence- 
forth, 60 
Free  as  they  are,  if  they  provoke  the  war, 
Reluctantly  will  Aztlan  raise  her  arm. 
Be  thou  the  peace -preserver.     To  what 

else 
Thou  say'st,  instructed  by  calamity, 
I  lend  a  humble  ear  ;    but  to  destroy 
The  woi'ship  of  my  fathers,  or  abate 
Or  change  one  point,  lies  not  within  tlir 

reach 


And  scope  of  kingly  p 


»pe) 


ikth 


hereon 
With  those  whom  wi-  hold  holy,  with  tli<- 

sons 
Of    the    Temple,    they    who   cuiumuiiu 

with  the  (iods  ;  70 

Awe  them,   for   tluy  awe   me.     So   we 

resolved 


488 


MADOC  IN  WALES 


That  when  the  bones  of  King  TepoUomi 

Had  had  their  funeral  honours,  they 
and  I 

Should  by  the  green-lake  side,  before 
the  King, 

And  in  the  presence  of  the  people,  hold 

A  solemn  talk. 

Then  to  the  mountain-huts, 

The  bearer  of  good  tidings,  I  return' d, 

Leading  the  honourable  train  who  bore 

The  rehcs  of  the  King  ;  not  parch' d  and 
black, 

As  I  had  seen  the  unnatural  corpse  stand 
up,  80 

In  ghastly  mockery  of  the  attitude 

And  act  of  life, . .  his  bones  had  now  been 
blanch' d 

With  decent  reverence.    Soon  the  moun- 
taineers 

Saw  the  white  deer-skin  shroud ;    the 
rumour  spread ; 

They  gather' d  round,  and  follow' d  in 
our  train. 

Before  Erillj'^ab's  hut  the  bearers  laid 

Their    burden    down.     She,    calm    of 
countenance, 

And  with  dry  eye,  albeit  her  hand  the 
while 

Shook  like  an  agueish  limb,  unroll' d  the 
shroud. 

The  multitude  stood  gazing  silently,  90 

The  young  and  old  ahke  all  awed  and 
hush'd 

Under  the   holy  feeling,   .   .    and    the 
hush 

Was  aweful ;    that  huge  multitude  so 
still, 

That  we  could  hear  distinct  the  moun- 
tain-stream 

Roll  down  ita  rocky  channel  far  away. 

And  this  was  all ;   sole  ceremony  this. 

The  sight  of  death  and  silence,  .  .  till  at 
length. 

In  the  ready  grave  his  bones  were  laid 
to  rest. 

'Twas  in  her  hut  and  home,  yea,  under- 
neath 

The  marriage  bed,  the  bed  of  widow- 
hood, 100 

Her    husband's    grave    was    dug ;     on 
softest  fur 

The    bones   were   laid,    with   fur    were 
covered  o'er. 


Then  heap'd  with  bark  and  boughs,  and, 

last  of  all. 
Earth  was  to  earth  trod  down. 

And  now  the  day 
Appointed  for  our  talk  of  peace  was 

come. 
On  the  green  margin  of  the  lake  we  met. 
Elders,   and  Priests,   and  Chiefs ;    the 

multitude 
Around  the  Circle  of  the  Council  stood. 
Then,  in  the  midst,  Coanocotzin  rose, 
And  thus  the  King  began  :    Pabas  and 

Chiefs  110 

Of  Aztlan,  hither  ye  are  come  to  learn 
The  law  of  peace.     The  Lord  of  Ocean 

saith. 
The    Tribes    whom    he   hath   gathered 

underneath 
The  wings  of  his  protection,  shall  be 

free; 
And  in  the  name  of  his  great  God  he 

saith. 
That  ye  shall  never  shed  in  sacrifice 
The  blood  of  man.     Are  ye  content  V 

that  so 
We  may  together  here,  in  happy  hour. 
Bury  the  sword. 

Hereat  a  Paba  rose. 
And  answer  d  for  his  brethren  :  .  .  He 

hath  won  120 

The  Hoamen's  freedom,  that  their  blood 

no  more 
Shall  on  our  altars  flow ;    for  this  the 

Lord 
Of  Ocean  fought,  and  Aztlan  yielded  it 
In  battle.     But  if  we  forego  the  rites 
Of  our  forefathers,  if  we  wrong  the  Gods, 
Who   give  us   timely  sun   and  timely 

showers. 
Their  wrath  will  be  upon  us  ;   they  will 

shut 
Their  ears  to  prayer,  and  turn  away  the 

eyes 
Which  watch  for  our  well-doing,  and 

v^dthhold  129 

The  hands  dispensing  our  prosperity. 

Cynetha  then  arose,  between  his  son 
And  me  supported,  rose  the  blind  old 

man. 
Ye  wrong  us,  men  of  Aztlan.  if  ye  deem 
We  bid  ye  wrong  the  Gods ;    accurst 
were  he 


THE   PEACE 


489 


Who  would  obey  such  bidding,  .  .  more 

accurst 
The  wretch  who  should  enjoiu  impiety. 
It  is  the  will  of  God  which  wo  make 

known, 
Your  God  and  ours.     Know  ye  not  Him 

who  laid 
The  deep  foundations  of  the  earth,  and 

built 
The  arch  of  heaven,  and  kindled  yonder 

sun,  140 

And  breathed  into  the  woods  and  waves 

and  sky 
The  power  of  life  ? 

We  know  Him,  they  replied, 
The  great  For- Ever  One,  the  God  of 

(lods, 
Ipalnemoani,  He  by  whom  we  live  ! 
And  we  too,  quotii  Ayayaca,  we  know 
And  worship  the  Great  Spirit,  who  in 

clouds 
And  storms,  in  mountain  caves,  and  by 

the  fall 
Of  waters,  in  the  woodland  solitude. 
And  in  the  night  and  silence  of  the  sky, 
Doth   make   his   being   felt.     We   also 

know,  150 

And  fear,  and  worship  the  Beloved  One. 

r  Our  God,  replied  Cynetha,  is  the  same. 
The  Universal  Father.  He  to  the  first 
Made  his  will  known  ;    but  when  men 

multiplied. 
The  Evil  Spirits  darken'd  them,  and  sin 
And  misery  came  into  the  world,  and 

men 
Forsook  the  way  of  truth,  and  gave  to 

stocks 
And  stones  the  incommunicable  name. 
Yet  with  one  chosen,  one  peculiar  Race, 
The  knowledge  of  their  Father  and  their 

God  160 

Remain' d,  from  sire  to  son  transmitted 

down. 
Whikj   the   bewilder'd   Nations   of   the 

earth 
Wander' d  in  fogs,  and  were  in  darkness 

lost. 
The  light  abode  with  them  ;    and  when 

at  times 
They  sinn'd  and  went  astray,  the  Lord 

hath  put 
A  voice  into  the  mouths  of  holy  men. 


Raising  up  witnesses  unto  himself. 

That  so  the  saving  knowledge  of  his 
name 

Might  never  fail  ;  nor  the  glad  promiso, 
given 

To  our  first  parent,  that  at  length  his 
sons,  ijQ 

From  error,  sin,  and  wretchedness  re- 
deem'd. 

Should  form  one  happy  family  of  love. 

Nor  ever  hath  that  light,  howe'er  be- 
dimm'd, 

Wholly  been  nuencli'd ;  still  in  the 
heart  of  man 

A  feeling  and  an  instinct  it  exists, 

His  very  nature's  stamp  and  privilege. 

Yea,  of  his  life  the  life.     I  tell  ye  not, 

0  Aztecas  !    of  things  unknown  before  ; 

1  do  but  waken  up  a  living  t-enso 
That  sleeps  within  ye  !    Do  ye  love  the 

Gods  180 

Who  call  for  blood  '!    Doth  the  poor 

sacrifice 
Go  with  a  willing  step,  to  lay  his  life 
Upon  their  altars  ?  .  .  Good  must  come 

of  good, 
Evil  of  evil  ;   if  the  fruit  be  death. 
The  poison  springeth  from  the  sap  and 

root. 
And  the  whole  tree  is  deadly  ;  if  the  rites 
Be  evil,  they  who  claim  them  are  not 

good. 
Not  to  be  worshipp'd  then  ;  for  to  obey 
The  evil  will  is  evil.     Aztecas  ! 
From  the  For-Ever,  the  Beloved  One, 
The  Universal  Only  (Jod  1  speak,       191 
Your  God  and  mine,  our  Father  and  our 

Judge. 
Hear  ye  his  law,  .  .  hear  ye  the  jK-rfect 

law 
Of  love,  '  Do  ye  to  others,  as  ve  would 
That  they  should  do  to  you  !      He  bids 

us  meet 
To  praise  his  name,  in  thankfulness  and 

joy  ; 
He  bids  us,  in  our  sorrow,  pray  to  him. 
The  Comforter.     Love  him,  for  ho  is 

<;ood  ! 
Fear  him.  for  he  is  just  !    Obey  his  will, 
For  who  can  b<'ar  his  anger  ! 

While  h«'  si)ake. 
They    stood    with    f»iK'n     nioufli,    arxl 

motionless  sight,  -«' 

3 


490 


MADOC  IN  WALES 


Watehiag  his  countenance,  as  though 

the  voice 
Were  of  a  God ;   for  sure  it  seem'd  that 

less 
Than  inspiration  could  not  have  infused 
That  eloquent  passion  in  a  blind  man's 

face. 
And  when  he  ceased,  all  eyes  at  once 

were  turn'd 
Upon  the  Pabas,  waiting  their  reply, 
If  that  to  that  acknowledged  argument 
Reply    could    be    devised.     But    they 

themselves, 
Stricken  by  the  truth,  were  silent ;   and 

they  look'd  210 

Toward  their  chief  and  mouth-piece,  the 

High  Priest 
Tezozomoc  ;   he  too  was  pale  and  mute, 
And  when  he  gather  d  up  his  strength 

to  speak. 
Speech  fail'd  him,  his  lip  falter d,  and 

his  eye 
Fell  utterly  abash' d,  and  put  to  shame. 
But  in  the  Chiefs,  and  in  the  multitude, 
And    in    the    King    of    Aztlan,    better 

thoughts 
Were  working ;  for  the  Spirit  of  the  Lord 
That  day  was  moving  in  the  heart  of 

man.  219 

Coanocotzin  rose  :   Pabas,  and  Chiefs, 
And  men  of  Aztlan,  ye  have  heard  a  talk 
Of  peace  and  love,  and  there  is  no  reply. 
Are  ye  content  with  what  the  Wise  Man 

saith  ? 
And  will  ye  worship  God  in  that  good 

way 
Which  God  himself  ordains  ?    If  it  be  so, 
Together  here  will  we  in  happy  hour 
Bury  the  sword. 

Tezozomoc  replied, 
This  thing  is  new,  and  in  the  land  till 

now 
Unheard :  .  .  what  marvel,  therefore,  if 

we  find 
No  ready  answer  ?    Let  our  Lord  the 

King  230 

Do  that  which  seemeth  best. 

Yuhidthiton, 
Chief  of  the  Chiefs  of  Aztlan,  next  arose. 
Of  all  her  numerous  sons,  could  Aztlan 

boast 
No  mightier  arm  in  battle,  nor  whose 

voice 


To  more  attentive  silence  hush'd  the 

hall 
Of  council.     When  the  Wise  Man  spake, 

quoth  he, 
I  ask'd  of  mine  own  heart  if  it  were  so, 
And,  as  he  said,  the  living  instinct  there 
Answer' d,   and   own'd  the   truth.     In 

happy  hour, 
0  King  of  Aztlan,  did  the  Ocean  Lord 
Through  the  great  waters  hither  wend 

his  way  ;  241 

For  sure  he  is  the  friend  of  God  and  man. 

With  that  an  uproar  of  assent  arose 
From  the  whole  people,  a  tumultuous 

shout 
Of  universal  joy  and  glad  acclaim. 
But  when  Coanocotzin  raised  his  hand. 
That  he  might  speak,  the  clamour  and 

the  buz 
Ceased,   and   the   multitude,  in  tiptoe 

hope, 
Attent  and  still,  await  the  final  voice. 
Then  said  the  Sovereign,  Hear,  0  Az- 

tecas,  250 

Your  own  united  will !    From  this  day 

forth 
No  life  upon  the  altar  shall  be  shed, 
No  blood  shall  flow  in  sacrifice  ;  the  rites 
Shall  all  be  pure,  such  as  the  blind  Old 

Man, 
Whom  God  hath  taught,  will  teach.  This 

ye  have  \\iird  ; 
And  therefore  it  shall  be  I 

The  King  hath  said  ! 
Like  thunder  the  collected  voice  replied : 
Let  it  be  so  ! 

Lord  of  the  Ocean,  then 
Pursued  the  King  of  Aztlan,  we  will  now 
Lay  the  war-v.-eapon  in  the  grave,  and 

join  260 

In     right-hand     friendship.     By     our 

custom,  blood 
Should  sanctify  and  bind  the  solemn  act ; 
But  by  what  oath  and  ceremony  thou 
Shalt  proffer,  by  the  same  \nll  Aztlan 

swear. 
Nor  oath,  nor  ceremony,  I  replied, 
0  King,  is  needful.     To  his  owti  good 

word 
The  good  and  honourable  man  will  act. 
Oaths  will  not  curb  the  wicked.     Heie 

we  stand 


THE   PEACE 


•4^1 


In  the  broad  day-light ;    tho  For- Ever 

One, 
Tbo  Every-Wheio  beholds  uti.     la  hia 

t^ight  ^  270 

We  join  our  hands  in  peace  :  if  e'er  again 
Should  these  right  hands  be  raised  in 

enmity. 
Upon  the  ofTcndorwill  hisjudgement  fall. 

Tho  grave  was  dug  ;   Coanocotzin  laid 

His  weapon  in  the  earth  ;  Erillyab's  son. 

Young  Amalahta,  for  the  Hoaraen,  laid 

His  hatchet  there  ;   and  there  I  laid  tho 

sword. 

Here  let  me  end.     What  follow'd  wa-; 

the  work 
Of  peace,  no  theme  for  .story  ;    how  we 

tixd 
Our  sojourn  in  the  hills,  and  sow'd  our 

fields,  280 

And,  day  by  day,  saw  all  things  pros- 
pering, [nounce 
Thence  have  I  come,  Goervyl,  to  an- 
iThe  tidings  of  my  happy  enterprizo  ; 
/There  I  return,  to  take  thee  to  our  home. 
I  love  my  native  land  ;  with  as  true  love 
As  ever  yet  did  warm  a  British  heart, 
Love  I  the  green  fields  of  the  beautiful 

Isle, 
My  father's  heritage  !   But  far  away. 
Where  nature's  booner  hand  has  blest 

the  earth. 
My  lot  hath  been  assign' d ;    beyond  the 

seas  290 

Madoc  hath  found  his  home  ;    beyond 

the  seas 
A    country    for    his    children    hath    he 

chosen,  [peace. 

A  land  wherein  their  portion  may  be 


IX.    EMMA 

]5uT    while    Abcrfraw    echoed    to    the 

sounds 
Of  merriment  and  music,  Madoc's  heart 
Mourn' d  for   his   brethren.     Therefore, 

when  no  ear 
Was  nigh,  he  sought  the  King,  and  said 

to  liim. 
To- moil ow,  for  Mathraval  I  set  forth  ; 
Longer  I  must  not  linger  here,  to  pass 


Tho  easy  hours  in  foa.«jt  and  revelry, 

Forgetful  of  my  i>eoplu  far  away. 
I  go  to  tell  the  tiduigs  of  success, 
And  seek   new  comrades.     What    if  it 

should  chance  10 

That,  for  this  enterj)rize,  our  brethren, 
Foregoing  all  their  hoi)ea  and  fortunes 

here, 
\\'ould  jt»in  my  banner  "'  .  .  Let  me  .••cud 

abroatl 
Their    summons,    O    my    brother  I     ho 

secure. 
You  may  forgive  the  jMist,  and  onco  again 
Will     peace    and    concord     bless    our 

father's  house. 

Hereafter  will  be  time  enow  for  this, 
Tho  King  replied  ;   thy  easy  nature  sees 

not. 
How,  if  the  traitors  for  thy  banner  send 
Their  bidding  round,  in  o^xin  war  against 

mo  20 

Their  own   would  soon   be  spread.      I 

charge  thee,  Madoc, 
Neither  to  see  nor  aid  these  fugitives, 
The  shame  of  Owen's  blood. 

Sullen  he  spake, 
And  turn'd  away  ;  nor  farther  commune 

now 
Did  Madou  seek,  nor  had  ho  more  en- 
dured ; 
For  bitter  thoughts  were  risinu   in  his 

heart. 
And  anguish,  kindling  anger.     In  such 

mood 
Ho  to  his  sister's  chamber  ti»ok  liifl  way. 
She  sate  with  Emma,  with  tho  gentle 

Queen  ; 
For  Emma  had  already  learnt  to  love 
The  gentle   maid.     (Joervyl   saw   what 

thoughts  3« 

Troubled  her  brother's  brow.      Madoc, 

she  cried. 
Thou   ha.st   been   with   the   King,    U-en 

rashly  j)leadiii^i 
For  Ririd  and  for  Kcxiri  !  .  .  He  u-plied, 
I  did  but  ask  him  little,  .  .  did  but  sa^v. 
Belike  our  brethren  would  go  forth  with 

me. 
To  voluntary  exile;    then.  UHthoUk'ht. 
His  fear  and  jcalou.sy  might  well  liavo 

I'cased, 
And  all  be  .siifr. 


492 


iVIADOC  IN  WALES 


And  did  the  King  refuse  ? 
Quoth  Emma  :    I  will  plead  for  them, 

quoth  she,  40 

With  dutiful  warmth  and  zeal  will  plead 

for  them  ; 
And  surely  David  will  not  say  me  nay. 

0  sister  !    cried  Goervyl,  tempt  him 

not  ! 
Sister,   you  know  him  not !    Alas,   to 

touch 
That  perilous  theme  is,  even  in  Madoc 

here, 
A  perilous  folly.  .  .  Sister,  tempt  him 

not  ! 
You  do  not  know  the  King  ! 

But  then  a  fear 
Fled  to  the  cheek  of  Emma,  and  her  eye, 
Quickening  with  wonder,  turn'd  toward 

the  Prince, 
As  if  expecting  that  liis  manly  mind  50 
Would  mould  Goervyl' s  meaning  to  a 

shape 
Less  fearful,  would  interpret  and  amend 
The  words  she  hoped  she  did  not  hear 

aright. 
Emma  was  3'oung  ;   she  was  a  sacrifice 
To  that  cold  king-craft,  which,  in  mar- 
riage-vows 
Linking  two  hearts,  unknowing  each  of 

each, 
Perverts    the    ordinance    of    God,    and 

makes 
The  holiest  tie  a  mockery  and  a  curse. 
Her  eye  was  patient,  and  she  spake  in 

tones 
80  sweet  and  of  so  pensive  gentleness, 
That  the  heart  felt  them.     Madoc  !  she' 

exclaimed,  61 

Why  dost  thou  hate  the  Saxons  ?  0  my 

brother, 
If  I  have  heard  aright,  the  hour  will 

come 
When  the  Plantagenet  shall  wish  herself 
Among  her  nobler,  happier  countrymen, 
From  these  unnatural  enmities  escaped, 
And  from  the  vengeance  they  must  call  , 

from  Heaven  !  i 

Shame    then    suffused    the    Prince's ; 
countenance, 
Mindful  how,  drunk  in  anger,  he  had  , 
given 


His    hatred   loose.     My    sister    Queen, 

quoth  he,  70 

Marvel  not  you  that  with  my  mother's 

milk 
I  suck'd  that  hatred  in.     Have  they  not 

been 
The  scourge  and  the  devouring  sword  of 

God, 
The  curse  and  pestilence  which  he  hath 

sent 
To  root  us  from  the  land  ?   Alas,  our 

crimes 
Have   drawn    this    dolorous    visitation 

down  ! 
Our  sun  hath  long  been  westering  ;  and 

the  night 
And   darkness    and  extinction    are    at 

hand. 
We  are  a  fallen  people !  .  .  From  our- 
selves 
The  desolation  and  the  ruin  come ;     80 
In    our    own    vitals    doth    the    poison 

work .  . 
i  The  House  that  is  di%'ided  in  itself. 
How  should  it  stand  ?  .  .  A  blessing  on 

you,  Lady  ! 
But  in  this  wretched  family  the  strife 
Is  rooted  all  too  deep  ;  it  is  an  old 
And  cankered   wound,   .    .   an  eating, 

killing  sore, 
For  wliich  there  is  no  healing.  .  .  If  the 

King 
Should  ever  speak  his  fears,  .  .  and  sure 

to  you 
All  his  most  inward  thoughts  he  will 

make  known,  .  . 
Counsel  him  then  to  let  his  brethi-en 

share  90 

My  enterprize,  to  send  them  forth  with 

me 
To  everlasting  exile. .  .  She  hath  told  you 
Too  hardly  of  the  King ;    I  know  him 

well ; 
He  hath  a  stormy  nature ;    and  what 

germs 
Of   virtue  would   have  budded  in   his 

heart. 
Cold  winds  have  check' d,  and  bhghting 

seasons  nipt, 
Yet  in  his  heart  they  live.  .  .  A  blessing 

on  you, 
That   you  may  see  their  blossom  and 

their  fruit  ! 


MATHRAVAl. 


493 


X.     AFATHRAVAL 

Now  for  Mathraval  wont  Priiioo  Aradoc 
forth  : 

O'er  Menai's  ebbing  tide,  up  mountain- 
paths, 

Besidegrcvraountain-streani,  and  lonely 
lake. ' 

And    through    old    Snowdon's    forest- 
solitude. 

He  held  right  on  his  solitary  way. 

Nor  paused  he  in  that  rocky  vale,  where 
oft 

Up  the  familiar  path,  with  gladder  pace, 

His  steed   had   hastened   to   the   well- 
known  door,  .  . 

That    valley,    o'er    whose    crags,    and 
sprinkled  trees. 

And  winding  stream,  so  oft  his  eye  had 
loved  10 

To  linger,  gazing,  as  the  eve  grew  dim. 

From  Dolwyddelan's  Tower ;  .  .  alas  ! 
from  thence 

As  from   liis  brother's  monument,   he 
turn'd 

A  loathing  eye,  and  through  the  rocky 
vale 

Sped  on.     From  mom  till  noon,  from 
noon  till  eve, 

He  travelled  on  his  way  :    and  when  at 
morn 

Again    the    Ocean    Chief    bestrode    his 
steed, 

The  heights  of  Snowdon  on  his  back- 
ward glance 

Hung   like   a   cloud   in    heaven.     O'er 
heath  and  hill 

And  barren  height  he  rode  ;  and  darker 
now,  20 

In  loftier  majesty  thy  mountain- seat. 

Star-loving  Idris,  rose.     Nor  turn'd  he 
now 

Beside  Kregennan,  where  his  infant  feet 

Had  trod  Ednywain's  hall  ;   nor  loitered 
he 

In  the  green   vales  of   Powys,   till   he 
came 

Where  Wamway  rolls  its  waters  under- 
neath 
^Ancient  Mathraval's  venerable  walls, 

Cyveilioc's  princely  and  patfrnal  seat. 


But  Madoc  sprung  not  forward  now 

to  greof 
The  chief  he  lovfd,  for  from  C'yvoilioo'n 

hall  •  y, 

The  voice  of  harp  ajid  son^  oonuninclrd 

en  mo  ; 
It    was   thai    day   the  foast    of    victory 

there; 
Around     the     Chieftain's     board     tlie 

warriors  9at<j ; 
The  Hword  and  shield  and  lulnn't.  o>i  the 

wall 
And  round  the  pillars,    were   in   |)eaeo 

hung  up  ; 
And.  afl  the  flashes  of  the  central  fire 
At  fits  arose,  a  dance  of  wavy  light 
Play'd  o'er   the   reddening  stool.     The 

Chiefs,  who  late 
So  well  had  wielded  in  the  work  of  war 
Those  weapons,  sate  around  the  ))oard. 

to  quaff  40 

The   beverage  of  the   brave,   and   hear 

their  fame. 
Mathraval's   Lord,    the    Poet    and    the 

Prince, 
Cyveilioc  stood  before  them,  ,  .  in  his 

pride  ; 
His  hands  were  on  the  harp,  his  eyes 

were  closed. 
His  head,  as  if  in  reverence  to  receive 
The  inspiration,  bent ;   anon,  he  raised 
His  glowing  countenance  and  brighter 

eye, 
And  swept   with   pa.s.sionate   han«l   the 

ringing  harp. 

Fill  high  the  Hirlas  Horn  !  to  ( Irufydd 

bear 
Its  frothy  beverage.  .  .  from  his  crim.son 

lance  5o 

The  invader  fled  ;  .  .  fill  higli  the  gold- 

tipt  Horn  ! 
Heard  ye  in  Maelor  the  stop  of  war  .  . 
The  hastening  shout  .  .  the  onset  -  .  . 

Did  ye  hear 
The  clash  and  elann  of  arms  .  .  t  ho  bat  t  lo- 

din. 
Loud  as  the  roar  of  Oeoan,   when  I  ho 

winds 
At  midnicht  are  al)rnad  '     .  tho  yoll  of 

wounds  .  . 
The  rage  .  .  tho  airony  ''  .  .  fJivo  to  liim 
1  the  Horn 


494 


MADOC   IN   WALES 


Whose   spear   was   broken,   and   whose 

buckler  pierced 
With  man)'  a  shaft,  yet  not  the  less  he 

fought 
And  conquered ;  .   .   therefore  let  Ed- 

nyved  share  60 

The  generous  draught,  give  him  the  long 

blue  Horn ! 
Pour  out  again,  and  fill  again  the  spoil 
Of  the  wild  bull,  with  silver  wrought  of 

yore ; 
And  bear  the  golden  lip  to  Tudyr's  hand. 
Eagle  of  battle  !   For  Moreiddig  fill 
The  honourable  Hirlas  !  .  .   Where  are 

They? 
Where  are  the  noble  Brethren  ?  W^olves 

of  war, 
They  kept  their  border  well,  they  did 

their  part, 
Their  fame  is  full,  their  lot  is  praise  and 

song.  .  . 
A  mournful  song  to  me,  a  song  of  woe  !  .  . 
Brave  Brethren  !   for  their  honour  brim 

the  cup,  71 

W^hich  they  shall  quaff  no  more. 

We  drove  away 
The  strangers  from  our  land ;    profuse 

of  life. 
Our  warriors  rush'd  to  battle,  and  the 

Sun 
Saw  from  his  noontide  fields  their  manly 

strife. 
Pour   thou   the   flowing   mead !     Cup- 
bearer, fill 
The  Hirlas  !   for  hadst  thou  beheld  the 

day 
Of  Llidom,  thou  hadst  known  how  well 

the  Chiefs 
Deserve  this  honour  now.     Cyveilioc's 

shield 
Were  they  in  danger,  when  the  Invader 

came ;  80 

Be  praise  and  liberty  their  lot  on  earth. 
And  joy  be  theirs  in  heaven  ! 

Here  ceased  the  song  ; 
Then  from  the  threshold  on  the  rush- 
strewn  floor 
Madoc  advanced.     Cyveilioc's  eye  was 

now 
To  present  forms  awake,  but  even  as 

still 
He  felt  his  harp-chords  throb  with  dying 

sounds, 


The  heat  and  .'?tir  and  passion  had  not 

yet 
Subsided  in  his  soul.     Again  he  struck 
The  loud-toned  harp.  .  .  Pour  from  the 

silver  vase. 
And  brim  the  honourable  Horn,   and 

bear  90 

The  draught  of  joy  to  Madoc,  .  .  he  who 

first 
Explored  the  desert  ways  of  Ocean,  first 
Through  the  wide  waste  of  sea  and  sky, 

held  on 
Undaunted,  till  upon  another  World, 
The  Lord  and  Conqueror  of  the  Elements, 
He  set  his  foot  triumphant  ?    Fill  for 

him 
The  Hirlas  !   fill  the  honourable  Horn  ! 
This  for  Mathraval  is  a  happy  hour, 
When  Madoc,  her  hereditary  guest. 
Appears    within    her    honour' d    walls 

again,  100 

Madoc,  the  British  Prince,  the  Ocean 

Lord. 
Who  never  for  injustice  rear'd  his  arm  ; 
Whose  presence  fills  the  heart  of  every 

foe 
With  fear,  the  heart  of  every  friend  with 

joy; 
Give  him  the  Hirlas  Horn,  fill,  till  the 

draught 
Of  joy  shall  quiver  o'er  the  golden  brim  ! 
In  happy  hour  the  hero  hath  return' d  ! 
In  happy  hour  the  friend,  the  brother 

treads 
Cyveilioc's  floor  ! 

He  sprung  to' greet  his  guest ; 
The   cordial    grasp   of   fellowship   was 

given ;  no 

So  in  Mathraval  there  was  double  joy 
On  that  illustrious  day  ;  they  gave  their 

guest 
The  seat  of  honour,  and  they  fill'd  for 

him 
The  Hirlas  Horn.     Cyveilioc  and  his 

Chiefs, 
All  eagerly,  with  wonder-waiting  eyes. 
Look  to  the  Wanderer  of  the  Water's 

tale. 
Nor  mean  the  joy  which  kindled  Madoc' s 

brow. 
When  as  he  told  of  daring  enterprize 
Crown' d  with  deserved  success.     Intent 

they  heard 


MATHRAVAL 


Of    all    the    blessings   of    that    happier 

clime ;  120 

And  when  the  adventurer  spako  of  soon 

return. 
Each  on  the  other  gazed,  tus  if  to  say. 
I.  Methinks  it  were  a  goo<l!y  lot  to  dwell 
/  In  that  fair  land  in  peace. 

Then  said  the  Prince 
Of  Powys,  Madoc,  at  an  happy  time 
Thou  hast  toward  Mathraval  bent  thy 

way  ; 
For  on  the  moiTOw,  in  the  eye  of  light, 
j  Our    bards    will    hold    their    congresa. 

Seekest  thou 
Comrades  to  share  success  ?    proclaim 

abroad 
Thine    invitation    there,    and    it    will 

spread  130 

Far  as  our  fathers'   ancient  tongue  is 

know7i. 

Thus  at  Mathraval  went  the  Hirlas 

round  ; 
A    happy   day   was    that !      Of    other 

years 
They  talk'd,  of  common  toils,  and  fields 

of  war 
Where  they  fought  side  by  side ;    of 

Cor  wen's  scene 
Of    glory,    and    of    comrades    now    no 

more  :  .  . 
Themes    of    delight,    and    grief    which 

brought  its  joy. 
Thus  they  beguiled  the  pleasant  hours, 

while  night 
Waned  fast  away  ;    then  late  they  laid 

them  down. 
Each  on  his  bed  of  rushes,  stretch' d 

around  140 

The  central  fire. 

The  Sun  was  newly  risen 
When  Madoc  join'd  his  host,  no  longer 

now 
Clad  as  the  conquering  chief  of  Maelor, 
In  princely  arms,    but    in    his   nobler 

robe. 
The    sky-blue    mantle    of    the    Bard, 

arrayed. 
So  for  the  place  of  meeting  they  set 

.forth; 
And  now  they  reach'd  Melangell's  lonely 

church. 
Amid  a  grove  of  evergreens  it  stood. 


495 

whoro    ovory 


A   garden   anrl    n    grcn( 

grave 

Was  de«k  d  with  Mowers,  or  with  un- 
fading plants  ,30 
O'ergrown,  .sad  vnr,  and  funeral  row- 

mary. 
Here    Madoc    paused.     The    morn    is 

young.  (|U0th  he, 
A  little  while  to  old  remembrance  given 
Will  not  belatcu.s.  .  .  Many  a  year  hath 

fled. 
Cyveilioc,  since  you  led  me  hero,  and 

told 
The  legend  of  the  Saint.     Come  !  .  .  bo 

not  loth  ! 
We  will  not  loiter  long.  .  .  So  soon  to 

mount 
The  bark,  which  will  for  ever  bear  me 

hence, 
I  would  not  willingly  pass  by  one  spot 
Which  thus  recalls  the  thought  of  other 

times,  160 

Without  a  pilgrim's  vi«it. 

Thus  he  spake, 
And  drew  Cyveilioc  through  the  church- 
yard porch, 
To  the  rude  image  of  Saint  Monacel. 
Dost  thou  remember,   Owen,  said  the 

Prince, 
When  first   I    was  thy  guest   in  early 

youth, 
That  once,  as  we  had  wandered  here  at 

eve. 
You  told,  how  here  a  poor  and  hunted 

hare 
Ran  to  the  Virgin's  feet,  and  look'd  to 

her 
For  life  ? .  .  I  thought,  when  listening  to 

the  tale. 
She  had  a  merciful  heart,  and  that  her 

face  170 

Must   with   a   saintly   gentleness   have 

beam'd. 
When  beasts  could  read  its  virtue.  Hero 

we  sate 
Upon    the    jutting    root     of    thifl    old 

yeusih.  .  . 
Doar   friend  !     so   pleasant   didat   thou 

make  those  days. 
That  in  my  heart,  long  an  my  heart  iball 

beat, 
Minutest  recollections  still  will  live. 
Still  be  the  Houree  of  joy. 


496 


MADOC   IN   WALES 


As  Ma  doc  spake, 

His  glancing  eye  fell  on  a  monument, 

Around  whose  base  the  rosemary 
droop' d  down, 

As  yet  not  rooted  well.  Sculptured 
above,  i8o 

A  warrior  lay  ;  the  sliield  was  on  his 
arm  ; 

Madoc  approach' d,  and  saw  the 
blazonry, .  . 

A  sudden  chill  ran  through  him,  as  he 
read, 

Here  Yorwerth  lies,  .  .  it  was  his  bro- 
ther's grave. 

Cyveilioc  took  him  by  the  hand  :   For 

this, 
Madoc,  was  I  so  loth  to  enter  here  ! 
He  sought  the  sanctuary,  but  close  upon 

him 
The  murderers  follow' d,  and  by  yonder 

copse 
The   stroke   of   death   was  given.     All 

I  could 
Was  done ;  .  .  I  saw  him  here  consign' d 

to  rest,  190 

Daily  due  masses  for  his  soul  are  sung. 
And  duly  hath  his  grave  been  deck'd 

with  flowers. 

So  saying,  from  the  place  of  death  he 

led 
The  silent  Prince.     But  lately,  he  pur- 
sued, 
Llewelyn  was  my  guest,  thy  favourite 

boy. 
For  thy  sake  and  his  own,  it  was  my 

hope 
That  at  Mathraval  he  would  make  his 

home  : 
He  had  not  needed  then  a  father's  love. 
But  he,  I  know  not  on  what  enterprize. 
Was  brooding  ever;    and  those  secret 

thoughts  200 

Drew    him    away.     God    prosper    the 

brave  boy ! 
It  were  a  happy  day  for  this  poor  land 
If    e'er    Llewelyn    mount    his    rightful 

throne. 


XI.    THE  GORSEDD 

The  place  of  meeting  was  a  high  hill- 
top. 
Nor  bower' d  with  trees  nor  broken  by 

the  plough. 
Remote  from  human  dwellings  and  the 

stir 
Of  human  life,  and  open  to  the  breath 
And  to  the  eye  of  Heaven.     In  days  of 

old. 
There    had    the    circling    stones    been 

planted ;    there. 
From  earliest  ages,  the  primeval  lore, 
Through  Bard  to  Bard  with  reverence 

handed  down  : 
They  whom  to  wonder,  or  the  love  of 

song, 
Or  reverence  of  their  fathers'  ancient 

rites  10 

Drew  thither,  stood  without  the  ring  of 

stones. 
Cyveilioc  entered  to  the  initiate  Bards, 
Himself,  albeit  his  hands  were  stain' d 

with  war. 
Initiate  ;   for  the  Order,  in  the  lapse 
Of  years  and  in  their  nation's  long  de- 
cline 
From  the  first  rigour  of  their  purity 
Somewhat  had  fallen.     The  Masters  of 

the  Song 
Were  clad  in  azure  robes,  for  in  that  hue 
Deduced  from   Heaven,   which  o'er  a 

sinful  world 
Spreads  its  eternal  canopy  serene,      20 
Meet  emblem  did  the  ancient  Sages  see 
Of  unity  and  peace  and  spotless  truth. 

Within  the  stones  of  Federation  there. 
On  the  green  turf,  and  under  the  blue 

sky, 
A  noble   band,   the   Bards   of   Britain 

stood. 
Their  heads  in  reverence  bare,  and  bare 

of  foot. 
A    deathless    brotherhood !     Cyveilioc 

there, 
Lord  of  the  Hirlas ;   Llywarc  there  was 

seen. 
And  old  Cynddelow,  to  whose  lofty  song. 
So  many  a  time  amid  his  father's  court 
Resigning  up  his  soul,  had  Madoc  given 


THE   GORSEDD 


497 


The  flow  of  feeling  loo5ie.     But  Madoc's 

Ilea  It  3a 

^Va.s    full  ;     old    ft^elings    and    iriuem- 

biaiues. 
And  thouulits  inmi  w  liich  was  no  csrajH*. 

arose  ; 
He  was  not  there  to  wlio.se  sweet  lav,  so 

oft. 
With   all   a   brother's  fond   drlitrlit.    he 

lov'd 
To  listen,  .  .  Hoel  was  not  there  !  .  .  the 

hand 

That  once  so  well,  amid  the  triple  chords, 
Moved  in  the  rapid  maze  of  harmony. 
It  had  no  motion  now  ;    the  lips  were 

dumb  40 

Which  knew  all  tones  of  passion  ;    and 

that  heart, 
That  warm  ebullient    heart,  was    cold 

and  still 
Upon  its  bed  of  clay.     He  look' d  around. 
And  there  was  no  familiar  countenance, 
None  but  Cynddelow's  face,  which  he 

had  learnt 
In  childhood,  and  old  age  had  set  its 

mark. 
Making  unsightly  alteration  there. 
Another  generation  had  sprung  up, 
And  made  him  feel  how  fast  the  days  of 

man 
Flow  by,  how  soon  their  number  is  told 

out.  50 

He  knew  not  then  that  Lly ware's  lay 

should  give 
'  His  future  fame  ;   his  spirit  on  the  past 
Brooding,  beheld  with  no  forefeeling  joy 
The    rising    sons    of    song,    who    there 

essay' d 
Their  eaglet  flight.     But  there  among 

the  youth 
In   the  green   vesture  of  their  earliest 

rank, 
Or  with  the  aspirants  clad  in  motley 

garb, 
■{  Young  Benvras  stood  ;   and,  one  whose 

favoured  race 
Heaven  with  the  hereditary  power  had 

blest. 
The  old  Gowalchmai's  not  degenerate 

child;  60 

And     there    another     Einion ;      gifted 

youths. 
And  heirs  of  immortality  on  earth. 


Whose  after-strains,  through  many  a  dU. 

tant  ngt« 
Camhria  shall  boast,  and  lovo  tho  honKM 

that  tell 
The  fame  of  Owen's  house. 

'Jliere.  in  the  cyo 
Of  light  and  in  the  face  of  day,  the  riton 
Began.     Upon  the  stone  of  Covenant 
First  the  sheathed  sword  was  laid  ;   tho 

Master  then 
Upraised  his  voice,  and  cried.  I^-t  tlnni 

who  .seek 
The  high  degree  and  sacred  jirivilcge  70 
Of  Bardic  science,  and  of  Cimbric  lore, 
Here  to  the  Bards  of  liritain  make  their 

claim  ! 
Thus  having  .said,  the  J^Iaster  hade  the 

youths 
Approach  the  ])lace  of  |>eace.  and  merit 

there 
The    Bard's    most     honourable    name. 

With  that. 
Heirs  and  transmit  tors  of  the  ancient 

light. 
The  youths  advanced  ;    they  heard  the 

Cimbric  lore. 
From    earliest    days    preserved  ;     they 

struck  their  harps. 
And  each  in  due  succession  raised  the 

song. 

Last  of  the  as})irants.  as  of  greener 

years.  80 

Young  Caradoc  advanced  ;   his  lip  as  y<l 

Scarce  darken'd  with  its  down,  his  flaxen 

locks 
Wreathed  in  contracting  ringlets  waving 

low  ; 
Bright   were  his  large   blue  eyes,   and 

kindled  now 
With  that  same  passion  that  inflamed 

his  cheek  ; 
Yet  in  his  cheek  there  was  the  sicklincM 
Which  thought  and  feeling  leave,  wear- 
ing away 
The    hue   of   youth.     Inclining   on    his 

harp. 
He.  while  his  comrades  in  probation  song 
Approved  their  cloini.  stcK)d  hearkening 
as  it  seem'd,  9© 

And  yet  like  unintelligible  sounds 
He    heard    the    symphony    and    voice 
attuned  ; 


498 


MADOC   IN  WALES 


Even  in  such  feelings  as,  all  undefined. 

Come  with  the  flow  of  waters  to  the 
soul, 

Or  with  the  motions  of  the  moonlight 
sky. 

But  when  his  bidding  came,  he  at  the 
call 

Arising  from  that  dreamy  mood,  ad- 
vanced, 

Threw  back  his  mantle,  and  began  the 
lay. 

Where  are  the  sons  of  Gavran  ?  where 

his  tribe 
The  faithful  ?    following  their  beloved 

chief,  100 

They  the  Green  Islands  of  the  Ocean 

sought ; 
Nor    human    tongue    hath    told,    nor 

human  ear. 
Since  from  the  silver  shores  they  went 

their  way, 
Hath    heard    their    fortunes.     In    his 

crystal  Ark, 
Whither  sail'd  MerHn  with  his  band  of 

Bards, 
Old  Merlin,  master  of  the  mystic  lore  ? 
Belike   his   crystal   Ark,   instinct   with 

life. 
Obedient  to  the  mighty  Master,  reach' d 
The  Land  of  the  Departed ;    there,  be- 
like, 
They  in  the  clime  of  immortahty,        no 
Themselves  immortal,  drink  the  gales  of 

bliss. 
Which  o'er  Flathinnis  breathe  eternal 

spring. 
Blending  whatever  odours  make  the  gale 
Of  evening  sweet,  whatever  melody 
Charms    the    wood-traveller.     In    their 

high  roof'd  halls 
There,  with  the  Chiefs  of  other  days,  feel 

they 
The  mingled  joy  pervade  them  ?  .  .  Or 

beneath 
The  mid-sea   waters,   did  that  crystal 

Ark 
Down  to   the  secret  depths  of  Ocean 

plunge 
Its  fated  crew  ?    Dwell  they  in  coral 

bowers  120 

With    Mermaid    loves,    teaching    their 

paramours 


The  songs  that  stir  the  sea,  or  make  the 

winds 
Hush,  and  the  waves  be  still  ?  In  fields  ■ 

of  joy 
Have  they  their  home,  where  central 

fires  maintain 
Perpetual    summer,    and    an    emerald 

light 
Pervades  the  green  translucent  element? 

Twice  have  the  sons  of  Britain  left 

her  shores, 
As  the  fledged  eaglets  quit  their  native 

nest  ; 
Twice  over  ocean  have  her  fearless  sons 
For    ever    sail'd    away.      Again    they 

launch  130 

Their  vessels  to  the  deep.  .  .  W^ho  mounts 

the  bark  ? 
The  son  of  Owen,  the  beloved  Prince, 
Who  never  for  injustice  rear'd  his  arm. 
Respect     his     enterprize,     ye     Ocean 

Waves  ! 
Ye  Winds  of  Heaven,  waft  Madoc  on 

his  way  ! 
The  Waves  of  Ocean,  and  the  Winds  of 

Heaven, 
Became  his  ministers,  and  Madoc  found 
The  world  he  sought. 

Who  seeks  the  better  land  ? 
Who  mounts  the  vessel  for  a  world  of 

peace  ? 
He  who  hath  felt  the  throb  of  pride,  to 

hear  140 

Our   old  illustrious   annals ;     who   was 

taught 
To  lisp  the  fame  of  Arthur,  to  revere 
Great  Caratach's  unconquer'd  soul,  and 

call 
That  gallant  cliief  his  countryman,  who 

led 
The  ^\^:■ath  of  Britain  from  her  chalky 

shores 
To  drive  the  Roman  robber.     He  who 

loves 
His  country,  and  who  feels  his  country's 

shame  ; 
Whose  bones  amid  a  land  of  servitude 
Could  never  rest  in  peace  ;    who  if  he 

saw 
His  children  slaves,  would  feel  a  pang  in 

Heaven,  .  .  150 

He  mounts  the  bark,  to  seek  for  libert3% 


I 


THE   G0R8EDD 


499 


Who   seeks    the    better    land  ?     The 

wrctehed  one 
Whose  joys  aie  hlasted  all.  whose  heart 

is  sick. 
Who  hath  no  hojH\  to  whom  all  change 

is  gain. 
To  whom  remeniber'd  pleasures  strike 

a  pang 
That    only   guilt   sliould   know.   ,    .    he 

mounts  the  bark, 
Tlie  Bard  will  mount  the  bark  of  banish- 
ment ; 
The    harp    of    Cambria  shall    in   other 

lands 
Remind  the  Cambrian  of  liis  father's 

fame  ;  .  . 
The  Bard  will  seek  the  land  of  liberty, 
The  world  of  peace.  .  .  0  Prince,  receive 

the  Bard  !  i6i 


He  ceased  the  song.     His  cheek,  now 

fever-flush'd. 
Was  turn'd  to  Madoc,  and  his  asking 

eye 
Linger'd  on  him  in  hope  :    nor  linger'd 

long 
The   look   expectant ;    forward  sprung 

the  Prince. 
And  gave  to   Caradoc   the  right-hand 

pledge. 
And  for  tiie  comrade  of  his  enterprize, 
With  joyful  welcome,  hail'd  the  joyful 

Bard. 

Nor  needed  now  the  Searcher  of  the 

Sea 
Announce  his  enterprize,  by  Caradoc 
In  song  announced  so  well ;   from  man 

to  man  171 

The  busy  murmur  spread,  while  from 

the  Stone 
Of  Covenant  the  sword  was  taken  up, 
And  from  the  Circle  of  the  Ceremony 
The  Bards  went  forth,   their  meeting 

now  fulfill'd. 
The  multitude,  unheeding  all  beside. 
Of  Madoc  and  his  noble  enterprize 
Held  stirring  converse  on  their  home- 
ward way, 
And    spread   abroad    the   tidings   of   a 

Land, 
Where  Plenty  dwelt  with  Liberty  and 

Peace.  180 


Xn.     OTNEV.VWR 

So  in  the  court  of  Powys  pheasant  I  v. 
With  hawk  and  hound  alicld,  aiul  hur|i 

in  hall. 
The  days  went  by  ;    till  Madoc,  for  liis 

heart 
Was  with  Cadwallon,  and  in  early  spring 
Must  he  set  forth  to  join  him  over-sea. 
Took     his     constrain'd     farewell.     To 

Dinevawr 
He  bent  his  way.  whence  many  a  time 

with  Rhys 
Had  he  gone  fortli  to  smite  the  Saxon 

foe. 
The   son   of   Owen   greets   his  father's 

friend 
With  reverential  joy  ;  nor  did  the  Lord 
Of    Dinevawr    with    cold    or    deaden'd 

heart  11 

Welcome  the  Prince  he  loved  ;    though 

not  with  joy 
Unmingled   now,  nor  the   proud  con- 
sciousness 
Which  in  the  man  of  tried  and  approved 

worth 
Could  bid  an  equal  hail.     Henry  liad 

seen 
The  Lord  of  Dinevawr  between  his  knees 
Vow  homage  ;  yea,  the  Lord  of  Dine- 
vawr 
Had  knelt  in  homage  to  that  Saxon  king. 
Who  set  a  price  upon  his  father's  head. 
That  Saxon,  on  whose  soul  his  mother's 

blood  20 

Cried  out  for  vengeance.     Madoc  saw 

the  shame 
Which  Rhys  would  fain  have  hiddfu, 

and,  in  grief 
For   the   degenerate   land,    rejoiced   at 

heart 
That  now  another  country  was  his  home. 

Musing   on    thoughts   like  thfst-.  did 

Madoc  roam 
Alone  along  the  Towy's  winding  shore. 
The  beavers  in  its  bank   had  hollow'd 

out 
Their  social  place  of  dwelling,  and  had 

damm'd 
The  summer-c\irrcnt  with  thoir  {K-rfect 

art 


500 


JNIADOC   IN  WALES 


Of  instinct,  erring  not  in  means  nor  end.  And  call'd  his  name  ; .  .  he  started  at  the 
But  as  the  floods  of  spring  had  broken  \  sound, 

down  31  i  For  he  had  heeded  not  the  man's  ap- 

Their  barrier,  so  its  breaches  unrepair" d  proach  ;  60 

Were  left  ;    and  round  the  piles,  which.    And  now  that  sudden  and  familiar  voice 

deeper  driven,  1  Came  on  him,  like  a  vision.     So  he  stood 


Still  held  their  place,  the  eddying  waters 

whirr  d. 
Now  in  those  habitations  desolate 
One  sole  survivor  dwelt :    him  Madoc 

saw. 
Labouring    alone,    beside    his    hermit 

house ; 
And    in    that     mood    of     melancholy 

thought,  .  . 
For  in  his  Ijoyhood  he  had  loved  to 

watch 
Their  social  work,  and  for  he  knew  that 

man  40 


Gazing,  and  knew  him  not  in  the  dim 

light,  _ 
Till  he  again  cried,  Madoc  !  .  .  then  he 

woke. 
And  knew  the  voice  of  Ririd,  and  sprang 

on, 
And  fell  upon  his  neck,  and  wept  for  joy 
And  sorrow. 

O  my  brother  !  Ririd  cried. 
Long,  very  long  it  is  since  I  have  heard 
The  voice  of  kindness  !  .  .  Let  me  go 

with  thee  ! 
I  am  a  wanderer  in  my  father's  land,  .  . 


In  bloody  sport  had  well-nigh  rooted  out  !  Hoel  he  kilFd,  and  Yorwerth  hath  he 
the  ominous  j  slain ;  71 

I  Llewelyn  hath  not  where  to  hide  his 

head 
In    his    own    kingdom ;     Rodri    is    in 

chains  ;  .  . 
Let  me  go  with  thee,  Madoc,  to  some 

land 
Where  I  may  look  upon  the  sun,  nor 

dread 
The  light  that  may  betray  me ;    where 

at  night 
I  may  not,  like  a  hunted  beast,  rouse  up. 
If  the  leaves  rustle  over  me. 

The  Lord 
Of  Ocean  struggled  with  his  swelling 

heart. 
Let  me  go  with  thee  ?  .  .  but  thou  didst 

not  doubt  80 

Thy  brother  ?  .  .  Let  thee  go  ?  .  .  with 

what  a  joy, 
Ririd,  would  I  collect  the  remnant  left, . . 
The  wretched  remnant  now  of  Owen's 

house. 
And  mount  the  bark  of  willing  banish- 
ment, 
And   leave    the   tyrant    to    his    Saxon 

friends. 
And  to  his  Saxon  yoke  !  .  .  I  urged  him 

thus, 
Curb'd  down  my  angry  spirit,  and  be- 
sought 
Only   that   I   might  bid  our   brethren 

come, 


The  poor  community, 

sight 
Became  a  grief  and  burthen.     Eve  came 

on  ; 
The  dry  leaves  rustled  to  the  wind,  and 

fell 
And  floated  on  the  stream  ;    there  was 

no  voice 
Save  of  the  mournful  rooks,  who  over- 
head 
Wing'd  their  long  line  ;  for  fragrance  of 

sweet  flowers. 
Only    the     odour     of     the     autumnal 

leaves ;  .  . 
All  sights  and  sounds  of  sadness.  .  .  And 

the  place 
To  that  despondent  mood  was  minis- 

trant  ;  .  .  50 

Among  the  hills  of  Gwyneth  and  its 

wilds 
And     mountain     glens,     perforce     he 

cherished  still 
The   hope   of   mountain  liberty  ;     they 

braced 
And  knit  the  heart  and  arm  of  hardi- 
hood ;  .  . 
But  here,  in  these  green  meads,  by  these 

low  slopes 
And  hanging  groves,  attemper' d  to  the 

scene. 
His  spirit  yielded.     As  he  loiter' d  on. 
There  came  toward  him  one  in  peasant 

garb. 


DINE\A\\U 


601 


And  share  my  oxilo 
my  prayer  ! 


and  ho  spurn'd    Returning    to   the   hall. 

I  well  ! 


Ay!   this  is 


Thou  hast  a  gentle  pleader  at  his  court ;    The  noble  Chief  exclaim' d  :    'titj 


She  may  prevail; 
here 


till  then  abide  thou 


M   of 


yore. 


But  not  in  this,  the  garb  of  fear  and 
guilt. 

Come  thou  to  Dinevawr, .  .  assume  thy- 
self ;  .  . 

The  good  old  Rhys  will  bid  thee  wel- 
come there. 

And  the  great  Palace,  like  a  sanctuary. 

Is  safe.  If  then  Queen  Emma's  plea 
should  fail. 

My  timely  bidding  hence  shall  summon 
thee. 

When  I  shall  spread  the  sail.  .  .  Nay, 
hast  thou  learnt 

Suspicion  t  .  .  Rhys  is  noble,  and  no 
deed  99 

Of  treachery  ever  sullied  his  fair  fame  ! 

Madoc  then  led  his  brother  to  the  hall 
Of  Rhys.     I  bring  to  thee  a  supplicant, 

0  King,  he  cried  ;  thou  wert  my  father  s 

friend  ! 
And  till    our  barks   be   ready    in    the 
spring, 

1  know  that  here  the  persecuted  son 
Of  Owen  will  be  safe. 

A  welcome  guest  ! 
The   old   warrior  cried ;     by   his  good 

father's  soul, 
He  is  a  welcome  guest  at  Dinevawr  ! 
And  rising  as  he  spake,  he  pledged  his 

hand 
In  hospitality.  .  .  How  now  !   quoth  he, 
This  raiment  ill   beseems  the  princely 

son  III 

Of  Owen  !  .  .  Ririd  at  his  words  was  led 
Apart;   they  wash'd  his  feet,  they  gave 

to  him 
Fine  linen  as  beseem' d  his  royal  race, 
The  tunic  of  soft  texture  woven  well. 
The  broider'd  girdle,  the  broad  mantle 

edged 
W  ith  fur,  and  flowing  low,  the  bonnet 

last, 
Form'd  of  some  forest  martin's  costly 

spoils. 
The  Lord  of  Dinevawr  sat  at  the  dice 
With   Mafloc,    when   he  saw   him   thuH 

array' d,  120 


91    When    in    Aberfi 


at     luH     fnther'tt 


board. 
Wo  sat  together,  after  we  had  won 
Peace  and  rejoicing  with  our  own  right 

hands, 
By  Corwen,  where,  eommixt  with  Saxon 

blood. 
Along  its  roeky  channel  the  dark  I.)co 
Roll'd  darker  waters,  .  .  Would  that  all 

his  house 
Had,  in  their  day  of  trouble,  thought  of 

me, 
And    honour'd    me    like    this!     David 

res})ects  130 

Deheubarth's  strength,   nor  would  re- 

8i>ect  it  less. 
When  such  protection  leagued  ita  cause 

with  Heaven. 

I  had  forgot  his  messenger  !  {|Uoth  he. 
Arising  from   the  dice.     Go,   bid  hi  in 

here  ! 
He  came  this  morning  at  an  ill-stand 

hour, 
To  Madoc  he  pursued  ;   my  lazy  grooms 
Had  let  the  hounds  play  havoc  in  my 

Hock, 
And  my  old  blood  was  chafed.    I' faith. 

the  King 
Hath  chosen  well  his  mesaenger :  .  .  bo 

saw 
That  in  such  mood,  1  might  have  ren- 
der'd  him  >4o 
A    hot    and    hasty    answer,    and    hath 

waited. 
Perhaps    to    David's    service    and    to 

mine. 
My  better  leisure. 

Now  the  .Me.H,Hengcr 
Enter' d   the   hall  ;    CJoagan  of   Powy»- 

land. 
He    of    Caer-Einiou    was   it,    who    wm 

charged 
From  (Jwyneth  to  Dcheubarth  ;  a  brsvc 

man 
Ofeopioii.MSjM'ecli.     He  Inid  the  royal  mmi 
Uf  (Jrynidd.  tin-  «le.H<endant  of  the  linr 
Of     Khys-ab-Tudyr     imiwr,      that      lt» 

came  there  M9 


502 


MADOC  IN   WALES 


From  David,  son  of  Owen,  of  the  stock 
Of  kingly  Cynan.     I  am  sent,  said  he, 
With  friendly  greeting  ;  and  as  I  receive 
Welcome  and  honour,   so,   in  David's 

name. 
Am  I  to  thank  the  Lord  of  Dinevawr. 

Tell  on  !  quoth  Rhys,  the  purport  and 

the  cause 
Of  this  appeal  ? 

Of  late,  some  fugitives 
Came  from  the  South  to  Mona,  whom 

the  King 
Received  with  generous  welcome.  Some 

there  were 
Who  blamed  his  royal  goodness ;    for 

they  said. 
These    were    the    subjects    of    a    rival 

Prince,  i6o 

Who,  peradventure,  would  with  no  such 

bounty 
Cherish  a  northern  suppliant.  This  they 

urged, 
I  know  not  if  from  memory  of  old  feuds, 
Better  forgotten,  or  in  envy.     Moved 
Hereby,  King  David  swore  he  would  not 

rest 
Till  he  had  put  the  question   to   the 

proof. 
Whether  with  liberal  honour  the  Lord 

Rhys 
Would  greet  his  messenger ;    but  none 

was  found 
Of  all  who  had  instill' d  that  evil  doubt. 
Ready  to  bear  the  embassy  :   I  heard  it, 
And  did  my  person  tender,  .   .   for  I 

knew  171 

The  nature  of  Lord  Rhys  of  Dinevawr. 

Well !     quoth  the  Chief,   Goagan  of 

Powys-land, 
This    honourable    welcome    that    thou 

seekest 
Wherein  may  it  consist  'J 

In  giving  me, 
Goagan  of  Powys-land  rejilied,  a  horse 
Better  than  mine,  to  bear  me  home  ;    a 

suit 
Of  seemly  raiment,  and  ten  marks  in 

coin, 
\Vith  raiment  and  two  marks  for  him 

who  leads 
My  horse"  s  bridle. 


For  his  sake,  said  Rhys, 
Who  sent  thee,   thou  shalt  have  the 

noblest  steed  181 

In  all  my  studs,  .  .  I  double  thee  the 

marks. 
And  give  the  raiment  threefold.     More 

than  this,  .  . 
Say  thou  to  David,  that  the  guests  who 

sit 
At  board  with  me,  and  drink  of  my  own 

cup. 
Are  Madoc  and  Lord  Ririd.     Tell  the 

King, 
That  thus  it  is  Lord  Rhys  of  Dinevawr 
Delighteth  to  do  honour  to  the  sons 
Of  Owen,  of  his  old  and  honour' d  friend. 


XIII.   LLEWELYN 

Farewell,  my  brother,  cried  the  Ocean 

Chief  ; 
A  little  while  farewell !   as  through  the 

gate 
Of  Dinevawr  he  pass'd,  to  pass  again 
That  hospitable  threshold  never  more. 
And  thou  too,  0  thou  good  old  man,  true 

friend 
Of  Owen,  and  of  Owen's  house,  farewell  ! 
'Twill  not  be  told  me,  Rhys,  when  thy 

grey  hairs 
Are  to  the  grave  gone  down  ;  but  often- 
times 
In  the  distant  world  I  shall  remember 

thee, 
And  think   that,   come   thy   summons 

when  it  may,  10 

Thou    wilt    not    leave    a    braver    man 

behind.  .  . 
Now  God  be  with  thee,  Rhys  ! 

The  old  Chief  paused 
A  moment  ere  he  answer' d,  as  for  pain  ; 
Then  shaking  his  hoar  head,  I  never  yet 
Gave  thee  this  hand  unwillingly  before  ! 
When  for  a  guest  I  spread  the  board,  my 

heart 
Will   think   on   him,    whom   ever   with 

most  joy 
It  leapt  to  welcome  :   should  I  lift  again 
The  spear  against  the  Saxon,  .  .  for  old 

Rhys 
Hath  that  within  him  yet,  that  could 

uplift  20 


LLEWELYN 


503 


Iho  Cimbrio  spear,  .  .  I  then  shall  wish 

his  aid, 
Who  oft  hem  couquei'd  with  mc  :   when 

I  kuecl 
In   prayer    to    Heaven,    an    old    nian\s 

prayer  shall  beg 
A  blessing  on  theo  ! 

Madoc  answer" d  not, 
But  press' d  his  hand  in  silence,  then 

sprang  up 
And  spurred  liis  courser  on.     A  weary 

way. 
Through   forest    and   o'er   fell,    Prince 

Madoc  rode  ; 
And  now  he  skirts  the  bay  whose  reck- 
less waves 
Roll   o'er  the   plain  of   CJwaelod:    fair 

fields 
And  busy  towns  and  happy  villages,  30 
They    overwhelm' d   in    one    disastrous 

day  ; 
For   they   by   their  eternal  siege   had 

sapp'd 
The  bulwark  of  the  land,  while  Seithenyn 
Took  of  his  charge  no  thought,  till  in  his 

sloth 
And  riotous  cups  surprised,  he  saw  the 

waves 
Roll    like   an  army   o'er    the    levell'd 

mound. 
A  supplicant  in  other  courts,  he  mourn' d 
His  crime  and  ruin  ;   in  another's  court 
The  kingly  harp  of  Garanhir  was  heard, 
Wailing    his    kingdom    wreck' d;     and 

many  a  Prince,  40 

Wam'd  by  the  visitation,  sought  and 

gain  d 
A  saintly  crown,  Tyneio,  Merini, 
Boda  and  Brenda  and  Aelgyvarch, 
Gwynon  and  Celynin  and  (Jwynodyl. 

To  Bardsey  was  the  Lord  of  Ocean 

bound ;  I 

Bardsey,  the  holy  Islet,  in  whose  soil    f 
Did  many  a  Chief  and  many  a  Sainlj 

repose,  ' 

His  great  progenitors.     He  mounts  the 

skiff; 
Her  canvass  swells  before  the  breeze,  the 

sea 
•Sings  round  her  simrkling  keel,  and  soon 

the  Lord  50 

Of  Ocean  treads  the  venerable  shore. 


There  was  not,  on  that  day.  a  Bpook 

to  stain 
The  azure  heaven;  the  blewbod  Sun  alono 
in  unapprouehiibie  divinity 
Careerd,  rejoicing  in  lii.s  lieldM  of  liKht, 
How  beautiful,  beneath  the  bright  bluo 

sky, 
The  billows  heavo !    one  glowing  green 

expanse, 
Save  where  along  the  bending  line  of 

shore 
iSuch  hue  is  thrown,  as  when  the  |Ka- 

cock's  neck 
Assumes  its  proudest  tint  of  amethyst, 
Embathed  in  emerald  glory.     All  the 

flocks  61 

Of    Ocean    are    abroad :     like    floating 

foam 
The   sea-gulls    ri.se    and    full    u|K)n    the 

waves  ; 
With    long    protruded    neck    the    cor- 
morants 
Wing  their  far  flight  aloft,  and  round 

and  round 
The  plovers  wheel,  and  give  their  note 

of  joy. 
It  was  a  day  that  sent  into  the  heart 
A   summer   feeling:     even    the   insect 

swarms 
From   their  dark    nooks  and    coverts 

issued  forth. 
To  sport  through  one  day  of  existence 

more ;  70 

The  solitary  primrose  on  the  bank 
8eem'd  now  as  though  it  had  no  cau»c 

to  mourn 
Its  bleak  autumnal  birth;    the  Rocktt, 

and  Shores, 
The  Forest  and  the  overhu^ting  Hills. 
Smiled  in  that  joyful  sunshine,  .  .  they 

I>artook 
The  universal  blessing. 

To  thiii  Isle. 
Where  his  forefathers  were  to  dual  con-" 

sign'd, 
Did  Madoc  come  for  nnturtil  niety. 
Ordering  a  solemn  service  for  their  itoultf. 
Therefore  for  this  the  Church  thai  day 

wa«  dre.Ht  :  •<> 

For  this  the  Abb(»t.  in  hi-*  alb  arrayed. 

At  the  high  altar  ht<HHl  ;  for  tlii«  infuwfl, 

i  Sweet   incense  from   ili<     vv.ivjnv    tlmri- 

bulc 


504 


MADOC   IN  WALES 


Rose  like  a  mist,  and  the  grey  brother- 
hood 
Chaunted  the  solemn  mass.     And  now 

on  high 
The  mighty  Mystery  had  been  elevate, 
And  now  around  the  graves  the  brethren 
In  long  array  proceed  :  each  in  his  hand, 
Tall  as  the  staff  of  some  wayfaring  man, 
Bears  the  brown  taper,  with  their  day- 
light flames  90 
Dimming  the  cheerful  day.     Before  the 

train 
The  Cross  is  borne,  where,  fashion' d  to 

the  life 
In  shape  and  size  and  ghastly  colouring, 
The  aweful  Image  hangs.     Next,  in  its 

shrine 
Of  gold  and  crystal,  by  the  Abbot  held, 
The  mighty  Mystery  came  ;    on  either 

hand 
Three  Monks  uphold  above,  on  silver 

wands. 
The  purple  pall.     With  holy  water  next 
A  father  went,  therewith  from  hyssop 

branch 
Sprinkling  the  graves ;    the  while,  with 
one  accord,  100 

The  solemn  psalm  of  mercy  all  entoned. 

Pure  was  the  faith  of  Madoc,  though 
his  mind 
To  all  this  pomp  and  solemn  circum- 
stance 
Yielded    a    willing    homage.     But    the 

place 
Was  holy  ;  .  .  the  dead  air,  which  under- 
neath 
Those  arches  never  felt  the  healthy  sun. 
Nor  the  free  motion  of  the  elements, 
Chilly  and  damp,  infused  associate  awe  : 
The  sacred  odours  of  the  incense  still 
Floated ;    the  daylight  and  the  taper- 
flames  no 
Commingled,  dimming  each,  and  each 

bedimm'd ; 
And  as  the  slow  procession  paced  along, 
.Still  to  their  hymn,  as  if  in  symphony. 
The  regular  foot-fall  sounded  :    swelling 

now, 
Their  voices  in  one  chorus,  loud  and  deep. 
Rung  through  the  echoing  aisles  ;    and 

when  it  ceased. 
The  silence  of  that  huge  and  sacred  pile 


Came  on  the  heart.  What  wonder  if  the 
Prince 

Yielded  his  homage  there  ?  the  in- 
fluences 

Of  that  sweet  autumn  day  made  every 
sense  120 

Alive  to  every  impulse,  .  .  and  beneath 

The  stones  whereon  he  stood,  his  an- 
cestors 

Were  mouldering,  dust  to  dust.  Father  ! 
quoth  he. 

When  now  the  rites  were  ended,  .  .  far 
away 

It  hath  been  Madoc' s  lot  to  pitch  his 
tent 

On  other  shores  ;  there,  in  a  foreign 
land. 

Far  from  my  father's  burial-place,  musti 

Be  laid  to  rest ;  yet  would  I  have  my 
name 

Be  held  with  theirs  in  memory.  I  be- 
seech you, 

Have  this  a  yearly  rite  for  evermore,  130 

As  I  will  leave  endowment  for  the  same, 

And  let  me  be  remember' d  in  the  prayer. 

The  day  shall  be  a  holy  day  with  me. 

While  I  do  live ;  they  who  come  after 
me 

Will  hold  it  holy  ;   it  will  be  a  bond 

Of  love  and  brotherhood,  when  all  be- 
side 

Hath  been  dissolved  ;  and  though  wide 
ocean  rolls 

Between  my  people  and  their  mother 

This  shall  be  their  communion.     They 

shall  send, 
Link'd  in  one  sacred  feeling  at  one  hour, 
In  the  same  language,  the  same  prayer 

to  Heaven,  141 

And  each  remembering  each  in  piety. 
Pray  for  the  othei's  welfare. 

The  old  man 
Partook  that  feeling,  and  some  pious 

tears 
Fell  down  liis  aged  cheek.     Kinsman 

and  son. 
It  shall  be  so  !   said  he  ;   and  thou  shalt 

be 
Remember' d  in  the  prayer  :    nor  then 

alone  : 
But  till  my  sinking  sands  be  quite  run 

out, 


LLEWELYN 


60A 


rhia  feeble  voice  shall,  from  its  solitude, 
o  up  for  thee  to  Heaven  ! 

And  now  the  bell 
ilung  out  its  cheerful  summons  ;   to  the 
hall,  151 

n  seemly  order,  pass  the  brotherhood  : 
Che  serving-men  wait   with  the  ready    As  witli  a  father's  love,  and  bade  him 


And  many  times  drew  back  and  gaiad 

upon  him, 
Wipinjj;  the  tears  away  which  dimm'd 

the  night, 
And  told  him  how  his  heart  hud  yearn' d 

for  him,  180 


ewer  ; 
The  place  of  honour  to  the  Prince  is 

given, 
riio    Abbot's    right-hand    guest;     the 

viands  smoke. 
The  horn  of  ale  goes  round :  and  now, 

the  cates 
Removed,  for  days  of  festival  reserved 


Forsake  his  lonely  haunts  and  come  witli 

him, 
And  sail  beyond  the  seas  and  share  his 

fate. 

No  !    by  my  God  !    the  high-hearted 
youth  re})lied. 


-omes  choicer  be  verage.clary.hippocrn.s,  '  It  never  .shall  be  .'^aid  Llewelyn  left 
And  mead  mature,  that  to  the  goblet's 

brim 
Sparkles  and  sings  and  smiles.     It  was 

a  day  160 

Of  that  allowable  and  temperate  mirth 
Which  leaves  a  joy  for  memory.   Madoc 

told 
His  tale ;    and  thus,  with  question  and 

reply 
And  cheerful  intercourse,  from  noon  till 


nones 
The  brethren  sate  ;   and  when  the  quire 

was  done, 
Reuew'd  their  converse  till  the  vesper 

bell. 

But   then    the    Porter   calTd   Prince 

Madoc  out. 
To  speak  with  one,  he  said,  who  from 

the  land 
Had  sought  him  and  required  his  private 

ear. 
Madoc  in  the  moonlight  met  him  :  in  his 

hand  170 

The  stripling  held  an  oar,  and  on  his 

back. 
Like   a   broad  shield,   the  coracle   was 

hung. 
Uncle  !    he  cried,  and  with  a  gush  of 

tears. 
Sprung  to  the  glad  embrace. 

0  my  brave  boy  ! 
Llewelyn  !    my  dear  boy  !    with  stilled 

voice. 
And  interruj)ted  utterance,  Madoc  cried ; 


His  father's   murderer  on   his  father's 

throne  ! 
I  am   the   rightful    king  of    this  poor 

land.  .  . 
Go  thou,  and  wi.sely  go  ;    but   I   mubt 

stay. 
That  I  may  save  my  jx'ople.     Tell  nie, 

Uncle,  189 

The  story  of  thy  fortunes  ;  I  can  hear  it 
Here  in  this  lonely  Isle,  and  at  this  hour, 
Securely. 

Nay,  quoth  Madoc,  tell  me  lirst 
Where  are  thy  haunts  and  coverts,  and 

what  hope 
Thou  hast  to  bear  thee  up  ?   Why  goett 

thou  not 
To  thv  dear  father's  friend  in  Powya- 

land. 
There  at  Mathra\  al  would  Cyveilioe  give 
A  kinsman's  welcome  ;   or  at  Dinevawr, 
The  guest  of  honour  shouldst  thou  bo 

with  Rhys  ; 
And  he  belike  from  David  might  ol)tain 
8ome  recompence,  though  poor. 

What  recomp<'nce  ? 
Exclaim' d  Llewelyn  ;    what  hath  ho  to 

give,  *** 

But  life  for  life  /    and  what   have  I  to 

claim 
But    vengeance,    and    my    father    Yor- 

werth's  throne  t 
If  with  au-zht  short  ot  thin  my  mjuI  could 

rest. 
Would  1  not  through  the  wide  world 

follow  thee. 


And  many  times  he  claspt  him  to  his  1  Dear  I'ncle  !    and  fare  with  thee,  well 


breast, 


or  ill. 


506 


IVIADOC   IN  WALES 


And  show  to  thine  old  age  the  tender- 
ness 
My  childhood  found  from  thee  ! .  .  What 

hopes  I  have 
Let  time  display.     Have  thou  no  fear 

for  me  ! 
My  bed  is  made  within  the  ocean  caves, 
Of  sea- weeds,  bleach' d  by  many  a  sun 

and  shower  ;  211 

I  know  the  mountain  dens,  and  every 

hold 
And    fastness    of    the    forest ;     and    I 

know,  .  . 
What  troubles  him  by  day  and  in  his 

dreams,  .  . 
There's    many    an    honest    heart    in 

Gwyneth  yet ! 
But  tell  me  thine  adventure ;  that  will  be 
A  joy  to  think  of  in  long  winter  nights, 
When  stormy  billows  make  my  lullaby. 

So  as  they  walk'  d  along  the  moonlight 

shore. 
Did  Madoc  tell  him  all ;    and  still  he 

strove,  220 

By  dwelling  on  that  noble  end  and  aim. 
That  of  his  actions  was  the  heart  and 

life, 
To  win  him  to  his  wish.     It  touch' d  the 

youth  ; 
And  when  the  Prince  had  ceased,  he 

heaved  a  sigh, 
Long-drawn  and  deep,  as  if  regret  were 

there. 
No,  no  !    he  cried,  it  must  not  be  !    lo 

yonder 
My  native  mountains,  and  how  beautiful 
They  rest  in  the  moonlight !  I  was  nurst 

among  them  ; 
They  saw  my  sports  in  childhood,  they 

have  seen 
My  sorrows,  they  have  saved  me  in  the 

hour  230 

Of  danger  ; . .  I  have  vow'  d,  that  as  they 

were 
My   cradle,   they   shall   be   my   monu- 
ment !  .  . 
But  we  shall  meet  again,  and  thou  wilt  j 

find  me, 
When  next  thou  visitest  thy  native  Isle, 
King  in  Aberfraw  ! 

Never  more,  Llewelyn, 
Madoc  replied,  shall  I  behold  the  shores 


Of  Britain,  nor  will  ever  tale  of  me 
Reach  the  Green  Isle  again.     With  fear 

ful  care  23^ 

I  chuse  my  little  company,  and  leave 
No  traces  of  our  path,  where  Violence, 
And  bloody  Zeal,  and  bloodier  Avarice 
Might  find  their  blasting  way. 

If  it  be  so,  . 
And   wise   is   thy   resolve,    the   youtl 

replied. 
Thou  wilt  not  know  my  fate  ;  .  .  bui 

this  be  sure. 
It  shall  not  be  inglorious.     I  have  in  mt 
A  hope  from  Heaven.  .  .  Give  me  thj 

blessing.  Uncle  ! 

Llewelyn,  kneeling  on  the  sand,  em 

braced 
His  knees,  with  lifted  head  and  stream 

ing  eyes 
Listening.     He  rose,  and  fell  on  Madoc' f 

neck. 
And  clasp' d  him,  with  a  silent  agony,  . 
Then  launch' d  his  coracle,  and  took  hi; 

way,  25: 

A  lonely  traveller  on  the  moonlight  sea 


XIV.    LLAIAN 

Now  hath  Prince  Madoc  left  the  hol^ 

Isle, 
And  homeward  to  Aberfraw,   througl 

the  wilds 
Of  Arvon,  bent  his  course.     A  little  waj 
He  turn'd  aside,  by  natural  impulses 
Moved,   to   behold   Cadwallon's  lonely 

hut. 
That  lonely  dwelling  stood  among  th( 

hills,  _  _  i 

By  a  grey  mountain-stream  ;    just  ele , 

vate 
Above  the  winter  torrents  did  it  stand 
Upon  a  craggy  bank  ;  an  orchard  slop< 
Arose  behind,  and  joyous  was  the  scen( 
In  early  summer,  when  those  antic  tree.' 
Shone  with  their  blushing  blossoms,  anc 

the  flax  I. 

Twinkled  beneath  the  breeze  its  livelie  ' 

green. 
But  save  the  flax-field  and  that  orchaK. 

slope, 


LLAIAN 


•07 


All  else  was  desolate,  and  now  it  wore 

One  Bobcr  hue  ;   the  narrow  vale  which 

'         wound 

Among   the  hills  was  grey  with  rocki«, 

that  i>eer'd 
Above  its  shallow  soil  ;    the  mountain 

side 
Was  loose  with  stones  bestrewn,  whieh 

oftentimes 
CSattered  adown  the  steep,  beneath  tlie 

foot  20 

Of     straggling     goat      dislodged ;       or 
^         tower  d  with  crags, 
nfOne    day,    when    whiter s    work    hath 

loosen' d  them. 
To  thunder  down.     All  things  assorted 

well 
With  that  grey  mountain  hue  ;    the  low 

stone  lincxS, 
Which  scarcely  seem'd  to  be  the  work  of 


!  The  dwelling  rudely  rear'd  with  stones 
unhewn, 
*  ^  The  stubble  flax,  the  crooked  apple-trees 
'>   Grev  with  their  fleecy  moss  and  missel- 
fi         *^toe. 

The  white- bark" d  birch  now  leafless,  and 

the  ash 
Whose  knotted  roots  were  like  the  rifted 
rock,  30 

Through  which  they  forced  their  way. 
V,  Adown  the  vale, 

'  Broken  by  stones  and  o'er  a  stony  bed, 
h  RoU'd  the  loud  mountain-stream. 

When  Madoc  came, 

'!!  A  little  child  was  sporting  by  the  brook. 

Floating  the  fallen  leaves,  that  he  might 

see  them 
Whirl   in   the  eddy  now,   and   now    be 

driven 
Down  the  descent,  now  on  the  smootlier 

stream 
Sail   onward  far  away.      But    when   he 

heard 
The  horse's  tramp,  he  raised  his  head 

and  watch' d 

The  Prince,  who  now  dismounted  and 

drew  nigh.  4° 

The  little  bov  still  fix'd  his  eyes  on  him. 

His   bright   blue  eyes ;    the   wind  just 

moved  thr  curls 
That  clu.'<ter'«l  round  hi.-?  brow  ;    and  no 
he  stood, 


His  rosy  checks  still  lilted  up  vo  ^'wr 
in  innocent   wonder.     Madoc   took   hi* 

hand. 
And  now  had  ju^k'd  his  name,  and  if  he 

dwelt 
There    in    the    luit,    when    from    that 

cottage-door 
A  woman  came,  who,  seeing  Madoc,  Mtopt , 
With  such  a  fear,  .  .  for  she  had  cauitc 

for  fear,  .  . 
Ah  when  a  bird  returning  to  her  ncKl,  50 
Turns  to  a  tri>e  U'side,  if  slie  l>oh()ld 
Some    prying    boy    ttnj    near    the    dear 

retreat. 
Howbeit,  ad\ancing  soon,  she  now  ap- 
proach'd 
The   approaching    Prince,   and   timidly 

enquired, 
H  on  his  wayfare  he  had  lost  the  track, 
That  thither  he  had  strayed.     Not  ik>, 

replied 
The  gentle  Prince  ;    but  havmg  known 

this  place. 
And  its  old  habitant.",  I  came  once  mom 
To  see  the  lonely  hut  among  the  IuIIk. 
Hath  it  been  long  your  dwelling  ? 

Some  few  years 
Here   we   have  dwelt,   quoth   she,   my 

child  and  I.  <>« 

Will  it   plca.'^e  you  enter,  and  partake 

such  fare 
As  we  can  give  ".'  Still  timidly  k\u'  !«iM»kr, 
But  gathering  courage  from  the  gentio 

mien 
Of    him    with    whom    she    converged. 

Madoc  thank'd 
Her  friendly  i)rofTer,  and  toward  the  hut 
They  went,  and  in  his  arms  he  took  the 

boy. 
Who  i.s'his  father  7  said  the  Prince,  but 

wish'd 
The   word   unutter'd ;     for   thereat   hrr 

cheek 
Was    flu.sh'd     with    sudden     heat    and 

manifest  pain  ;  7« 

And  she  replie.l.  Mr  |x-ri»h'd  in  thr  war. 

They    enter' d    now    lu-r    honjf  ;     ah» 

spread  the  board, 
And  set  before  lier  gucat  ault  curdii,  and 

checao 
Of  curdliko  whitencaa,  with  no  (ureign 

die 


508 


IVIADOC  IN  WALES 


Adulterate,  and  what  fruits  the  orchard 

gave, 
And  that  old  British  beverage  which 

the  bees 
Had  toil'd  to  purvey  all  the  summer 

long. 
Three  years,  said  Madoe,  have  gone  by, 

since  here 
I  found  a  timely  welcome,  overworn 
With  toil  and  sorrow  and  sickness  :  .  . 

three  long  years  !  80 

'Twas  when  the  battle  had  been  waged 

hard  by, 
Upon  the  plain  of  Arvon. 

She  grew  pale, 
Suddenly    pale ;     and   seeing    that    he 

mark'd 
The  change,  she  told  him,  with  a  feeble 

voice, 
That  was  the  fatal  tight  which  widow' d 

her. 

U  Christ,  cried  Madoc,  'tis  a  grief  to 

think 
How  many  a  gallant  Briton  died  that 

day. 
In  that  accursed  strife  !   I  trod  the  field 
When  all  was  over,  .  .  I  beheld  them 

heap'd  .  . 
Ay,  like  ripe  corn  within  the   reaper's 

reach,  90 

Strewn  round  the  bloody  spot  where 

Hoel  lay  ; 
Brave  as  he  was,  himself  cut  down  at 

last. 
Oppress' d    by    numbers,    gash'd    with 

wounds,  yet  still 
Clenching  in  his  dead  hand  the  broken 

sword  !  .  . 
But  you  are  moved, .  .  you  weep  at  what 

I  tell. 
Forgive  me,  that  renewing  my  own  grief, 
I  should  have  waken' d  yours  !   Did  you 

then  know 
Prince  Hoel  ? 

She  replied,  Oh  no  !  my  lot 
Was  humble,  and  my  loss  a  humble  one  ; 
Yet  was  it  all  to  me  !    They  say,  quoth 

she,  .  .  100 

And,  as  she  spake,  she  struggled  to  bring 

forth 
With   painful    voice     the     interrupted 

words,  .  . 


They  say  Prince  Hoel' a  body  was  not 

found ; 
But  you  who  saw  him  dead  perchance 

can  tell 
W^here  he  was  laid,  and  by  what  friendly 

hand. 

Even  where  he  fell,  said  Madoc,  is  hia 

grave  ; 
For  he  who  buried  him  was  one  whose 

faith 
Reck'd  not  of  boughten  prayers,  nor 

passing  bell. 
There  is  a  hawthorn  grows  beside  the 
I  place, 

A  solitary  tree,  nipt  by  the  winds,  no 
That  it  doth  seem  a  fitting  monument 
For  one  untimely  slain. .  .  But  wherefore 

dwell  we 
On  this  ungrateful  theme  ? 

He  took  a  harp 
Which  stood  beside,  and  passing  o'er  its 

chords 
Made  music.     At  the  touch  the  child 

drew  nigh, 
Pleased   by   the  sound,   and  leant   on 

Madoc' s  knee, 
And  bade  him  play  again.     So  Madoc 

play'd. 
For   he   had   skill   in   minstrelsy,    and 

raised 
His  voice,  and  sung  Prince  Hoel's  lay  of 

love. 

j  I  have  harness'd  thee,  my  Steed  of 
I  shining  grey,  120 

And  thou  shalt  bear  me  to  the  dear 
i  white  walls. 

i  I  love  the  white  walls  by  the  verdant 
bank. 

That  glitter  in  the  sun,  where  Bashful- 
ness 

Watches  the  silver  sea-mew  sail  along. 

I  love  that  glittering  dwelling,  where  we 
hear 

The  ever-sounding  billows ;    for  there 
j  dwells 

The  shapely  Maiden,  fair  as  the  sea- 
!  spray, 

I  Her  cheek  as  lovely  as  the  ajople  flower, 
,  Or  summer  evening's  glow.  I  pine  for 
;  her ; 

I  In  crowded  halls  my  spirit  is  with  her  ; 


LLAIAN 


509 


hrough  tlie  long  sleepless  night  I  think 
on  her  ;  131 

nd  liappincsa  is  gone,  and  health  is  lost, 
.ndlled  the  tlu.shof  youtli.nnd  I  nmpale 
Ddli  is  the  pale  ocean  on  a  sunless  morn, 
pine  away  for  her.  yet  pity  her, 
'hat  slie  should  spurn  so  true  a  lovo  aa 
mine. 


He  ceased,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  the 

child.  .  . 
Ind  didst  thou  like  the  song  ?   The  child 

replied.  .  . 
)h  yes  !  it  is  a  song  my  mother  loves, 
\nd  so  I  love  it  too.     He  stoopt  and 

kiss'd  140 

fhe  boy,  who  still  was  leaning  on  his 

knee, 

\lready  grown  familiar.     I  should  like 
To  take  thee  with  me,  quoth  the  Ocean 

Lord, 
Over  the  seas. 

Thou  art  Prince  Madoc,  then  ! . . 
The  mother  cried, .  ,  thou  art  indeed  the 

Prince  ! 
That  song  .  .  that  look  .  .  and  at  his  feet 

she  fell, 
Crying  .  .  Oh  take  him,  Madoc  !    save 

the  child  ! 
;Thy  brotlier  Hoel's  orphan  ! 

Long  it  was 
Ere  that  in  either  agitated  heart 
The  tumult  could  subside.     One  while 

the  Prince  150 

Gazed   on   the   child,   tracing   intently 

there 
His  brother's  lines  ;  and  now  he  caught 

him  up. 
And  kiss'd  his  cheek,  and  gazed  again 

till  all 
Was  dim  and  dizzy,  .  .  then  blest  God, 

and  vow'd 
That  he  should  never  need  a  father's 

love. 

At  length  when  copious  tears  had  now 

relieved 
Her  burthen' d  heart,  and  many  a  broken 

speech 
In  tears  had  died  away,  O  Prince,  she 

cried. 
Long  hath  it  been  my  dearest  prayer  to 

heaven, 


That  I  might  boo  the©  once,  and  to  thy 

love  ,i, 

Commit  thin  friendless  lM>y  !    Kor  nianv 

a  time. 
In  phrase  so  fond  did  Hck'I  tell  thy  worth 
That  it  hath  wak«'nM  miwry  in  n>e 
To  think  I  eouhl  n«»l  us  a  sist<T  rUim 
Thy  love  !   and  therefore  wan  it  that  till 

now 
Thou  knew'st  me  not ;    for  I  entreated 

him 
That  he  would  never  let  thy  virtuous  eye 
Look  on  my  i^uilt.  and  make  mo  feel  my 

shame. 
Madoe,  I  did  not  dare  to  see  thee  then. 
Thou  wilt  not  scorn  me  now,  .  .  for  1 

have  now  170 

Forgiven    myself ;     and.    wiiilu    I    hen> 

])erform'd 
A  mother's  duty  in  this  solitude. 
Have  felt  myself  forgiven. 

With  that  she  clasp'd 
His  hand,  and  bent  her  face  on  it  and 

wept. 
Anon  collecting  she  pursued, . .  My  name 
Is  Llaian  :    by  the  chance  of  war  1  fell 
Into  his  power,  when  all  my  family 
Had  been  cutolT.  all  in  one  hour  of  bloo<l. 
He  saved  me  from  the  ruffian's  hand,  he 

sooth' d 
With  tenderest  care  my  .sorrow.  .  .  You 

can  tell  180 

How  gentle  he  could  be.  and  how  hi.s  eyefl. 
So  full  of  life  and  kindlinfs.s.  could  win 
All  hearts  to  love  him.     .Madoo,  1  wai» 

young  ; 
I  had  no  living  friend  ;  .  .  and  when  I 

gave 
This  infant  to  his  arms,  when  with  such 

joy  ,  ... 

He  view'd  it  o'er  and  o'er  ai^ain.  and 

press' d 
A  father's  ki.s.s  u}X)n  its  cheek,  and  tum'd 
To  me,  and  made  mc  fwl  more  drt^ply 

yet 
A  mother's  deep  delight.  .  .  oh  !    I  wa* 

proud 
To  think  my  child  in  aftrr  yean*  ithould 

say,  «9* 

Prince  Hoel  waa  his  father  ! 

Thus  I  dwelt 
In  the  white  dwdlinR  by  the  v«rdant 

bank,  .  . 


510 


MADOC  IN  WALES 


Though   not    without   my   melancholy 

hours, 
Happy.     The  joy  it  was  when  I  beheld 
His  steed  of  shining  grey  come  hastening 

on, 
Across  the  yellow  sand ! . .  Alas,  ere  long, 
King  Owen  died.     I  need  not  tell  thee, 

Madoc, 
With  what  a  deadly  and  forefeeling  fear 
I  heard  how  Hoel  seized  his  father's 

throne, 
Nor  with  what  ominous  woe  I  welcomed 

him,  200 

In  that  last  little  miserable  hour 
Ambition  gave  to  love.      I  think   his 

heart, 
Brave  as  it  was,  misgave  him.     When 

I  spake 
Of  David  and  my  fears,  he  smiled  upon 

me ; 
But  'twas  a  smile  that  came  not  from 

the  heart,  .  . 
A  most  ill-boding  smile  !  .  .  0  Madoc  ! 

Madoc  ! 
You  know  not  with  what  misery  I  saw 
His  parting  steps,  .  .  with  what  a  dread- 
ful hope 
I  watch' d  for  tidings  !  .  .  And  at  length 

it  came,  .  . 
Came  like  a  thunderbolt ! .  .  I  sought  the 

field !  210 

0  Madoc,  there  were  many  widows  there, 
But  none  with  grief  like  mine  !  I  look'd 

around ; 

1  dragg'd  aside  the  bodies  of  the  dead. 
To  search  for  him,  in  vain  ;  .  .  and  then 

a  hope 
Seized  me,  which  it  was  agony  to  lose  ! 

Night   came.     I    did   not    heed   the 

storm  of  night ; 
But  for  the  sake  of  this  dear  babe,  I 

sought 
Shelter  in  this  lone  hut :  'twas  desolate  ; 
And  when  my  reason  had  return' d,  I 

thought 
That  here  the  child  of  Hoel  might  be 

safe,  220 

Till  we  could  claim  thy  care.     But  thou, 

meantime, 
Didst  go  to  roam  the  Ocean  ;  so  I  learnt 
To     bound     my     wishes     here.     The 

carkanet. 


The  embroider' d  girdle,  and  what  other   p 

gauds 
Were  once  my  vain  adornments,  Boon 

were  changed 
For  things  of  profit,  goats  and  bees,  and 

this, 
The  tuneful  solace  of  my  solitude. 
Madoc,  the  harp  is  as  a  friend  to  me  ; 
I  sing  to  it  the  songs  which  Hoel  loved, 
And  Hoel's  own  sweet  lays  ;  it  comforts 

me,  230 

And  gives  me  joy  in  grief. 

Often  I  grieved. 
To  think  the  son  of  Hoel  should  grow  up. 
In  this  unworthy  state  of  poverty  ; 
Till  Time,  who  softens  all  regrets,  had 

worn 
That  vain  regret  away,  and  I  became 
Humbly  resign'd  to, God's  unerring  will. 
To  him  I  look'd  for  healing,  and  he 

pour'd 
His  balm  into  my  wounds.     I  never 

form'  d 
A  prayer  for  more, .  .  and  lo  !  the  happi- 
ness 
Which  he  hath,  of  his  mercy,  sent  me 

now !  240 


XV.    THE  EXCOMMUNICATION 

On  Madoc' s  docile  courser  Llaian  sits. 
Holding   her  joyful   boy ;    the   Prince 

beside 
Paces  afoot,  and  like  a  gentle  Squire 
Leads  her  loose  bridle  ;  from  the  saddle- 
bow 
His  shield  and  helmet  hang,  and  with 

the  lance, 
Staff  like,  he  stay'd  his  steps.      Before 

the  sun 
Had   climb' d   his   southern   eminence, 

they  left 
The  mountain  feet ;  and  hard  by  Bangor 

now. 
Travelling  the  plain  before  them  they 

espy 
A  lordly  cavalcade,  for  so  it  seem'd,  xo 
Of   knights,   with   hawk  in   hand  and 

hounds  in  leash, 
Squires,  pages,  serving- men,  and  armed 

grooms, 


THE    EXCOMMUNICATION 


511 


nd  many  a  sumpter- beast  and  laden 

wain, 
ar  following  in  the  rear.     Tho  bravery 
)f  glittering   bauldricks   nnil   of    bigh- 

plumed  crests, 
embroider' d  surcoata  and  eniblazon'd 

sbiolds, 
knd  lances  whose  long  streamers  play'd 

aloft, 
fade  a  rare  pageant,  as  with  sound  of 

trump, 
["ambour  and  cittern,  proudly  they  went 

on  ; 
Vnd  ever,  at  the  foot-fall  of  their  steeds, 
The  tinkling  horse-bells,  in  rude  sym- 
phony, 21 
Accorded  with  the  joy. 

What  have  we  here  ? 
juoth  Madoc  then  to  one  who  stood 

beside 

The  threshold  of  his  osier-woven  hut. 
T\B  the  great  Saxon  Prelate,  he  return' d, 
Z!ome  hither  for  some  end,  I  wist  not 

what, 
Dnly  be  sure  no  good  !  .  .  How  stands 

the  tide  ? 
Said  Madoc  ;  can  we  pass  ?  .  .  'Tis  even 

at  the  flood. 
The  man  made  answer,  and  the  Monas- 
tery 
(|Will  have  no  hospitality  to  spare         30 
'  one  of  Wales  to-day.     Be  ye  content 
guest  with  us. 
_  He  took  the  Prince's  sword : 

The    daughter    of    the    house    brought 

water  then, 
And  wash'd  the  stranger's  feet ;    the 

board  was  spread, 
And  o'er  the  bowl  they  communed  of 

the  days 
Ere  ever  Saxon  set  his  hateful  foot 
Upon  the  beautiful  Isle. 

As  so  they  sate, 
The  bells  of  the  Cathedral  rung  abroad 
Unusual  summons.    What  is  this  ?   ex- 

claim'd 
Prince  Madoc  :  let  us  see  !  .  .  Forthwith 

they  went,  40 

He  and  his  host,  their  way.     They  found 

the  rites 
Begun ;     the   mitred    Baldwin,    in    his 

hand 
Holding  a  tapor,  n(  the  altar  stood. 


Let  him  be  earned  !  .  .  were  the  wordft 

which  first 
Assail'd  their  oar.-*.  .  .  living  and  drud. 

in  limb 
And  life,  in  soul  and  body.  Im'  hv  curut 
Here  and  hereafl«M- !    l>i   him  f^'l  tiir 

curso 
At  every  moment,  and  in  every  act. 
By  night  and  day,  in  waking  and  in 

sleep  ! 
We  cut  him  off  from  Christian  follow 

ship ;  50 

Of  Christian  sacraments  we  deprive  hiw 

soul  ; 
Of  Christian  burial  we  deprive  his  corpse; 
And  when  that  carrion  to  the  Fiends  is 

left 
In  unprotected  earth,  thus  let  his  soul 
Be  qucnch'd  in  hell  ! 

He  dash'd  upon  the  floor 
His  taper  down,  and  all  the  ministring 

Priests 
Extinguish'd  each  his  light,  to  consum- 
mate 
The  imprecation. 

Whom  is  it  ye  curse. 
Cried  Madoc,  with  these  horrors  ?  They 

replied. 
The    contumacious    Prince    of    I'owys- 

land,  60 

Cyveilioc. 

What  !   quoth  Madoc.  and 

his  eye 
(Jrew  terrible.  .  .  Who  is  he  that  seta  hiit 

foot 
In  Gwyneth,  and  with  hellish  forms  like 

these 
Dare   outrage   hero   Mathraval's  noble 

Lord  ? 
We  wage  no  war  with  women  nor  with 

Priests  ; 
But  if  there  be  a  knight  amid  your  train, 
Who  will  stand  forth,  and  speak  before 

my  face 
Dishonour  of  the  Prince  of  Powya-land. 
IjO  !    here  stand  I.  Prince  Madoc.  who 

will  make 
That  slanderouH  wretch  cry  craven  in 

the  dust,  70 

And  eat  his  lying  words  ! 

Be  temprratr  ! 
Quoth  one  of  Baldwin's  PricMtH,   who. 

liriton  born. 


512 


MADOC  IN  WALES 


Had  known  Prince  Madoc  in  his  father's 

court ; 
It  is  our  charge,  throughout  this  Chris- 
tian land, 
To  call  upon  all  Christian  men  to  join 
The  armies  of  the  Lord,  and  take  the 

cross ; 
That  so,  in  battle  with  the  Infidels, 
The  palm  of  victory  or  of  martyrdom, 
Glorious  alike,  may  be  their  recompense. 
This   holy   badge,    whether  in   godless 
scorn,  80 

Or  for  the  natural  blindness  of  his  heart, 
Cyveilioc    hath    refused ;     thereby    in- 
curring 
The  pain,  which,  not  of  our  own  impulse, 

we 
Inflict  upon  his  soul,  but  at  the  will 
Of  our  most  holy  Father,  from  whose 

word 
Lies  no  appeal  on  earth. 

'Tis  well  for  thee, 
Intemperate  Prince  !  said  Baldwin,  that 

our  blood 
Flows  with  a  calmer  action  than  thine 

own  ! 
Thy  brother  David  hath  put  on  the 

cross. 
To  our  most  pious  warfare  piously       90 
Pledging  his  kingly  sword.     Bo   thou 

the  like. 
And  for  this  better  object  lay  aside 
Thine  other  enterprize,  which,  lest  it  rob 
Judea  of  one  single  Christian  arm. 
We  do  condemn  as  sinful.     Follow  thou 
The  banner  of  the  Church  to  Palestine  ; 
So  shalt  thou  expiate  this  rash  offence, 
Against  the  which  we  else  should  ful- 
minate 
Our  ire,  did  we  not  see  in  charity,        99 
And  therefore  rather  pity  than  resent, 
The  rudeness  of  this  barbarous  land. 

At  that. 
Scorn     tempering     wrath,     yet     anger 

sharpening  scorn, 
Madoc  replied.  Barbarians  as  we  are. 
Lord  Prelate,  we  received  the  law  of 

Christ 
Many  a  long  age  before  your  pirate  sires 
Had  left  their  forest  dens ;   nor  are  we 

now 
To  learn  that  law  from  Norman  or  from 
Dane, 


Saxon,  Jute,  Angle,  or  whatever  name 
Suit  best  your  mongrel  race  !   Ye  think, 

perchance. 
That  like  your  own  poor  woman-hearted 

King,  no 

We  too  in  Gwyneth  are  to  take  the  yoke 
Of  Rome  upon  our  necks  ;  .  .  but  you 

may  tell 
Your  Pope,  that  when  I  sail  upon  the 

seas, 
I  shall  not  strike  a  topsail  for  the  breath 
Of  all  his  maledictions  ! 

Saying  thus, 
He   turn'd   away,   lest   farther   speech 

might  call 
Farther  reply,  and  kindle  farther  wrath. 
More  easy  to  avoid  than  to  allay. 
Therefore  he  left  the  church  ;   and  soon 

his  mind 
To  gentler  mood  was  won,  by  social  talk 
And  the  sweet  prattle  of  that  blue-eyed 

boy,  121 

Whom  in  his  arms  he  fondled. 

But  when  now 
Evening  had  settled,  to  the  door  there 

came 
One  of  the  brethren  of  the  Monastery, 
Who  called  Prince  Madoc  forth.     Apart 

they  went, 
And  in  the  low  suspicious  voice  of  fear, 
Though  none  was  nigh,  the  Monk  began. 

Be  calm. 
Prince    Madoc,    while    I    speak,    and 

patiently 
Hear  to  the  end  !  Thou  know'st  that,  in 

his  life, 
Becket  did  excommunicate  thy  sire  130 
For  his  unlawful  marriage ;    but  the 

King, 
Feeling  no  sin  in  conscience,  heeded  not 
The   inefficient    censure.     Now,    when 

Baldwin 
Beheld  his  monument  to-day,  impell'd, 
As  we  do  think,  by  anger  against  thee. 
He  swore  that,  even  as  Owen  in  his  deeds 
Disown' d  the  Church  when  living,  even 

so 
The   Church  disown' d  him   dead,   and 

that  his  corpse 
No  longer  should  be  suffered  to  pollute 
The  Sanctuary  .  .  Be  patient,  I  beseech. 
And  hear  me  out.     Gerald  at  this,  who 

felt  141 


THE   EXCOMMUNICATION 


513 


natural  horror,  sought,  .  .  as  best  ho 
knew 
The  haughty  Primate's  temper.  .  .  to 

dissuade 
By  poHtic  argument,  and  cliielly  urged 
Che  quick  and  Hery  nature  of  our  na- 
tion, .  . 
rlow  at  the  sight  of  such  indignity. 
They  would  arise  in  arms,  and  limb  from 

limb 
Fear  piecemeal  him  and  all  liis  company, 
"^o  far  did  this  prevail,  that  he  will  now 
?ommit  the  deed  in  secret ;    and,  this 
night,  ISO 

Thy  father's  body  from  its  resting  place, 
J  Madoc  !    shall  be  torn,  and  cast  aside 
[n  some  unhallow'd  pit,  with  foul  dis- 
grace 
And  contumelious  wrong. 

Sayest  thou  to-night  ? 
Quoth  Madoc.  .  .  Ay,  at  midnight,  he 

replied. 
Shall  this  impiety  be  perpetrated. 
Therefore  hath  Gerald,  for  the  reverence 
He  bears  to  Owen's  royal  memory. 
Sent    thee   the  tidings.     Now   be  tem- 
perate 

In  thy  just  anger,  Prince  !   and  shed  no 
blood.  i6o 

Thou   know'st    how    dearly    the   Plan- 

tagenet 
Atones  for  Becket's  death  ;  and  be  thou 

sure, 
Though  thou  tli3'self  shouldst  sail  be- 
yond the  .storm, 
That  it  would  fall  on  Britain. 

While  he  spake, 
Madoc  was  still ;  the  feeling  work'd  too 

deep 
For  speech,  or  visible  sign.     At  length 

he  said. 

What  if  amid  their  midnight  sacrilege 
I  should  appear  among  them? 

It  were  well  ; 
Tlie  Monk  replied,  if.  at  a  sight  like  that, 
Tliou  canst  withhold  thy  hand. 

Oh.  fear  me  not  ! 
Good  and  true  friend,  .said  Madoc.   I  am 
calm,  171 

And  calm  as  thou  beholdest  me  will  prove 
In  word  and  action.  Quick  I  am  to  feel 
Light  ills,  .  .  perhaps  o'er-hasty  :  sum- 
mer gnats, 


Findmg  my  cheek  unguarded,  m«v  inax 
Their  skin-deep  stings,  to  vex  and  irri- 

tato  ; 
But  if  the  wolf,  or  forest  boar.  l)o  nigh, 
1  am  awake  to  danger.     Kv«  u  ho 
Bear  I  a  mind  of  ntvv\  and  ndnnmnt 
Against  all  greater  wron^H.     My  lu-art 

hath  now  |go 

Received  it.s  impuls<' ;    and  thou  ithalt 

behold 
How  in  this  strange  and  hideous  circum- 
stance 
I  shall  find  profit.   .   .   Only,   my   true 

friend, 
I^t  me  have  entrance. 

At  the  western  porch. 
Between  the  complines  and  the  matin« 

bell.  .  . 
The  Monk  made  answer  :  thou  shalt  find 

the  door 
Ready.     Thy  single  person  will  suffice  ; 
For  Baldwin  knows  his  danger,  and  the 

hour 
Of  guilt  or  fear  convicts  him.  both  alike 
Opprobrious.     Now,  farewell  ! 

Then  Madoc  took  190 
His  host  aside,  and  in  hi.s  private  ear 
Told  him  the  purport,  and  wherein  hia 

help 
Was    needed.     Night    came    on ;     the 

hearth  was  heapt. 
The  women  went  to  rest.     They  twain, 

the  while, 
Sate  at  the  board,  and  while  the  un- 

taated  bowl 
Stood  by  them,  watch'd  the  glaiw  who8« 

falling  sands 
Told  out  the  weary  liours.     The  hour  u* 

come  ; 
Prince  Madoc  helm'd  hi.s  head,  and  from 

his  neck 
Ho  slung   the   bugle-horn  ;     they   took 

their  shield.'^. 
And  lance  in   hand   wrnt    f(»rtli.     And 

now  arrived,  *» 

The  bolts  give  back  Ix-fore  th.-m,  and 

the  door 
Rolls  on  its  heavy  hinge. 

Bctiidr  the  grave 
Stood  Baldwin  and  the  Prior,  who,  albeit 
Cumbrian  himself,  in  frar  and  awe  obey'd 
The  lordly  Primat»''H  \*jll.     They  ■lorxi 

and  watch'd 


514 


MADOC  IN  WALES 


^f 


Their  ministers  perform  the  irreverent 

work. 
And  now  with  spade  and  mattock  have 

they  broken 
Into  the  house  of  death,  and  now  have 

they 
From  the  stone  coffin  wrench' d  the  iron 

cramps, 
When  sudden  interruption  startled  them. 
And  clad  in  complete  mail  from  head  to 

foot,  211 

They  saw  the  Prince  come  in.     Their 

tapers  gleam' d 
Upon  his  visage,  as  he  wore  his  helm 
Open  ;    and  when  in  that  pale  coun- 
tenance, .  . 
For    the    strong    feeling    blanch' d    his 

cheek,  .  .  they  saw 
His  father's  living  lineaments,  a  fear 
Like  ague  shook  them.    But  anon  that  fit 
Of  scared  imagination  to  the  sense 
Of  other  peril  yielded,  when  they  heard 
Prince  Madoc's  dreadful  voice.     Stay  ! 

he  exclaim' d,  220 

As  now  they  would  have  fled ; . .  stir  not 

a  man,  .  . 
Or  if  I  once  put  breath  into  this  horn, 
All  Wales  will   hear,  as  if  dead  Owen 

call'd 
For  vengeance  from  that  grave.     Stir 

not  a  man. 
Or  not  a  man  shall  live  !  The  doors  are 

watch' d, 
And  ye  are  at  my  mercy  ! 

But  at  that, 
Baldwin    from    the    altar    seized    the 

crucifix, 
And  held  it  forth  to  Madoc,  and  cried 

out. 
He  who  strikes  me,  strikes  Him  ;    for- 
bear, on  pain 

Of  endless 

Peace  !    quoth  Madoc,  and 

profane  not  230 

The   holy   Cross,    with   those   polluted 

hands 
Of    midnight   sacrilege  !  .  .  Peace  !    I 

harm  thee  not,  .  . 
Be  wise,  and  thou  art  safe.  .  .  For  thee, 

thou  know'st. 
Prior,  that  if  thy  treason  were  divulged, 
David  would  hang  thee  on  thy  steeple 

top, 


To  feed  the  steeple  daws :    Obey  an 

live  ! 
Go,  bring  fine  linen  and  a  coffer  me* 
To  bear  these  relics  ;   and  do  ye,  meai 

while, 
Proceed  upon  your  work. 

They  at  his  wor 
Raised  the  stone  cover,  and  display' 

the  dead,  2. 

In  royal  grave-clothes  habited,  his  arn 
Cross' d  on   the   breast,    with   precioi 

gums  and  spice 
Fragrant,  and  incorruptibly  preserved 
At  Madoc's  bidding,  round  the  corps 

they  wrap 
The  linen  web,  fold  within  fold  involvec 
They  laid  it  in  the  coffer,  and  with  clot 
At  head  and  foot  filled  every  interval 
And  prest  it  down  compact ;  they  close 

the  lid, 
And  Madoc   with  his  signet  seal'd 

thrice. 
Then  said  he  to  his  host.  Bear  thou  a 

dawn  2i 

This  treasure  to  the  ships.     My  father" 

bones 
Shall   have   their   resting-place,    whei 

mine  one  day 
May  moulder  by  their  side.     He  sha 

be  free 
In  death,  who  living  did  so  well  maintai 
His  and  his  country's  freedom.     As  fc 

ye, 

For  your  own  safety,  ye  I   ween  wi 

keep 
My  secret  safe.     So  saying,  he  went  lii 

way. 


XVI.    DAVID 

Now  hath  the  Lord  of  Ocean  once  agai ' 
Set  foot  in  Mona.     Llaian  there  receive 
Sisterly  greeting  from  the  royal  maid. 
Who,  while  she  tempers  to  the  publi' 

eye 
Her  welcome,  safely  to  the  boy  indulge^ 
In  fond  endearments  of  instinctive  love 
When  the  first  flow  of  joy  was  overpast 
How  went  the  equipment  on,  the  Princ 

enquired. 
Nay,  brother,  quoth  Goervyl,  ask  thoi 

that 


DAVID 


615 


Of  rrion  ; .  .  it  Imth  been  \u»  solo  employ 
Daily  from  cook-crow  until  ovensonL'. 
That     he    Imtii    laiil    aside    all    otlier 

thouiihts. 
Forgetfiil   even   of   me!    She  Raid  and 

smiled  ' 

Playful  reproach  upon  the  Rood  old  man,  ' 
Who  in  such  eluding  a.s  attection  loves,  ' 
Dallying  with  terms  of  wrone.  return'd 

rebuke. 
There,  Madoo,  pointing  to  the  shore,  he  ^ 

cried. 
There   are    they    raoor'd ;     six   gallant  | 

barks,  as  trim  ' 

And  worthy  of  the  hca  as  ever  yet  | 

(Jave  canvass  to  the  gale.  The  mariners  i 
Flock  to  thy  banner,  and  the  call  hath 

roused  a  I 

Many  a  brave  spirit.     Soon  as  Spring 

shall  servo. 
There  need  be  no  delay.     I  should  depart 
Without  one   wish  that  lingers,  could 

we  bear 
Riridfrom  hence,  and  break  poorRodri's 

chains. 
Thy  lion-hearted  brother;   .  .And  that 

boy. 
If  ho  were  with  us,  Madoc  !    that  dear 

boy 
Llewelyn  ! 

Sister,  said  the  Prince  at  that. 
How  sped  the  Queen  ? 

Oh,  Madoc  !  she  replied. 
A  hard  and  unrelenting  heart  hath  he.  3« 
The  gentle  Emma  told  me  she  had  fail'd. 
And  that  was  all  she  told;    but  in  her 

eye 
I  could  see  sorrow  struggling.    She  com- 
plains not. 
And  yet  I  know,  in  bitterness  laments 
The  hour  which  brought  her  aw  a  victim 

here. 

Then  I  will  so.k  the  Monarch,  Madoc 

cried  ; 
And    forth    he    went.     Cold    welcome 

David  gave, 
'.  Such  a.s  might  chill  a  suppliant  ;  hut  the 

Prince 
Fearless  began.     I  found  at  Dinevawr 
Our  brother  Kirid,  and  he  made  Ixia  suit 
That   he  might  follow  me,  a  banish' d 

man.  4> 


He  wait.t  thine  aniwer  at  the  court  u( 

Rhys. 
Now  I  beseech  thee.  David,  imy  t«»  him 
His  father's  hall  is  ujM<n  ! 

Then  the  Kin^ 
Replied,  1  told  thee,  Mndoe,  thv  rrtjumi 
Displeasi^d    me    heretofore;     I    warn'd 

thee,  too. 
To  shun  the  rebel  ;    yet  mv  me^iM•n^{^r 
Tells  me,  the  guests  at  Dinevawr  who 

sate 
At   board  with  Rhys  and  drank  of  hlfl 

own  cup 
Were  Madoc  and  Ix>rd  Ririd.  .  .  Wos  this 

well.  $9 

This  open  disoWdienee  to  my  will. 
And  my  express  command  ? 

Madoc  sulKiurd 
His  rising  wrath.     If  I  shouUl  tell  ih««r. 

Sire, 
He  answer  d.  by  what  chance  it  so  fell 

out, 
I  should  of  disobedience  stand  excused. 
Even  were  it  here  a  crime.     Yet  think 

again. 
David,  and  let  thy  better  mind  pn«vjiil ! 
I  am  his  surety  Ix'ie  ;    he  lonir^H  jiluno  ; 
The   strength   of   yonder   armament    it 

mine  ; 
And  when  did  I  deceive  the©  ?  .  .  I  did 

ho{M?.  ** 

For  natural  lovo  and  public  decency. 
That  ye  would  jiart  in  friendship  .  .  let 

that  i>as.s  I 
He  may  remain  and  join  me  in  the  hour 
Of  embarkation.     Hut  furthineomn  sake 
Cast  otT  these  vile  suspicions,  and  the  (ear 
That  makes  its  danger  !    Call  to  mind. 

my  brother. 
The  rampart   that   we  were  to  Owens 

throne ! 
Are  there  no  moments  when  the  thought* 

and  lovi^ 
Of  other  davs  return  ? . .  Let  Rodn  loow- ! 
Restore  hiiii  to  Aiis  birthright  !  .  .  Whjr 

would^t  thou  y* 

Hold    him    in    chains.    ««l»rn    bcorfiU 

would  bind 
His  noble  spirit  ? 
I  I>cave  me  !  crir<l  (Ix*  King  : 

Thou  knowst  the  tbrme  is  baleful  lo 

my  ear. 
I  have  the  mai»trry  now,  and  idle  wortis. 


51G 


MADOC    IN  WALES 


Madoc,  shall  never  thrust  me  from  the 

throne, 
Which  this  right  arm  in  battle  hardly 

won. 
There  must  he  lie  till  nature  set  him  free, 
And  so  deliver  both.     Trespass  no  more ! 

A  little  yet  bear  with  me,  Madoc  cried. 
I  leave  this  land  for  ever  ;  let  me  first 
Behold  my  brother  Rodri,  lest  he  think 
My  summer  love  be  withered,  and  in 

wrath  82 

Eemember  me  hereafter. 

Leave  me,  Madoc  ! 
Speedily,  ere  indulgence  grow  a  fault, 
Exclaim' d  the  Monarch.     Do  not  tempt 

my  wrath ; 
Thou  know'st  me  ! 

Ay  !  the  Ocean  Prince  replied, 
I  know  thee,  David,  and  I  pity  thee, 
Thou  poor,  suspicious,  miserable  man  ! 
Friend    hast    thou    none,    except    thy 

country's  foe, 
That  hateful  Saxon,  he  whose  bloody 

hand  90 

Pluck' d  out  thy  brethren's  eyes  ;    and 

for  thy  kin, 
Them    hast    thou    made    thy    perilous 

enemies. 
What  if  the  Lion  Rodri  were  abroad  ? 
What  if  Llewelyn's  banner   were   dis- 
play'd  ? 
The  sword  of  England  could  not  save 

thee  then. 
Frown  not,  and  menace  not !   for  what 

am  I, 
That  I  should  fear  thine  anger  ?  .  .  And 

with  that 
He  turn'd  indignant  from  the  wratliful 

King. 


XVII.    THE   DEPARTURE 

Winter  hath  pass'd  away  ;    the  vernal 

storms 
Have  spent   their  rage,  the  ships  are 

stored,  and  now 
To-morrow  they  depart.     That  day  a 

Boy, 
Weary  and  foot-sore,  to  Aberfraw  came. 
Who  to  Goervyl's  chamber  made  his 

way, 


And  caught  the  hem  of  her  garment,  and  lk( 

exclaim' d, 
A  boon,  .  .  a  boon,  .  .  dear  Lady  !   Nor  :  joi 

did  he 
Wait  more  reply  than  that  encourage-  •  jg 

ment. 
Which  her  sweet  eye  and  lovely  smile 

bestow' d; 

I  am  a  poor,  unhappy,  orphan  boy,  10 
Born  to  fair  promises  and  better  hopes,  ,i 
But  now  forlorn.     Take  me  to  be  your  if 

page !  .  .  '  ■' 

For  blessed  Mary's  sake,  refuse  me  not ! 
I  have  no  friend  on  earth,  nor  hope  but 

this. 

The  boy  was  fair ;    and  though  his 

eyes  were  sv/oln. 
And    cheek    defiled    with    tears,    and   . 

though  his  voice 
Came   choak'd   by   grief,   yet    to   that 

earnest  eye 
And  supplicating  voice  so  musical. 
It  had  not  sure  been  easy  to  refuse 
The  boon  he  begg'd.     I  cannot  grant 

thy  suit,  20 

Goervyl  cried,  but  I  can  aid  it,  boy  !  .  . 
Go  ask  of  Madoc  !  .  .  And  herself  arose, 
And  led  him  where  her  brother  on  the 

shore 
That  day  the  last  embarkment  oversaw. 
Mervyn  then  took  his  mantle  by  the 

skirt. 
And  knelt  and  made  his  suit ;    she  too 

began 
To  sue,  but  Madoc  smiling  on  the  Maid, 
Won  by  the  virtue  of  the  countenance 
Which  look'd  for  favour,  lightly  gave 

the  yes. 

Where  wert  thou,  Caradoc,  when  that 

fair  boy  30 

Told  his  false  tale  ?  forhadst  thou  heard 

the  voice. 
The  gentle  voice  so  musically  sweet. 
And  seen  that  earnest  eye,  it  would  have 

heal'd 
The   wounded  heart,   and  thou   hadst 

voyaged  on 
The  happiest  man  that  ever  yet  forsook 
His  native  country  !    He,  on  board  the 

bark,  [stood 

Leant  o'er  the  vessel-side,  and  there  he 


THE  DEPARTURE 


617 


ind  gazed,  almost  unconscious  that  ho 
gazed,  I 

toward  yon  distant  mountains  where 
she  dwelt, 

lenena,  his  beloved.     Canidoc,  40 

Jenena,  thy  beloved,  is  at  hand  ! 

ier  golden  locks  are  clipt,  and  her  blue 

eye 
s   wandering   through   the    throng   in 
search  of  thee, 

?or  whoso  dear  sake  she  hath  forsaken 
all. 

I'ou  deem  her  false,  that  her  frail  con- 
stancy 

shrunk  from  her  father's  anger,  that  she 
lives 

Another's  victim  bride;  but  she  hath  fled 

From  that  unnatural  anger  ;    hath  es- 
caped 

The  unnatural  union;  she  is  on  the  shore, 

Seuena,  blue-eyed  maid,  a  seemly  boy, 

To  share  thy  fortunes,  to  reward  thy 
love,  51 

And  to  the  land  of  peace  to  follow  thee. 

Over  the  ocean  waves. 

Now  all  is  done. 

Stores,  beeves,  and  flocks  and  water  all 
aboard ; 

The  dry  East  blows,  and  not  a  sign  of 
change 

JStains  the  clear  tirmament.     The  Sea- 
Lord  sate 

At  the  last   banquet   in   his   brother's 
court, 

And  heard  the  song  :   It  told  of  Owen's 
fame, 

When  with  his  Normeu  and  as.sembled 
force 

Of  Guienne  and  Gascony,  and  Anjou's 
strength,  60 

The     Fleming's     aid     and     England's 
chosen  troops. 

Along  the  ascent  of  Bcrwyn,  many  a  day 

The  Saxon  vainly  on  his  mountain  foes 

Denounced     his     wrath ;      for    Mona's 
dragon  sons 

By  wary  patience  baffled  lon^  his  force. 

Winning  slow  Famine  to  their  aid,  and 
help'd 

By  the  angry  Elements,  and  Sickness 
sent 

From    Heaven,    and    Fear    that    of   its 
vigour  robb'd 


The  healthy  arm  ; .  .  then  in  quick  enter- 

prize 
Fell  on  his  weary  and  dinheftrton'd  hoat. 
Till  witli  (lefejit  and  l()s.s  and  obhxiuy    71 
He   fled   with  all   his  nations.     Madoo 

gave 
His  spirit  to  the  song  ;  he  felt  the  thcmo 
In  every  pulse  ;    the  recollection  came. 
Revived  and  heighten' d  to  intenwer  pain, 
That  in  Aberfraw,  in  his  father's  hall. 
He  never  more  should  shore  the  feast, 

nor  hear 
The  eehoing  harp  again  !   His  heart  was 

full; 
And.  yielding  to  its  yearnings,  in  that 

mood 
Of  aweful  feeling,  he  call'd  forth  the 

King,  80 

And  led  him  from  the  palace- porch,  and 

strctch'd 
His  hand   toward  the  ocean,  and  cx- 

claim'd. 
To-morrow  over  yon  wide  waves  I  go  ; 
To-morrow,  never  to  return,  I  leave 
My  native  land!  O  David, O  my  brother, 
Turn  not  impatiently  a  reckless  ear 
To  that  afTcctionate  and  natural  voieo 
Which  thou  wilt  hear  no  more  !  Kcleaso 

our  brethren. 
Recall  the  wanderers  home,  and  link 

them  to  thee 
By  cordial  confidence,  by  benefits       90 
Which  bless  the  benefactor.    Be  not  thou 
As  is  the  black  and  melaneholy  yew 
That  strikes  into  the  gra\o  ila  baleful 

roots, 
And  prospers  on  the  dead  !  . .  The  Saxon 

King,  .  . 
Think  not  I  wrong  him  now  ;  .  .  an  liour 

like  this 
Hath  soften'd  all  my  harsher  fcclingn 

dow  n  ; 
Nor  will  I  hate  him  for  his  smUrH  uakc. 
Thy  gentle  Queen,  .  .  whom,  that  grvmt 

CJod  may  bless. 
And,  ble.s.sing  her,   bless  thco  and  our 

dear  country. 
Shall  never  be  forgotten  in  my  pr«ycni ; 
But  he  is  far  away  ;    and  should  there 

come  *•* 

The  evil  hour  upon  theo.  .  .  if  thy  km. 
Wearied     by     aufTering,     and     driven 

d.-MM-rat.-. 


518 


MADOC  IN   WALES 


Should  lift  the  sword,  or  young  Llewelyn 

raise 
His   banner  and   demand  his  father's 

throne,  .  . 
Were  it  not  trusting  to  a  broken  reed, 
To  lean  on  England's  aid  ?.  .  I  urge  thee 

not 
For  answer  now  ;  but  sometimes,  0  my 

brother  ! 
Sometimes  recall  to  mind  my  parting 

words, 
As  'twere  the  death-bed  counsel  of  the 

friend  no 

Who  loved  thee  best  ! 

The  affection  of  his  voice, 
So  mild  and  solemn,  soften' d  David's 

heart ; 
He  saw  his  brother's  eyes,  suffused  with 

tears. 
Shine  in  the  moon-beam  as  he  spake  ; 

the  King 
Remember'd  his  departure,  and  he  felt 
Feelings,  which  long  from  his  disuatured 

breast 
Ambition  had  expell'd  :  he  could  almost 
Have    follow' d    their    strong    impulse. 

From  the  shore, 
Madoc  with  quick  and  agitated  step 
Had  sought  his  home ;    the  monarch 

went  his  way,  120 

Serious  and  slow,  and  laid  him  down 

that  night 
With   painful   recollections,    and   such 

thoughts. 
As  might,  if  Heaven  had  will'd  it,  have 

matured 
To  penitence  and  peace. 

The  day  is  come. 
The  adventurers  in  Saint  Cybi's  holy 

fane 
Hear  the  last  mass,  and  all  assoil'd  of 

sin 
Partake  the  bread  of  Christian  fellow- 
ship. 
Then,  as  the  Priest  his  benediction  gave, 
They  knelt,  in  such  an  aweful  stillness 

'hush'd, 
As  with  yet  more  oppression  scem'd  to 

load  130 

The   burthen'd   heart.     At   times   and 

half  supprest, 
Womanly  sobs  were  heard,  and  manly 

cheeks 


Were  wet  with  silent  tears.     Now  forth 
they  go, 

And  at  the  portal  of  the  Church  unfurl 

Prince  Madoc"  s  banner ;    at  that  sight 
a  shout 

Burst  from  his  followers,  and  the  hills 
and  rocks 

Thrice  echoed  their  acclaim. 

There  lie  the  ships, 

Their   sails   all   loose,    their   streamers 
rolling  out 

With  sinuous  flow  and  swell,  like  water- 
snakes, 

Curling  aloft ;    the  waves  are  gay  with 
boats,  140 

Pinnace  and  barge  and  coracle,  .  .  the 
,  sea 

Swarms  like  the  shore  with  life.     Oh 
what  a  sight 

Of  beauty  for  the  sj)irit  unconcern' d, 

If   heart  there   be   which   unconcern' d 
could  view 

A  si2:ht  like  this  ! . .  how  vet  more  beau- 
tiful 

For  him,  whose  soul  can  feel  and  under- 
stand 

The  solemn  import !     Yonder  they  em- 
bark. 

Youth,  beauty,  valour,  virtue,  reverend 
age  ; 

Some  led  by  love  of  noble  enterijrize. 

Others,  who,  desperate  of  their  country's 
weal,  150 

Fly  from  the  impending  yoke  ;  all  warm 
alike 

With  confidence  and  high  heroic  hope. 

And  all  in  one  fraternal  bond  conjoin' d 

By  reverence  to  their  Chief,  the  best 
beloved 

That  ever  yet  on  hopeful  enterprize 

Led  gallant  army  forth.     He,  even  now 

Lord  of  himself,  by  faith  in  God  and 
love 

To  man  subdues  the  feeling  of  this  hour, 

The  bitterest  of  his  being. 

At  this  time, 

Pale,  and  with  feverish  eye,  the  King 
{  came  up,  160 

And  led  him  somewhat  from  the  throng 
!  apart, 

I  Saying.  I  sent  at  day-break  to  release 

Rodri  from  prison,  meaning  that  with 
i  thee 


THE   DEPARTURE 


01  «j 


le  should  depart  iu  peace  ;  but  he  was 

gone, 
.'his  very  night  lie  had  escaped  !  .  .  Per- 

chancc, 
^s  I   do   hope,   .   .   it   waa   tliy   doing, 

Ma  doc  '/ 
8  he  aboard  the  licet  ? 

I  would  he  were  ! 
-ladoc  repHed  ;    with  what  a  lightcn'd 

heart 
rhcn   shouUl   I   sail   away  !      Ririd    i.s 

thero 
klone  .  .  alaa  !    that  tliis  waa  done  so 

late  !  170 


Reproach  me  not  !    half  sullenly  the 

King, 
\nswering,  exclaim' d ;  Madoc,  reproach 

me  not  ! 
rhou  know'st  how  hardly  I  at  tain' d  the 

throne  ; 
And  is  it  strange  that  I  should  guard 

with  fear 
The  precious  prize  ?  .  .  Now,  .  .  when 

I  would  have  taken 
rhy  counsel,  .  .  be  the  evil  on  his  head  ! 
Blame  me  not  now,   my  brother,  lest 

sometimes 
[  call  again  to  mind  thy  parting  words 
In  sorrow  ! 

God  be  with  thee  !  Madoc  cried  ; 
And  if  at  times  the  harshness  of  a  heart. 
Too  prone  to  wrath,  have  wrong' d  thee, 

let  these  tears  181 

Efface  all  faults.     I  leave  thee,  O  my 

brother, 
With  all  a  brother's  feelings  ! 

iSo  he  said, 
And  grasp' d,  with  trembling  tenderness, 

his  hand, 

Then   calm'd   himself,   and   moved   to- 
ward the  boat. 
Emma,  though  tears  would  have  their 

way  and  sighs 
Would  swell,  suppressing  still  all  words 

of  woe, 
FoUow'd  Goervyl  to  the  extremest  shore 
But  then  as  on  the  plank  the  Maid  set 

foot, 
Did  Emma,  staying  her  by  the  hand, 

pluck  out  190 

The  crucifix,  which  next  her  heart  she 

wore 


In  reverence  to  its  relic,  and  she  cried, 
Yet  cro  wo  jpart  change  with  n»o,  dear 

(Jocrvyf,  .  . 
Dear  si.ster,  loved  too  well,  or  lost  too 

soon  !  .  . 
I  shall  betake  tne  often  t«)  my  prayeru, 
Never  in  them,  (Ii^'ivyj,  of  (liy  immo 
Unmindful  ;  .  .  tliou  too  will  remember 

mo 
Still  in  thy  orisons;  .  .  but  (Jod  forcfcnd 
That  ever  misery  should  make  tlieo  lind 
This  Cross  thy  only  comforter  ! 

■She  said. 
Anil  kiss'd  the  holy  pledge,  as  each  to 

each  aoi 

Transferr'd  the  mutual  gift.     Nor  could 

the  Maid 
Answer,  for  agony,  to  that  farewell  ; 
She  held  Queen  Emma  to  her  breast,  and 

close 
She  clasp' d  her  with  a  strong  convulsive 

sob, 
Silently.     Madoc  too  in  silent e  went, 
But  prest  a  kiss  on  Emma's  lip.'^,  and 

left 
His  tears  upon  her  cheek.     With  dizzy 

eyes 
Gazing  she  stood,  nor  saw  the  boat  push 

otf,  .  . 
The  dashing  of  the  oars  awakcn'd  her  ; 
She  wipes  her  tears  away,  to  view  onto 

more  »" 

Those  dear  familiar  faces  ;  .  .  they  are 

dim 
In  the  distance  ;   never  shall  her  waking 

eye 
Behold  them,  till  the  hour  of  happine.-M*. 
When  death  hath  made  her  pure  for 

perfect  bliss  ! 

Two  hearts  alone  of  all  (hat  eom|>any, 
Of  all   the  thousands   who   lx>held   the 

scene. 
Partook    uumingled   joy.     Dumb    «ith 

delight. 
Young  Hoel  views  the  shipsandfccUtho 

boat 
Rock  on  the  heaving  waves  ;  and  Llaian 

felt  **» 

Comfort.  .  .  though  sad,  yet  comfort,  .  . 

that  for  her 
No  eye  wa  ;  left  to  we<p,  nor  heart  to 

mouri'. 


520 


MADOC  IN  WALES 


Hark  !    'tis  the  mariners  with  voice 

attuned 
Timing  their  toil  !   and  now  with  gentle 

gales. 
Slow  from  the  holy  haven  they  depart. 


XVIII.    RODRI 

Now   hath   the   evening   settled ;     the 

broad  Moon 
Rolls  through  the  rifted  clouds.     With 

gentle  gales 
Slowly    they    glide    along,    when    they 

behold 
A  boat  with  press  of  sail  and  stress  of 

oar 
Speed  forward  to  the  fleet ;    and  now, 

arrived 
Beside  the  Chieftain's  vessel,  one  en- 
quires 
If  Madoc  be  aboard  ?  the  answer  given. 
Swift  he  ascended  up  the  lofty  side. 
With  joyful  wonder  did  the  Ocean  Lord 
Again  behold  Llewelyn  ;    but  he  gazed 
Doubtfully    on    his    comrade's    coun- 
tenance, .  .  II 
A  meagre  man,  severe  of  brow,  his  eye 
Stern.    Thou  dost  view  me,  Madoc,  he 

exclaim' d, 
As  'twere  a  stranger's  face.     I  marvel 

not! 
The  long  afflictions  of  my  prison  house 
Have  changed  me. 

Rodri !  cried  the  Prince, 

and  fell 
Upon  his  neck  ; .  .  last  night,  subdued  at 

length 
By  my  solicitations,  did  the  King 
Send  to  deliver  thee,  that  thou  shouldst 

share 
My  happy  enter^jrize  ;  .  .  and  thou  art 

come,  20 

Even  to  my  wish  ! 

Nay,  Madoc,  nay,  not  so  ! 
He  answered,  with  a  stern  and  bitter 

smile  ; 
This  gallant  boy  hath  given  me  liberty, 
And  I  will  pay  him  with  his  father's 

throne. 
Ay,  by  my  father's  soul  !  .  .  Last  night 

we  fled 


The  house  of  bondage,  and  in  the  sea- 
caves 
By  day   we   lurk'd   securely.     Here   I 

come. 
Only  to  see  thee  once  before  I  die, 
And  say  farewell,  .  .  dear  brother  ! 

Would  to  God 

This  purpose  could  be  changed  !  the  Sea 

Lord  cried  ;  30 

But  thou  art  roused  by  wrongs,  and  who 

shall  tame 
That  lion  heart  ? . .  This  only,  if  your  lot 
Fall  favourable,  will  I  beseech  of  ye, 
That  to  his  Queen,  the  fair  Plantagenet, 
All  honourable  humanity  ye  show. 
For  her  own  virtue,  and  in  gratitude, 
As  she  hath  pleaded  for  you,  and  hath 

urged 
Her  husband  on  your  part,  till  it  hath 

turn'd 
His  wrath  upon  herself.      Oh  !  deal  ye 

by  her 
As  by  your  dearest  sister  in  distress,   40 
For  even  so  dear  is  she  to  Madoc' s  heart: 
And  now  I  know  she  from  Aberfraw's 

tower 
Watcheth  these  specks  upon  the  moon- 
light sea, 
And  weeps  for  my  departure,  and  for  me 
Sends  up  her  prayers  to  Heaven,  nor 

thinks  that  now 
I  must  make  mine  to  man  in  her  behalf ! 

Quoth  Rodri,  Rest  assured  for  her. 

I  swear, 
By  our  dead  mother,  so  to  deal    with 

her 
As  thou    thyself    wouldst    dictate,    as 

herself 
Shall  wish. 

The  tears  fell  fast  from  Madoc' s  eyes : 
0    Britain  !     0    my   country !     he   ex- 

claim'd,  51 

For  ever  thus  by  civil  strife  convulsed,- 
Thy  children's  blood  flowing  to  satisfy 
Thy  children's  rage,  how  wilt  thou  still 

support 
The  struggle  with  the  Saxon  ? 

Rodri  cried, 
Our  strife  shall  not  be  long.     Mona  will 

rise 
With  joy,  to  welcome  me  her  rightful 

Lord  ; 


RODKI 


521 


\ud  woe(  be  to  the  Kiug  who  rulea  by    Conjuauion  of  tbi»  uoblc  cDterpruc 


feai 
.Vheii  danger  cumca  against  him  ! 

I'Vnr  not  thou 
tov  Britain  !    ^uoth  Llewelyn;    for  not 

yet  60 

Che  country  of  our  fathers  shall  resign 
[ler  name  among  the  nations.    Though 

her  .Sun 
Slope  from  his  emiucuee,  tho  voice  of 

man 
May  yet  arrest  him  on   his  downuaril 

way. 
My  dreams  by  day,  my  visions  in  the 

night. 
Are  of  her  welfare.     I  shall  mount  the 

throne,  .  . 
Yes,  Madoc  !    and  the  Bard  of  yeai*s  to 

come, 
Who  harps  of  Arthur's  and  of  Owen's 

deeds, 
Shall  with  the  Worthies  of  his  country 

rank 
Llewelyn's    name.     Dear    Uncle,    faro 

thee  well  !  .  .  70 

And  I  almost  could  wish  I  had  been  born 


riiink  of  Llewelyn  often,  who  will  t.ft 
Remember  theo  in  love  ! 

For  tlu)  laat  timo 
Ho  pressed  his  t'uclc'b  hand,  and  Hodri 

gave 
The  last  farewell ;    then  went  the  twain 

their  way. 

Ho  over  ocean  through  the  moonlight 

waves 
Prince  Madoc  sail'd  with  all  his  com- 

I>any. 
No  nobler  crew  filPd  that  heroic  bark   80 
Which  bore  tho  lirst  adventurers  of  the 

deep 
To  seek  tho  Golden  Fleece  on  barbarous 

shores  : 
Nor  richlier  fraught  did  that  illuatrioua 

fleet 
Homo   to  tho   Happy   Island    hold   ita 

way, 
When  Amadis  with  his  prime  chivalry, 
He  of  all  chivalry  himself  the  flower. 
Came  from  tho  rescue,  proud  of  Roman 

spoils, 


Of  humbler  lot, that  I  might  follow  thee,  1  And  Oriaua,  freed  from  Roman  thralL 


MADOC  IN  AZTLAN:    PART  11. 


I.    THE   RETURN   TO   AZTLAN  ! 

Now  go  your  way,  ye  gallant  company,  | 
God  and  good  Angels  guard  ye  as  ye  go  !  j 
Blow   fairly.    Winds   of    Heaven !     Ye 

Ocean  Waves, 
Swell  not  in  anger  to  that  fated  fleet  !     ! 
For  not  of  conquest  greedy,  nor  of  gold, 
Seek  they  the  distant  world.  .  .  Blow  | 

fairly.  Winds  ! 
Waft,  Waves  of  Ocean,  well  your  blessed 

load! 

Fair  blew  the  Winds,  and  safely  did 

the  Waves 
Bear  that  beloved  charge.     It   were  a 

talo 
Would   rouse   adventurous   courage    in 

a  boy,  10 


Making  him  long  to  be  a  mariner 
That  he  might  rovo  the  main,  if  I  should 

tell 
How  pleasantly  for  manva  summer-day. 
Over  the  sunny  sea  witfi  wind  at  will. 
Prince  Madoc  sail'd  ;  and  of  tboise  happy 

Isles, 
U  hich  had  he  seen  ere  that  up{x>inti*d 

storm 
Drove  southward  his  slope  coumc,  tlicro 

ho  had  pitch'd 
His  tent,  and  blest  hia  lot  that  it  had 

fallen 
In  land  so  fair  ;    and  human  blood  had 

reek'd 
Daily  on  Aztlan's  devilish  altam  iilill.  ao 
But  other  doom  waa  hij«,  more  axduuua 

toil 
Yet  to  achieve,  worso  danger  to  cudurr, 

.3 


522 


j\L\DOC  IN  AZTLAN 


Worse  evil   to  be  quell' d,   and  higher 

good 
Which  passeth  not  away  educed  from 

ill; 
Whereof  all  unforeseeing,  yet  for  all 
Prepared  at  heart,  he  over  ocean  sails, 
Wafted    by    gentle    winds    o'er    gentle 

waves. 
As  if  the  elements  combined  to  serve 
The  perfect  Prince,  by  God  and  man 

beloved. 
And  now  how  joyfully  he  views  the  land. 
Skirting  like  morning  clouds  the  dusky 

sea ;  31 

With  what  a  searching  eye  recalls  to 

mind 
Foreland   and   creek   and   cape ;     how 

happy  now 
Up  the  great  river  bends  at  last  his  way  ! 

Xo  watchman  had  been  station' d  on 

the  height 
To  seek  his  sails, .  .  for  with  Cadwallon's 

hope 
Too  much  of  doubt  was  blended  and  of 

fear  : 
Yet   thitherward   whene'er   he   walked 

abroad 
His  face,  as  if  instinctively,  was  turn'd  ; 
And  duly  morn  and  eve  Liucoya  there, 
As  though  religion  led  his  duteous  feet. 
Went  up  to  gaze.     He  on  a  staff  had 

scored  42 

The  promised  moons  and  days ;    and 

many  a  time 
Counting  again  its  often-told  account, 
So  to  beguile  impatience,  day  by  day 
Smooth'd   off   with   more   dehght    the 

daily  notch. 
But  now  that  the  appointed  time  was 

nigh, 
Did  that  perpetual  presence  of  his  hope 
Haunt  him,  and  mingle  with  his  sleep, 

and  mar 
The  natural  rest,  and  trouble  him  by 

day,  50 

That  all  his  pleasure  was  at  earhest  light 
To  take  his  station,  and  at  latest  eve, 
If  he  might  see  the  sails  where  far  away 
Through  wide  savannahs  roll'd  the  silver 

stream. 
Oh  then  with  what  a  sudden  start  his 

blood 


[  Flow'd  from  its  quicken' d  spring,  when 
I  far  away 

j  He  spied  the  glittering  topsails  !    For  a 
;  while 

j  Distrustful  of  that  happy  sight,  till  now 

Slowly  he  sees  them  rise,  and  wind  along 

Thiough  wide  savannahs  u^  the  silver 

stream.  60 

Then  with  a  breathless  speed  he  flies  to 

spread 
The   joy ;     and    with    Cadwallon   now 

descends. 
And  drives  adown  the  tide  the  light 

canoe. 
And  mounts  the  vessel-side,  and  once 

again 
Falls  at  the  Ocean  Lord's  beloved  feet. 

First  of  the  general  weal  did  Madoc 
ask  ; 
Cadwallon  answer' d,  All  as  yet  is  well, 
i  And,  by  this  seasonable  aid  secured, 
'  Will  well  remain.  .  .  Thy  father  ?  quoth 
I  the  Prince.  69 

;  Even  so,  replied  Cadwallon,  as  that  eye 
I  Of  hesitation  augurs,  .  .  fallen  asleep. 
The  good  old  man  remember' d  thee  in 

death, 
And  bless' d  thee  ere  he  died. 

'By  this  the  shores 
And  heights  were  throng' d ;    from  hill 

to  hill,  from  rock 
To  rock,  the  shouts  of  welcome  rung 

around. 
Forward  they  press  to  view  the  man 

beloved, 
Britons  and  Hoamen  with  one  common 

joy 
Hailing  their  common  friend.     Happy 

that  day 
Was    he    who    heard    his    name    from 

Madoc' s  voice  ; 
Happy  M'ho  met  the  greeting  of  liis  eye  ; 
Yea  happy  he  who  shared  the  general 
smile,  8i 

Amid  the  unacknowledged  multitude. 

Caermadoc,  .  .  by  that  name  Cad- 
wallon's love 

Call'd  it  in  memory  of  the  absent 
Prince,  .  . 

Stood  in  a  mountain  vale,  by  rocks  and 
heights, 


THE   KETUKN    lU   AZiLAN 


523 


A    Udtuial     bulwark,    girt.     A    rocky  ] 

stream 
Wliich  from  thi>  fclU  came  down  there 

spread  itself 
Into  a  (|uiet  lake,  to  coinpiuw  whieli 
Had  been  a  two  hours'  plca^surablo  toil; 
And  lie,   who  from   a   well-strung   bow 

eould  senil  90 

His  shaft  across,   had  needs  a  sinewy 

arm. 
And  might  from  many  an  areher  far  and 

near 
Have  borne  away  the  bell.     Here  had 

the  Chief 
Chosen  his  abiding  place,  for  strength 

prefcrr'd, 
Where  vamly  might  an  host  in  eipial 

arms 
Attempt  the  difiicult  entrance  ;   and  for 

all 
That  eould  delight  the  eye  and  heart  of 

man  ; 
AVhate'er  of  beauty  or  of  usefulnesa 
Heart  could  desire,  or  eye  behold,  being 

here. 
What  he  had  found  an  idle  wilderness 
Now  gave  rich  increase  to  the  husband- 
men, 101 
For    Heaven    had    blest    their   labour. 

Flourishing 
He  left  the  happy  \  ale  ;    and  now  he 

saw 
More  fields  reclaim' d,  more  habitations 

rcar'd. 
More  harvests  rismg  round.     The  reptile 

race. 
And  every  beast  of  rapine,  liad  retired 
From  man's  asserted  empire  ;    and  the 

sound 
Of  axoand  dashing  oar,  and  fisher's  net, 
And  song  beguiling  toil,  and  pastoral 

pipe,  109 

Were  heard,  where  late  the  solitary  hills 
Gave  only  to  the  mountain-cataract 
Their  wild  response. 

Here,  Urien,  cried  the  Prince, 
These  craggy  heights  and  overhanging 

groves 
Will  make  thee  think  of  Gwyneth.     And 

this  hut, 
Rejoin'd    Cadwallon,    with    its   roof   of 

reeds, 
[Goervyl,  is  our  palace  :   it  was  built 


With   lighter   labour   than   Abcrlraw's 

towers  ; 
Vet,  Lady,  safer  are  its  wattled  side* 
Than    Mona's    kindly    wallw.    .    .    Like 

(Jwyneth,  said  ho  ? 
Oh  no  !   we  neighbour  nearer  to  the  Sun. 
And   with   a   more    benigiumt  cyo  llu) 

Lord  lai 

Of  Light  beliolds  us  here. 

So  thus  (Ud  they 
Cheerfully  welcome  to  their  new  abode 
These,  who,  albeit  aweary  of  their  way. 
And  glad  to  reach  at  length  the  place  of 

rest. 
Felt    their    hearts    ovurburlheu'd,    and 

their  eyes 
Ready  to  overflow.     Yet  not  tho  IcbH 
The  buzz  of  busy  joy  waw  heard  around. 
Wiiere  every  dwelling  had  its  guest,  and 

all  129 

Gave  tho  long  eve  to  hospitable  luirth. 


n.     Till-:    TIDIXCS 

But  when  the  Lord  of  Uccan  from  the 

stir 
And  tumidt  was  retired,  Cadwallon  then 
Thus  render'd  his  account. 

When  we  had  (juell'd 
The  strcnulh  of  Aztlan,  we  should  have 

thrown  down 
Her  altars,  cast  her  Idolw  U)  the  (ire. 
And  on  the  ruins  of  her  fanes  aceunst 
Planted  the  Cross  triumphant.     Vain  it 

is 
To  sow  the  seed  where  no.xioiis  \sLcd:i 

and  briars 
Must  choke  it  in  the  growth. 

Yet  I  had  hoiHj 
Tho  purer  influence  of  e.vanipled  ycxxl 
Might  to  tho  saving  knowledge  of  tho 

truth  " 

Lead  this  bedarken'd  race;    and  when 

thv  ship 
Fell  down  the  stream  to  di«lAut  BritAio 

bound. 
All  promised  well.     Tho  straugcni'  God 

had  proved 
Mightier  in  war  ;    and  .\/.tIan  could  not 

ehoow 
But  see,  nor  seeing  eould  she  (ail  to  love. 


D2i 


MADOC   IN   AZTLAN 


The  freedom  of  his  service.     Few  were 

uow 
The   offerings   at   her   altars,    few    the 

youths 
And  virgins  to  the  temple-toils  devote. 
Therefore  the  Priests  combined  to  save 

their  craft ;  20 

And  soon  the  rumour  ran  of  evil  signs 
And  tokens ;    in  the  temple  had  been 

heard 
Wailings  and  loud  lament ;    the  eternal 

fire 
Gave    dismally    a    dim    and    doubtful 

flame  ; 
And  from  the  censer,  which  at  morn 

should  steam 
Sweet  odours  to  the  sun,  a  fetid  cloud 
Black  and  portentous  rose.     And  uow 

no  Priest 
Approach'd    our    dwelling.     Even    the 

friendly  Prmce 
Yuhidthiton  was  at  Caermadoc  now 
Rarely  a  guest ;   and  if  that  tried  good- 
will 30 
Which  once  he  bore  us  did  at  times 

appear, 
A  sullen  gloom  and  silence  like  remorse 
Followed  the  imagined  crime. 

But  I  the  while 
Reck'd  not  the  brooding  of  the  storm  ; 

for  then 
My  father  to  the  grave  was  hastening 

down. 
Patiently  did  the  pious  man  endure, 
In  faith  anticipating  blessedness, 
Already  more  than  man  m  those  sad 

hours 
AVhen  man  is  meanest.     I  sate  by  his 

side. 
And  pray'd  with  him  and  talk'd  with 

him  of  death  40 

And  life   to  come.     O   Madoc  !     those 

were  hours 
Which  even  in  anguish  gave  my  soul 

a  joy  : 
I  think  of  them  in  solitude,  and  feel 
The  comfort  of  my  faith. 

But  when  that  time 
Of  bitterness  was  past  and  I  return' d 
To  daily  duties,  no  suspicious  sign 
Betoken' d   ill ;     the   Priests   among   us 

came 
As  heretofore,  and  I  their  intercourse 


Encouraged    as    I    could,     suspecting 

nought,  49 

Nor  conscious  of  the  subtle-minded  men 
I  dealt  with,  how  inveterate  in  revenge, 
How  patient  in  deceit.     Lincoya  first 
Forewarned    me    of    the    danger.     He, 

thou  know"st, 
Had  from  the  death  of  sacrifice  escaped, 
And  lived  a  slave  among  a  distant  tribe. 
When  seeing  us  he  felt  a  hope,  that  we. 
Lords  as  he  deem'd  us  of  the  Elements, 
Might  pity  his  poor  countrymen  opprest. 
And    free    them    from    their    bondage. 

Didst  thou  hear 
How  from  yon  bloody  altars  he  was 

saved  V  60 

For  in  the  eternal  chain  his  fate  and  ours 
Were  link'd  together  then. 

The  Prince  replied, 
I  did  but  hear  a  broken  tale.     Tell  on  ! 

Among  the  Gods  of  yon  unhappy  race, 
Tezcalipoca  as  the  chief  they  rank. 
Or  with  the  chief  co-equal ;  Maker  he, 
And  Master  of  created  things  esteem' d. 
He  sits  upon  a  throne  of  trophied  skulls. 
Hideous  and  huge  ;    a  shield  is  on  his 

arm. 
And  with  his  black  right  hand  he  lifts, 
as  though  70 

In    wrath,    the    menacing    spear.     His 

festival. 
Of  all  this  wicked  nation's  wicked  rites. 
With  most  solemnity  and  circumstance 
And  pomp  of  hellish  piet}',  is  held. 
From  all  whom  evil  fortune  hath  sub- 
dued 
To  their  inhuman  thraldom,  they  select 
Him  whom  they  judge,  for  comely  coun- 
tenance 
And  shapely  form  and  all  good  natural 

gifts, 
Worthiest  to  be  the  victim  ;    and  for 

this 
Was  young  Lincoya  chosen,   being  in 
truth  "  80 

The  flower  of  all  his  nation.     For  twelve 

months, 
Their  custom   is,   that  this   appointed 

youth 
Be  as  the  Idol's  living  image  held. 
Garb'd  therefore  like  the  Demon  Deity, 
Whene'er  he  goes  abroad,  an  antic  train 


THE  TIDINGS 


525 


With  music  an«,l  witli  dance  attend  his 

V  ay  ; 
The  crowd  before  liim  fall  and  worship 

him  ; 
And  those  infernal   Priests  who  guard 

him  tlien. 
To  he  their  victim  and  their  feast  at  last. 
At  mornins^  and  at  evening  incense  liim. 
And    mock    him    with    knee-reverenoe. 

Twenty  days  91 

Before  the  blooily  festival  arrive. 
As  'twere  to  make  the  wretch  in  love 

with  life. 
Four  maids,  tlie  loveliest  of  tln^  land, 

are  given 
In   spousals.     With   Lincoya   all   these 

rites 
Duly  were  kept  ;  and  at  the  stated  time. 
Four  maids,  the  loveliest  of  the  land. 

were  his. 
Of  these  was  one,  whom  even  at  that 

hour 
He  learnt  to  love,  so  excellently  good 
Was  she  ;   and  she  loved  him  and  pitied 

him.  100 

She  is  the  daughter  of  an  aged  Priest  : 
I   oftentimes   have   seen   her ;     and    in 

truth. 
Compared     with     Britain's     maids     so 

beautiful. 
Or  with  the  dark-ej'cd  daughters  of  the 

South. 
She  would  be  lovely  still.     Her  cotton 

vest 
Falls  to  the  knee,  and  leaves  her  olive 

arms 
Bare  in  their  beauty  ;   loose,  luxuriant, 

long, 
Flow  the  black  tresses  of  her  glossy  hair  ; 
Mild  is  her  eye's  jet  lustre  ;    and  her 

voice  !  .  . 
A    soul    which    harbour'd    evil    never 

breathed  no 

Such  winning  tones. 

Thou  know\st  how  manfully 
These  tribes,  as  if  insensible  to  pain. 
Weleome   their   death   in   battle,   or  in 

bonds 
Defy     their    torturers.     To     Lincoya's 

mind 
Long  preparation  now  had  made  his  fate 
Familiar  ;   and,  he  says,  the  thought  of 

death 


j  Broke  not  his  sleep,  nor  mingled  with 

liis  dn'ams. 
,  Till  ('o.it«l  was  his.    But  then  it  woke : . . 
I  It  himg,  .  .  it  prcat  upon  hira  like  a 
;  weight 

j  On  one  who  scarce  can  struggle  with  Iho 
waves  ;  I  JO 

And  when  her  soul  was  full  of  tender- 
I  ness, 

I  That    thought    recurring    to    her,    nho 
I  would  rest 

Her  check  on  his  and  weep. 

The  day  drew  nigh  ; 
And    now    the    eve    of     .sacrifice     waa 
i  come.  .   . 

I  What  will  not   woman,  gentle  woman, 
dare. 
When  strong  alToction  stirs  her  spirit 

up  ?  .  . 
She    gather'd    herbs,    which,    like    our 

poppy,  bear 
The  seed  of  sleep,  ancl  with  the  temple 

food 
Mingled  their  power ;    herself  partook 

the  food. 
So  best  to  lull  suspicion  ;  and  the  youth. 
Instructed    well,    when    all    were    laid 
asleep,  i3« 

Fled  far  away. 

After  our  conquering  arms 
Had    freed    the    Hoamen    from    thrir 

wretched  yoke, 
Lincoya  needed  but  his  CcNitrl 
To  fill  his  suju  of  earthly  hai)piness. 
Her  to  the  tempi.'  had  her  father's  vow 
Awhile  devoted,  and  some  moons  were 

still 
To  pass  away,  ere  yet  she  might  hecomo 
A  sojourner  with  us,  Lincoya's  wiff. 
When  from  tin-  Paha's  wiles  his  wnleh- 
ful  mind  >4o 

Foreboded  ill.     Uo  bade  me  take  good 

heed. 
And  fear  the  sudden  kindnejw  of  a  foo. 
I  started  at  his  words  ;  .  .  those  artful 

men, 
Hostile  at  heart,  as  well  we  know  they 

were. 
These  were  liplavish  of  their  friendi«hip 

now. 
And  courted  confidence,  while  our  trieil 

frienti 
Yuhidthiton,  estranged,  a  widom  guc*t, 


526 


MADOC  IN  AZTLAX 


Sullen  and  joyless,  seem'd  to  bear  at  !  Whiten,  and  round  his  neck  she  clung 


heart 
Something  that  rankled  there.     These 

things  were  strange  ; 
The  omens  too  had  ceased  ;  .  .  we  heard 

no  more  150 

Of  twilight  voices,  nor  the  unholy  cloud 
Steam' d    from    the    morning    incense. 

Why  was  this  ? 

Young  Malinal  had  from  the  hour  of 

peace 
Been  our  in-dweller,  studious  to  attain 
Our  language  and  our  arts.     To  him 

I  told 
M3'  doubts,  assured  of  his  true  love  and 

truth  ; 
For  he  had  learnt  to  understand  and 

feel 
Our  holy  faith,  and  tended  like  a  son 
Cynetha's    drooping    age,    and    shared 

with  me 
His  dying  benediction.     He,  thus  long 
Intent    on    better    things,    had    been 

estranged  161 

From  Aztlan  and  her  councils ;    but  at 

this 
He  judged  it  for  her  welfare  and  for 

ours 
Now  to  resume  his  rank  ;  .  .  belike  his 

voice 
Might  yet  be  heard,  or,   if  the  worst 

befel, 
His  timely  warning  save  us  from  the 

snare. 

But  in  their  secret  councils  Malinal 
No  longer  bore  a  part :    the  Chiefs  and 

King 
Yielding  blind  reverence  to  the  Pabas 

now, 
Deluded  or  dismay' d.     He  sent  to  say 
Some  treachery  was  designed,  and  bade 

me  charge  171 

His  brother  with  the  crime.     On  that 

same  day, 
Lincoya   came   from   Aztlan ;     he   had 

found 
Coatel  labouring  with  a  wretchedness 
She  did  not  seek  to  hide  ;  and  when  the 

youth 
Reveal'd   his   fear,  he  saw  her   tawny 

cheek 


and  wept. 
She  told  him  something  dreadful  was  at 

hand, 
She  knew  not  what :   That,  in  the  dead 

of  night, 
Coanocotzin  at  Mexitli's  shrine  180 

Had  stood  with  all  his  nobles ;    human 

blood 
Had  then  been  offer'd  up,  and  secret 

vows 
Vow'd  with  mysterious  horror  :    That 

but  late, 
When  to  her  father  of  the  days  to  come 
She  spake,  and  of  Lincoya  and  her  lot 
Among  the  strangers,  he  had  frown' d, 

and  strove 
Beneath  dissembled  anger  to  conceal 
Visible  grief.     She  knew  not  what  to 

fear. 
But  something  dreadful  surely  was  at 

hand,  189 

And  she  was  wretched. 

When  I  heard  these  things, 
Yuhidthiton  and  the  Priest  Helhua 
Were  in  our  dwellings.     Them  I  call'd 

apart.  .  . 
There  should  be  peace  between  us,  I 

began  ; 
Why  is  it  otherwise  ? 

The  Priest  replied, 
Is  there  not  peace,  Cadwallon  ?    Seek 

we  not 
More  frequent  and  more  friendly  inter- 
course. 
Even  we,  the  servants  of  our  Countrv- 

Gods, 
Whose  worship  ye  have  changed,  and 

for  whose  sake 
We  were  and  would  have  been  your 

enemies  ? 
But    as    those    Gods    have    otherwise 

ordain' d,  200 

Do   we   obey.     Why   therefore   is   this 

doubt  ? 

The   Power    who    led    us    hither,    I 

replied. 
Over  the   world   of   waters,   who  hath 

saved, 
And  who  will  save  his  people,   warns 

me  now. 
Then  on  Yuliidthiton  I  fix'd  mv  eve. 


THE   TIDINGS 


627 


Danger  is  near !  I  cried ;  I  know  it  near ! 
It  comes  from  Aztlan. 

His  disorder'd  check. 
And  tlic  forced  and  steady  boldness  of 

his  eye. 
Which    in   detianco   met    tlio    look    it 

fcarM, 
Confess' d  tlie  crime.     I  saw  his  inward 

shame ;  210 

Yet  with  a  pride  like  angry  innocence 
Did  he  make  answer,  I  am  in  your  iiands. 
And  you  bcHeve  mo  trcichcrous  !  .  .  Kill 

mo  now  ! 

Not     so,     Yuhidthiton  !      not     so ! 

quoth  I  ; 
You  were  the  Strangers'  friend,  and  yet 

again 
That  wisdom  may  return.     Wo  are  not 

changed  ;  .  . 
Lovers  of  peace,  we  know,  wlion  danger 

comes. 

To  make  the  evil  on  the  guilty  head 
Fall  heavily  and  sure  !    With  our  good 

arms, 
And  our  good  cause,  and  that  Almighty 

One,  220 

We  are  enough,  had  we  no  other  aid. 
We  of  Caormadoc  here,  to  put  to  shame 
Aztlan,  with  all  her  strength  and  all  her 

wiles. 
But  even  now  is  Madoc  on  the  seas ; 
He  leads  our  l)rethron  hero  ;   and  should 

he  fmd 
That  Aztlan  hath  Ix'cn  false, . .  oh  !  hope 

not  then. 
By  force  or  fraud,  to  baffle  or  elude 
Inevitable  vengeance  !    While  ye  may, 
Look  to  your  choice  ;  for  we  are  friends 

or  foes. 
Even  to  your  own  desert. 

So  saying,  I  left 
The  astonish' d  men,  whoso  unprovided 

minds  231 

Fail'd  them  ;  nor  ditl  they  aim  at  answer 

more. 
But   homeward  went  their  way.     Nor 

knew  I  then,  .  . 
For  this  was  but  a  thing  of  yesterday, .  . 
How  near  the  help  I  bsaated.     Now.  I 

trust. 
Thy  coming  shall    dif^comfit    all    their 

wiles. 


Hi.    NEOLIN 

Not  yet  at  rest,  my  Sister  !   quoth  the 

Prince, 
As  at  her  dwelling-door  ho  saw  the  Maid 
Sit   gazing    on    that    lovely    moonliKht 

scone  ;  .  . 
To  bed,  CJoervyl.     Deare.st,  what  hast 

thou 
To  keep  thee  wakeful  hen?  at  thin  late 

hour. 
When  even  I  shall  bid  a  truce  to  thought. 
And  lay  me  down  in  ]tc!\co  ?  .  .  (Jood 

ni^lit.  (uxTvyl  I 
Dear    sister    mine.    .    .    inv    oun    i|i>Hr 

mother's  child  ! 

She  rose,  and  bendinn  <>a  with  lifted 
arms. 

Met  the  fond  kiss,  ol)edient  then  with- 
drew. 10 

Yet  could  not  he  so  lightly  as  ho  wcen'd 

Lay  wakeful  thoughts  a.side ;  for  ho 
foresaw 

Long  strife  and  liard  adventure  to 
achieve. 

And  forms  of  danger  vague  disturb'd  hin 
dreams. 

Early  at  mom  the  colonists  arow ; 
Some  pitch  the  tent-]X)le,  and  pin  down 

the  lines 
That  stretch  the  o'er-awTiing  canvMR ; 

to  the  wood 
Others  with  .saw  and  axe  and  bill  for 

stakes. 
And  undergrowfli  to  weave  the  wicker 

walls  ; 
These  to  the  shiiw,   with   whom  C«d- 

wallon  sends  » 

The  Elk  and  Hison.  broken  to  the  yokr. 

Ere  noon  Erillyab  and  her  non  arrived, 
To  greet  the  Chief.     She  won*  no  lonjjrr 

now 
The  lank  loose  locka  of  carriww  widow- 

hood  ; 
Her  braided  tr«»fw«  round  her  brow  were 

bound. 
B.deck'd  with  tuft^  of  (rrt»y  and  iilrery 

plumes 


528 


MADOC  IN   AZTLAN 


Pluck'd  from  the  eagle's  pennons.     She 

with  eye 
And     countenance     which     spake     no 

feign' d  delight, 
Welcomed  her  great  deliverer.    But  her 

son 
Had  Nature  character' d  so  legibly,      30 
That  when  his  tongue  told  fair  his  face 

bewray' d 
The  lurking  falsehood ;    sullen,  slow  of 

speech, 
Savage,  down -looking,  dark,  that  at  his 

words 
Of  welcome,  Madoc  in  his  heart  con- 
ceived 
Instinctive  enmity. 

In  a  happy  hour 
Did  the  Great  Spirit,  said  Erillyab, 
Give  bidding  to  the  Winds  to  speed  thee 

here  ! 
For  this  I  made  my  praj^er  ;   and  when 

He  sent 
For  the  Beloved  Teacher,  to  restore  him 
Eyesight   and   youth,    of    him   I   then 

besought,  40 

As  he  had  been  thy  friend  and  ours  on 

earth, 
That  he  would  intercede.  .  .  Brother,  we 

know 
That  the  Great  Spirit  loves  thee ;    He 

hath  blest 
Thy  going  and  thy  coming,  and  thy 

friends 
Have  prosper' d  for  thy  sake  ;   and  now 

when  first 
The  Powers  of  Evil  do  begin  to  work, 
Lo  !  thou  art  here  !  .  .  Brother,  we  have 

obeyed 
Thy   will,   and  the  Beloved  Teacher's 

words 
Have  been  our  law  ;    but  now  the  Evil 

Ones 
Cry  out  for  blood,   and  say  they  are 

athirst,  50 

And  threaten  vengeance.  I  have  brought 

the  Priest 
To  whom  they  spake  in  darkness. . .  Thou 

art  wise, 
And    the    Great    Spirit    will    enlighten 

thee ;  .  . 
We  know  not  what  to  answer.  .  .  Tell  thy 

tale, 
Xeolin  ! 


Hereat  did  Madoc  fix  upon  him 
A    searching    e^^e ;     but    he,    no    whit 

abash' d, 
Began  with  firm  effrontery  his  speech. 
The  Feast  of  the  Departed  is  at  hand, 
And  I,  in  preparation,  on  the  Field 
Of  the  Spirit  pass'd  the  night.     It  came 

to  me  60 

In  darkness,  after  midnight,  when  the 

moon 
Was  gone,  and  all  the  stars  were  blotted 

out ; 
It  gather'd  round  me.  with  a  noise  of 

storms. 
And  enter' d  into  me,  and  I  could  feel 
It  was  the  Snake-God  rolFd  and  writhed 

within  ; 
And  I  too  with  the  inward  agony, 
Roll'd  like  a  snake  and  writhed.    Give  ! 

give  !  he  cried  : 
I  thirst !  .  .  His  voice  was  in  me,  and  it 

burnt 
Like  fire,  and  all  my  flesh  and   bones 

were  shaken  ; 
Till,  with  a  throe  which  seem'd  to  rend 

my  joints  70 

Asunder,  he  pass'd  forth,  and  I  was  left 
Speechless  and  motionless,  gasping  for 

breath. 

Then  Madoc,  turning  to  Ayayaca, 
Enquired,  who  is  the  man  ?  .  .  The  good 

old  Priest 
Replied,    he    hath    attended   from    his 

youth 
The  Snake-God's  temple,  and  received 

for  him 
His  offerings,  andperform'd  his  sacrifice, 
Till  the  Beloved  Teacher  made  us  leave 
The  wicked  way. 

Hear  me  !  quoth  Neolin, 
With  antic  gesture  and  loud  vehemence  ; 
Before  this  generation,  and  before  81 
These  ancient  forests,  .  .  yea,  before  yon 

lake 
Was  hollow'd  out,  or  one  snow-feather 

fell 
On   yonder   mountain-top,   now   never 

bare,  .  . 
Before  these  things  I  was,  .  .  where,  or 

from  whence, 
I  know  not,  .  .  who  can  tell  ?   But  then 

I  was, 


NEOLIN 


629 


Alul  in  tho  sliadow  of  the  Spirit  stood  ; 
Atul  I  boliolil  tho  Spirit,  niul  in  liim 
S.iw  all  thinu's,  oven  as  tliry  woro  to  ho  ; 
And  1  hcUi  oommmio  witli  him.  not  of 

words,  90 

But  thouglit  witli  thought.     Thon  was 

it  given  nio 
i:it  I  should  ohooso  my  station  wlion 

my  hoin- 
I  't  mortal  birth  was  como.  .  .  hunter,  or 

ciiief, 
'  '■  to  bo  mightiest  in  tho  work  of  war. 
in  tho  shadow  of  tho  Spirit  live. 
id    Ho    in    mo.     Aooording    to    my 

choice. 
lor  ever.  ovorshadowM  by  its  power, 
I  walk  among  manlcind.    At  times  I  feel 

not 
Till-  burthen  of  his  presence  ;   then  am  I 
Like  other  men  ;    but  when  tho  season 

comes,  100 

•  M  if  I  seek  tho  visitation,  thon 
lit'  tills  mo.  and  my  soul  is  carried  on. 
And  then  do  I  forelive  tho  race  of  men. 
So  that  the  things  that  will  bo.  are  to  me 
Past. 

Amalahta  lifted  then  liia  eyes 
A  moment ;  .  .  It  is  true,  he  cried ;    we 

know 
Ho  is  a  gifted  man,  and  wise  beyond 
The  reach  of  mortal  powers.     Ayayaca 
Hath  also  heard  the  warning. 

As  I  slept. 
Replied  the  aged  Priest,  upon  the  Field 
Of  tho   Spirit,  a  loud  voice   awaken'd 

me.  Ill 

Crj'ins.  I  thirst  !  Give, . .  give  !  or  I  will 

take  ! 
And  then  I  heard  a  hiss,  as  if  a  snake 
Were  threatening  at  my  side.  .  .  But  saw 

you  nothing  ? 
Quoth  ^fadoc.  .  .  Nothing  ;  for  the  night 

was  dark. 
And  felt  you  nothing  ?    said  the  Ocean 

Prince. 
He   answered.   Nothing ;     only   sudden 

fear.  .  . 
No  inward  struggle,  like  pos.seasion  ?  .  . 

None. 
I    thought    of    the    Beloved    Teacher's 

words. 
And  crossM  myself,  and  thon  lie  had  no 

power.  120 


Thou  luist  MJrpt  heretofore  ufwij  the 

Kiold, 
Said  Madoe  ;    didHt  thou  never  uitncM 

voice. 
Or  ominoiis  sound  ?    Ayaynon  replied, 
(Vrtos  tho  Field  is  holy  !    it  n'oeivoH. 
AH  tho  year  long,  tho  (»|HTalivo  power 
Which   fallelh   from    tiio  sky,   or  from 

below 
Pervades  tlio  earth  :  no  harvest  groweth 

there. 
Nor  tree,  nor  bush,  nor  herb,  i.s  hft  to 

spring  : 
But  tlioro  the  virtue  of  the  elements 
Is  gathered,  till  tho  circle  of  the  months 
Bo    full;     thon.    when    the    J'riest.    by 

mystic  rites,  131 

Long   vigils,   and   long  abstinence  pre- 

))ared, 
Oooth  there  to  pass  tho  appointed  night 

alone. 
Tho    whole    colioctrd    inlluenco    enters 

him. 
Doubt  not  l)ut  I  have  felt  strange  im- 
pulses 
On  that  mysterious  Field,  and  in  my 

dreams 
Been  visited  ;    and  liave  heard  sounds 

in  the  air, 
I  knew  not  what ; . .  but  words  articulate 
Never   till    now.     It    was    the    Wicked 

One !  139 

He  wanted  blood. 

Who  says  the  Wieke<i  One  ? 
It  was  our  fathers'  (Jod  !  crietl  Neolin  .  . 
Sons  of  the  Ocean,  why  should  we  for- 
sake 
The  worship  of  our  fathers  ?  Ye  obey 
The  White-Man's  Maker  ;   but  to  us  wm 

given 
A  ditTerent  skin  and  si)eooh   ami   bind 

and  law. 
The  Snako-iJod  understantls  the  Red- 
Man's  prayer. 
And  knows  his  wants  and  lov<*^  him. 

Shame  be  to  us. 
That  since  the  Stranger  here  set   fool 

among  us. 
We  have  let  his  lipfl  l>e  iWy  ! 

Knough  !   rrpUe<i 
Madoc,    who   at    C«dwailoii's   look    re- 

presa'd  i5« 

His  answering  anger.    We  will  hold  a  talk 


530 


:VIADOC  IN  AZTLAN 


Of  this  hereafter.  Be  ye  sure,  mean- 
time, 

That  the  Great  Spirit  will  from  Evil 
Powers 

Protect  his  people.  This,  too,  be  ye 
sure, 

That  every  deed  of  darkness  shall  be 
brought 

To  light,  .  .  and  woe  be  to  the  lying  lips  ! 


IV.    AMALAHTA. 

Soon  as  the  coming  of  the  fleet  was 

known. 
Had  Queen  Erillyab  sent  her  hunters 

forth. 
They  from  the  forest  now  arrive,  with 

store 
Of  venison  ;    fires  are  built  before  the 

tents, 
Where   Llaian   and   Goervyl   for   their 

guests 
Direct  the  feast ;    and  now  the  ready 

board 
"W'ith  grateful  odour  steams.     But  while 

they  sate 
At  meat,  did  Amalahta  many  a  time 
Lift  his  slow  eye  askance,  and  eagerly 
Gaze  on  Goervyl' s  beauty  ;  for  whate'er 
In  man  he  might  have  thought  deformed 

or  strange  ii 

Seemed  beautiful  in  her,  .  .  her  golden 

curls, 
Bright  eyes  of  heavenly  blue,  and  that 

clear  skin. 
Blooming  with  health  and  youth  and 

happiness. 
He,  lightly  yielding  to  the  impulse,  bent 
His  head  aside,  and  to  Erillyab  spake  ; 
Mother,  said  he,  tell  them  to  give  to  me 
That  woman  for  my  wife,  that  we  may 

be 
Brethren  and  friends.     She,  in  the  same 

low  tone. 
Rebuked  him,   in   her   heart   too   well 

aware  20 

How  far  unworthy  he.     Abash' d  there- 
by. 
As  he  not  yet  had  wholly  shaken  off 
Habitual  reverence,  he  sate  sullenly. 
Brooding  in  silence  his  imagined  wiles. 


By  sight  of  beauty  made  more  apt  for  ill ; 
For  he  himself  being  evil,  good  in  him 
Work'd  evil. 

And  now  Madoc,  pouring  forth 
The  ripe  metheglin,  to  Erillyab  gave 
The  horn  of  silver  brim.     Taste,  Queen 

and  friend. 
Said  he,  what  from  our  father-land  we 

bring,  30 

The  old  beloved  beverage.     Sparingly 
Drink,  for  it  hath  a  strength  to  stir  the 

brain. 
And  trouble  reason,  if  intemperate  lips 
Abuse  its  potency.     She  took  the  horn. 
And  sipt  with  wary  wisdom,  .  .  Canst 

thou  teach  us 
The  art  of  this  rare  beverage  ?  quoth  the 

Queen, 
Or  is  the  gift  reserved  for  ye  alone, 
By  the  Great  Spirit,  who  hath  favour' d 

ye 

In  all  things  above  us  ?  .  .  The  Chief 
replied,  39 

All  that  we  know  of  useful  and  of  good 

Ye  also  shall  be  taught,  that  we  may  be 

One  people.     While  he  spake,  Erillyab 
pass'd 

The  horn  to  Amalahta.     Sparingly  ! 

Madoc  exclaim' d  ;  but  when  the  savage 
felt 

The  luscious  flavour,  and  the  poignant 
life, 

He  heeded  nought  be3^ond  the  imme- 
diate joy. 

Deep    did    he    drink,    and    still    with 
clenching  hands 

Struggled,  when  from  his  lips,  unsatis- 
fied, 

Erillyab  pluck' d  the  horn  with  sharp 
reproof. 

Chiding  his  stubborn  wilfulness.     Ere 
long  50 

The  generous  liquor  flush' d  him  :    he 
could  feel 

His  blood  play  faster,  and  the  joyful 
dance 

Of    animal    life   within   him.        Bolder 
grown. 

He  at  Goervyl  lifts  no  longer  now 

The  secret  glance,  but  gloats  with  greedy 

eye; 
Till,  at  the  long  and  loathsome  look 
abash' d. 


AMALAHTA 


531 


lie   rose,    and   nearer   to    her    brother 

drew. 
"\  light  pretence  of  sj>eech,  being  half 

in  fear. 
,;ii(  he.  reirardle.ss  of  Erillyab  now. 
In  .Madoe  cried  aloud.  Thou  art  a  King. 
And  1  a  King!  .  .  d'ivo  me  tliy  sister 

there,  6i 

To  be  my  wife,  and  then  we  will  bo 

friends. 
And  reign  together. 

Let  me  answer  him, 
^fiidoc  !      Cadwalion     cried.     1     better 

know 
Tlieir  language,  and  will  set  aside  all 

hojx', 
^'et  not  incense  the  savage.  .  ,  A  great 

thing, 
Piince    Amalahta,    hast    thou    ask'd  ! 

said  he. 
Nor  is  it  in  Lord  Madoc's  power  to  give 
Or  to  withhold  ;   for  marriage  is  with  us 
The  holiest  ordinance  of  God,  whereon 
The  bliss  or  bane  of  human  life  depends. 
Love  must  be  won  by  love,  and  heart  to 

heart  72 

Link'd  in  mysterious  sympathy,  before 
We    pledge    the    marriage- vow ;     and 

some  there  are 
Who  hold  that,  e'er  we  enter  into  life. 
Soul  hath  with  .soul  been  mated,  each 

for  each 
Especially    ordain'd.     Prince    Madoc's 

will 
Avails  not,  therefore,  where  this  secret 

bond 
Hath  not  been  framed  in  Heaven. 

The  skilful  speech 
Which,  with  wild  faith  and  reason,  thus 

confirm'd  80 

Yet  temper'd  the  denial,  for  a  while 
Silenced   him,   and   he   sate   in    moody 

dreams 
Of  snares  and  violence.     Soon  a  drunken 

thirst. 
And  longing  for  the  luscious  beverage. 
Drove  tliose  dark  thoughts  aside.    More 

drink  !   quoth  he. 
riive  me  the  drink  !   .   .   Madoo  again 

repeats 
His  warning,  and  again  with  look  and 

voice 
Erillvab  chides:    l)ut  he  of  all  restraint 


Impatient,  criea  aloud.  Am  1  a  child  ? 
(.'ive  !    give  !    or  I   will  take  !  .  .   iVr- 

chance  ye  tiiink  90 

I  and  my  (Jod  alike  cry  out  in  vain  ! 
But  ye  shall  find  tis  true  ! 

<Jive  lum  the  liorn  ! 
Cadwalion  answer'd  ;    tlirro  will  como 

upon  him 
Folly  and  sleep,  and  then  an  after  pain. 
Which  may  bring  wisdom  with  it,  if  )iu 

learn 
Therefrom  to  heed  our  wann'ng.  .  .  As 

thou  say'st,  ^ 

No  child  art  thou  I  .  .  the  clioice  in  in 

thy  hand  ;  .  . 
Drink,  if  thou  wilt,  and  suffer,  and  in 

pain 
Remember  us. 

He  clenchM  the  horn,  and  swill'd 
The  sweet  intoxication  copious  down. 
So  bad  grew  worse.    The  j)otent  <lrau>»ht 

jirovoked  lot 

Fierce  pride  and  savage  in.solence.    Ay  ! 

now 
It  seems  that    I   have  taught  ye  who 

I  am  ! 
The  inebriate  wretch  cxclaimM.     Thin 

land  is  mine. 
Not  hers  ;    the  kingdom  and  the  power 

are  mine  ; 
I  am  the  master  ! 

Hath  it  made  thee  mad  ? 
Erillyab  cried.  .  .  Ask  thou  the  Snake- 
God  that  ! 
Quoth  he  ;  ask  Neolin  and  Aztlan  that  ! 
Hear  me,  thou  Son  of  the  Waters  !   wilt 

thou  have  me 
For  friend  or  foe  ?   .   .   (Jive  me   titat 

woman  there.  no 

And  store  mo  with  this  b|e««jed  l)evera«e. 
And  thou  shalt  dwell  in  my  domaiuH,  .  . 

or  else. 
Blood  !     blood  !     The  Snake-God  calU 

for  blood  :  the  (lod^ 
Of  .Aztlan  and  the  people  call  for  bloo«l  : 
They  call  on  me.  and  I  will  k'«vc  them 

bloo<l. 
Till  they  have  had  their  fill. 

Mi'anuhile  the  Qurrn 
In  wonder  and  amazemenl  heart!  and 

grief  ; 
Watching  the  fienjJiflh  workinjf*  of  hi* 

face. 


532 


MADOC   IN  AZTLAX 


And  turning  to  the  Prince  at  times,  as  if 
She  look'd  to  him  for  comfort.     Give 

him  drink,  120 

To  be  at  peace  !    quoth  ^Madoc.     The 

good  mead 
Did  its  good  office  soon  ;    his  dizzy  eyes 
Roll'd  with  a  sleepy  swim  ;   the  joyous 

thrill 
Died  away  ;   and  as  every  limb  relax' d, 
Down  sunk  his  heavy  head  and  down 

he  fell. 
Then  said  the  Prince.  We  must  rejoice 

in  this, 

0  Queen  and  friend,  that,  evil  though 

it  be, 
Evil    is    brought    to    light ;    he    hath 

divulged 
In  this  mad  mood,  what  else  had  been 

conceal' d 
By  guilty  cunning.     Set  a  watch  upon 

him  133 

And  on  Priest  Neolin  ;  they  plot  against 

us  ; 
Your  fall  and  mine  do  they  alike  con- 
spire, 
Being  leagued  with  Aztlan  to  destroy 

us  both. 
Thy  son  will  not  remember  that  his  lips 
Have  let  the  treason  pass.     Be  wary 

then. 
And  we  shall  catch  the  crafty  in  the  pit 
Which  they  have  dug  for  us, 

Erillyab  cast 
A  look  of  anger,  made  intense  by  grief. 
On  Amalahta.  .  .  Cursed  be  the  hour 
Wherein  I  gave  thee  birth  !    she  cried  ; 

that  pain  140 

Was  light  to  what  thy  base  and  brutal 

nature 
Hath  sent  into  my  soul,  .  .  But  take 

thou  heed  ! 

1  have  borne  many  a  woe  and  many 

a  loss,  .  . 
'My  father's  realm,  the  husband  of  my 

youth, 
My  hope  in  thee !  .  .  all  motherly  love 

is  gone,  ,  . 
Sufferance  well  nigh  worn  out. 

When  she  had  ceased, 
Still  the  deep  feeling  fill'd  her,  and  her 

eye 
Dwelt  on  him,  still  in  thought.  Brother  ! 

she  cried, 


As  Madoc  would  have  sooth" d  her,  doubt 

not  me  !  149 

Mine  is  no  feeble  heart.  Abundantly 
Did  the  Great  Spirit  overpay  all  woes. 
And  this  the  heaviest,  when  he  sent  thee 

here. 
The    friend    and    the    deliverer.     Evil 

tongues 
May  scatter  lies  ;    bad  spirits  and  bad 

men 
Maj'  league  against   thy  life  ;    but  go 

thou  on. 
Brother  !    He  loves  thee  and  will  be  thy 

shield. 


V.    WAR   DENOUNCED 

Tms   is  the   day,   when,   in   a  foreign 
I         grave, 

!  King  Owen's  relics  shall  be  laid  to  rest. 
No    bright   emblazonries   bedeok'd   his 

bier, 
I  No  tapers  blazed,  no  prelate  sung  the 
I  mass, 

,  No  choristers  the  funeral  dirge  intoned, 
;  No  mitred  abbots,  and  no  tonsured 
I  train, 

I  Lengthen' d  the  pomp  of  ceremonious 
j  woe, 

;  His  decent  bier  was  with  white  linen 
I  spread 

And   canopied  ;    two  elks  and   bisons, 

yoked. 
Drew  on  the  car ;    foremost  Cadwallon 
bore  10 

The    Crucifix ;    with  single  voice,   dis- 
tinct. 
The  good  priest  Llorien  chaunted  loud 

and  deep 
j  The  solemn  service  ;    Madoc  next  the 
bier 
FoUow'd  his  father's  corpse;  bareheaded 

then 
Came  all  the  people,  silently  and  slow. 

The  burial-place  was  in  a  grassy  plat, 
A  little  level  glade  of  sunny  green. 
Between  the  river  and  a  rocky  bank. 
Which,  like  a  buttress,  from  the  preci" 

pice 
Of  naked  rock  sloped  out.     On  either 

side  20 


WAR   DEiNOUiNCED 


:i'd 


Twas   skirted    by   the   woodltiiuls.     A 

t>tonc  t'lusb 
Mi'ud  oil  Cyiictlia's  grave,  sole  luomi- 

merit, 
Dcncatli  a  ^5inglc  cocoa,  whose  straight 

trunk 
liose   like   au   obehsk,    and    waved    on 

high 
lis   palmy   plumage,   green   and   never 

sere. 
Here  by  Cynctiurs  side,  with  C'luibtian 

prayci-y. 
All  wrongs  forgot  ten  now,  was  Owen  laid. 
Rest,   King  of   CJwyneth,   in   a  foreign 

grave  ! 
From  foul  indignity  of  Romish  pride 
And   bigot   priesthood,   from   a  falling 

laud  30 

Thus   timely   snatch'd,    and    from    the 

impencling  yoke,  .  . 
Rest  in  the  kingdom  of  thy  noble  son  I 

Ambassadors  from  Aztlan  in  the  vale 
Awaited  their  return,  .  .  Yuhidthiton, 
Chief   of   the   Chiefs,   and   Helhua  the 

priest ; 
With  these  came  Malinal.     They  met 

the  Prince, 
And  with  a  sullen  stateliness  returned 
Hia  salutation,  then  the  Chief  began  : 
Lord  of  the  Strangers,  hear  mc  !   by  my 

voice 
The  People  and  the  Pabas  and  the  King 
Of  Aztlan  s])eak.  Our  injured  Gods  have 

claim' d  4^ 

Their  wonted  worship,  and  made  mani- 
fest 
Their  wrath  ;    wo  dare  not  impiously 

provoke 
The  Dreadful.     Worship  ye  in  your  own 

way  ; 
But  we  must  keep  the  path  our  fathers 

kept. 

We  parted,  O  Yuhidthiton  !  as  friends 
And  brethren,  said  the  Christian  Prince  ; 

.  .  ala.s, 
That  tiiis  should  be  our  meeting  !  When 

we  pledged. 
In  tiie  broad  daylight  and  the  eye  of 

Heaven, 
Our  hands  in  peace,  yc  heard  the  will  of 

(Jod,  50 


And   fell   and   undcralood.     Ihio  talui 

assent 
Ve  would  belie,  by  niidnighl  miratl.  ^ 
Scared,  and  such  signs  of  darkncNt  u;« 

beseem 
The  Demons  whom  ye  dread  ;  or  likelier 
Duih.h1  by  the  craft  of  those  uccuracd 

men. 
Whose    trade   is    blood.     Ask    thou   of 

thine  own  heart, 
Yuhidthiton,  .  . 

But  Helhua  broke  his  speech  ; 
(Jur  bidding  is  to  tell  thee,  quoth  tho 

Priest, 
That    Aztlan    halli   rcstorcd,   and   will 

maintain,  59 

Her  ancient  faith.     H  it  otTendeth  ihcc. 
Move  thou  thy  dwelling  niacc  ! 

>Iadoc  replied. 
This  day  have  I  deposited  in  earth 
My  father's  bones,  and  where  his  bones 

are  laid, 
There  mine  shall  moulder. 

Malinal  at  that 
Advanced  ;  .  .  Prince  Madoe,  said  tho 

youth,  I  come. 
True  to  thy  faith  and  thee,  and  to  tho 

weal 
Of  Aztlan  true,  and  bearing,  for  that 

truth, 
Reproach   and   shame   and   scorn    and 

oblofjuy. 
In  sorrow  come  I  here,  a  banish'd  man  ; 
Here  take,  in  sorrow,  niy  abiding  i)l«cc. 
Cut  off  from  all  my  kin.  from  all  old  tics 
Divorced ;      all     dear     familiar    coun- 
tenances 7' 
No  longer  to  be  present  to  my  niuht  ; 
The  very  mother-language  which  1  Icarut. 
A  lisping  baby  on  my  mother's  knees. 
No  more  with  its  swtx't  sounds  to  com- 
fort me. 
So  be  it  !  .  .  To  his  brother  then  ho 

turn'd  ; 
Yuhidtliiton,  said  he,  when  thou  shalt 

lind,  .  . 
As  fuid  tiiou  wilt, .  .  that  tho«»c  accursed 

men 
Have  played  tho  juggler  with  ihcr,  and 

deceived  *> 

Thine  honest   licart,   .   .    when   Aztlan 

yroans  in  bliKKl,  .  . 
Bid  her  remember  then,  that  Malinal 


534 


MADOC  IN  AZTLAN 


Is  in  the  dwellings  of  her  enemy  ; 
Where  all  his  hope  in  banishment  hath 

been 
To    intercede    for    her,    and    heal    her 

wounds, 
And  mitigate  her  righteous  i)unishment. 

Sternly  and  sullenly  his  brother  heard ; 
Yet  hearken' d  he  as  one  whose  heart 

perforce 
Suppress'd  its  instinct,  and  there  might 

be  seen 
A  sorrow  in  his  silent  stubbornness.    90 
And  now  his  ministers  on  either  hand 
A  water- vessel  fill,  and  heap  dry  sedge 
And  straw  before  his  face,  and  fire  the 

pile. 
He,  looking  upward,  spread  his  arms  and 

cried, 
Hear  me,  ye  Gods  of  Aztlan,  as  we  were, 
And  are,  and  will  be  yours  !    Behold 

your  foes ! 
He  stoopt,   and  lifted   up   one   ample 

urn, .  . 
Thus  let  their  blood  be  shed  !  .  .  and  far 

away 
He  M'hu'l'd  the  scattering  water.    Then 

again 
Raised  the  full  vase,  .  .  Thus  let  their 

lives  be  quench' d  !  100 

And  out  he  pour'd  it  on  the  flaming  pile. 
The  steam-cloud,  hissing  from  the  ex- 
tinguish'd  heap, 
Spread  like  a  mist,  and  ere  it  melted  off, 
Homeward  the  heralds  of  the  war  had 

turn'd. 


VI.    THE   FESTIVAL   OF 
THE   DEAD 

The  Hoamen  in  their  Council-hall  arc 

met 
To  hold  the  Feast  of  Souls  ;   seat  above 

seat, 
Ranged  round  the  circling  theatre  they 

sit. 
No  light  but  from  the  central  fire,  whose 

smoke, 
Slow  passing  through  the  over  aperture, 
Excludes  the  day,  and  tills  the  conic 

roof, 


And  hangs  above  them  like  a  cloud. 

Around, 
The  ghastly  bodies  of  their  chiefs  arc 

hung. 
Shrivel!' d  and  parch' d  by  heat ;    the 

humbler  dead 
Lie  on  the  floor, .  .  white  bones,  exposed 

to  view,  10 

On  deer,  or  elk-skin  laid,  or  softer  fur, 
Or  web,  the  w^ork  of  many  a  mournful 

hour  ; 
The  loathlier  forms  of  fresh  mortality 
Swathed,  and  in  decent  tenderness  con- 
ceal'd. 
Beside  each  body  pious  gifts  are  laid. 
Mantle  and  belt  and  feathery  coronal, 
The  bow  he  used  in  war,  his  drinking 

shell. 
His  arrows  for  the  chace,  the  sarbacan, 
Through  whose  long  tube  the  slender 

shaft,  breath  driven, 
Might  pierce  the  winged  game.     Hus- 
bands and  wives,  20 
Parents  and  children,   there  in  death 

they  lie  ; 
The  widow' d  and  the  parent  and  the 

child 
Look   on  in  silence.     Not  a  sound  ia 

heard 
But  of  the  crackling  brand,  or  moulder- 
ing fire. 
Or  when,  amid  yon  pendant  string  of 

shells. 
The  slow  wind  wakes  a  shrill  and  feeble 

sound,  .  . 
A  sound  of  sorrow  to  the  mind  attuned 
By  sights  of  woe. 

Ayayaca  at  length 
Came  forward  :  .  .  Spirits,  is  it  well  with 

ye  ? 
Is  it  well,   Brethren  ?    said   the   aged 

Priest ;  30 

Have  ye  received  your  mourning,  and 

the  rites 
Of    righteous    grief  ?     or    round    your 

dwelling-place 
Still  do  your  shadows  roam  dissatisfied. 
And  to  the  cries  of  wailing  woe  return 
A  voice  of  lamentation  ?    Teach  us  now. 
If  we  in  aught  have  fail'd,  that  I,  your 

Priest, 
When  I  shall  join  ye  soon,  as  soon  I  must, 
May  unimpeded  pass  the  perilous  floods, 


THE    FEISTIN'AL   OF   THE   DEAD 


o3d 


And  in   the  Country   of   the   Dt-ad.   l»o 

hail'd 
By  you,  with  soug  ami  d.incu  aiul  gnite- 

ful  joy.  40 

So  saymij.  to  the  Oracle  he  turnM. 
Awaiting  there  the  silence  whicli  iiu])lied 
Peaceful    aasent.     Against    the   eastern 

wall. 
Flouting   the  narrow   portal's   winding 

way. 
An  Imago  btood  :    a  cloak  of  fur  dis- 
guised 
The    rude    jjroporlion    of    its    uncouth 

liiuhs  ; 
The  skull  of  some  old  seer  of  days  of  old 
Topt    it.    and    witii    a    \ibor    tiiis    was 

mask'd. 
Honouring  the  oracular  Spirit ,  who  at 

times  49 

There  took  liis  resting  place.  Ayayaca 
Rejx'ated,  Brethren,  is  it  well  with  ye  '.' 
And  raised  the  visor.     But  he  started 

back, 
Appall'd  and  shuddering  ;    for  a  moony 

Ught 
Lay  in  its  eyelesa  bocketti,   and  there 

came 
From  its  immoveable  and  bony  jaws 
A  long  deep  groan,  thrice  utter'd,  and 
f  thrice  felt 

•  In  every  heart  of  all  the  hearers  round. 
The  good  old  Priest  stood  tottering,  like 

a  man 
Stricken  with  palsy  ;   and  he  gazed  with 

eyes  59 

Of  askhig  horror  round,  as  if  he  look'd 
For  counsel  in  that  fear.     But  Neolin 
'   Sprung  boldly  to  the  oracle,  and  cried, 
Speak,  .Spirit  I    tell  us  of  our  sin,  and 

teach 
The    atonement  !     A    sepulchral    voice 

replied, 
'  Ye  have  for  other  Gods  forsaken  us. 
And   we  abandon  you  1   .   .   and  crash 

with  that 
The  Image  fell. 

A  loud  and  hideous  shriek, 
''As  of  a  demon,  Neolin  set  up  ; 
80  wild  a  yell,  that,  even  in  that  hour. 
It  brought  fresh  terror  to  the  startled 

ear.  70 

While  yet  they  sate,  palo  and  irresolute, 


Helhua  the  Azleca  came  in.     H»  bore 
A  shield  and  arrow,  .  .  ayuiboU  thcou  ol 

war. 
Vet  now  Ijeheld  with  ho|)v,  no  grvat  rolicf 
They  felt  his  human  i)re«encc. 

lloamrii.  hear  nm  ! 
The  messenger  U^gan  ;    Enllyab.  hear. 
Priests,     Elders,     People !      but     hear 

chielly  thou, 
Prince  Amalahla,  an  of  these  by  birth. 
So  now   «»f  years   mature,   the   rightful 

Lortl  I  .  . 
iS*iall  it  be  jK'ace  or  war  ".' .  .  thus  Aztlan 

saith ;  80 

She,  in  her  anger,  from   the  land  will 

root 
The  Children  of  I  lie  Sea;    but  viewing 

you 
In  mercy,  to  yonr  f<»rnier  \a'v.JHlaKo 
Invites  ye,  and  n  nuts  the  tnbulo  hven. 
And  for  rebellion  claimcth  no  revenge. 

Oh  praise  your  Gods !   cried  Neolin, 

and  hail 
This  day-spring  of  new  hoiK- !    Aztlau 

remits 
The  tribute  lives,  .  .  what  more  could 

Madoc  L'ive  ? 
She   claimcth   no   revenge,    uiul   if   sho 

claimed, 
lie  could  not  save.     O  Iloamen,  blesa 

your  Gods ;  90 

Apixjase  them  1  Thou,  Prince  ^Vmalahta, 

si)eak. 
And  seize  the  mercy. 

Amalahta  Htood 
In  act  of  sj>eech  ;     but   then   Erillyab 

rose  .  . 
Who    gives    then?.     Boy,     this    Elder'* 

privilege  ? 
The    t^uc<m   exclaim'il  ;    .    .    and   thou. 

Priest  Neolin, 
Curb  thou  thy  traitorous  tonguo  !    The 

reign  is  mine  ; 
I  hold  it  from  mv  father,  he  from  hia ; 
Age  l^forc  age,  beyond  the  memory 
Of  man  it  hath  been  thua.     My  father 

fell 
In  battle  for  his  |x?oplo,  and  hu»  hoiw  100 
I'Vll   by   hirt  side ;    they   ijcrisb'd.   but 

thiir  names 
Are  with  the  namoa  wo  love.  .  .  their 

happy  i»ouU 


536 


MADOC  IN  AZTLAN 


Pursue  in  fields  of  bliss  the  shadowy 

deer  ; 
The  spirit  of  that  noble  blood  which  ran 
From  theirdeath- wounds,  is  in  the  ruddy 

clouds 
Which   go    before   the   Sun,    when   he 

comes  forth 
In  glory.     Last  of  that  illustrious  race 
Was  I,  Erillyab.     Ye  remember  well, 
Elders,  that  day  when  I  assembled  here 
The    people,    and   demanded   at   their 

choice  no 

The  worthiest,  to  perpetuate  our  old  line 
Of  Kings  and  Warriors.  .  .  To  the  wind 

he  spread 
His  black  and  blood-red  banner.     Even 

now 
I  hear  his  war  drum's  tripled  sound,  that 

call'd 
The  youth  to  battle ;   even  now  behold 
The  hope  wliich  lit  his  dark  and  fiery 

eye. 
And  kindled  with  a  sunnier  glow  his 

cheek, 
As  he  from  yonder  war-pole,  in  his  pride, 
Took  the  death-doers  down  .  .  Lo  here 

the  bones 
Of  King  Tepollomi !  .  .  my  husband's 

bones  !  .  .  120 

There  should  be  some  among  ye  who 

beheld. 
When,    all    with    arrows    quill' d,    and 

clothed  with  blood 
As  with  a  purple  garment,  he  sustam'd 
The  unequal  conflict,  till  the  Aztecas 
Took     him     at     vantage,     and     their 

monarch's  club 
Let   loose   his   struggling   soul.     Look, 

Hoamen,  here, 
See  through  how  wide  a  wound  his  spirit 

fled! 
Twenty  long  years  of  mournful  widow- 
hood 
Have  i^ass'd   away ;     so   long   have  I 

maintain' d 
The  little  empire  left  us,  loving  well  130 
My  people,  and  by  them  as  well  beloved. 
Say,  Hoamen,  am  I  still  your  Queen  V 

At  once 
The    whole    assembly    rose    with    one 

Still,  0  Erillyab,  0  Beloved,  rule 
Thy  own  beloved  peoi^le  ! 


But  the  Gods! 
Cried  Amalahta,  .  .  but  the  Oracle  ! 
The  Oracle  !    quoth  she ;   what  hath  it 

said 
That  forty  years  of  suffering  hath  not 

taught 
This  wretched  people  ?  . .  They  abandon 

us  ?  .  . 
So  let  them  go  !    ^V'here  were  they  at 

that  hour,  140 

When,  like  a  blasting  night- wind  in  the 

spring. 
The  multitudes  of  Aztlan  came  upon 

us  ? 
Where  were  they  when  my  father  went 

to  war  ? 
Where   were   they   when    thy  father's 

stiffen' d  corpse, 
Even  after  death  a  slave,  held  up  the 

lamp 
To  light  his  conqueror's  revels  ? . .  Think 

not.  Boy, 
To  palter  with  me  thus  !    A  fire  may 

tremble 
Within    the    sockets    of    a    skull,    and 

groans 
May  issue  from  a  dead  man's  fleshless 

jaws. 
And  images  may  fall,  and  yet  no  God 
Be  there  ! . .  If  it  had  walk'd  abroad  with 

life,  151 

That  had  indeed  been  something  ! 

Then  she  tui'n'd 
Her  voice  toward  the  people.  .  .  Ye  have 

heard 
Tliis  Priest  of  Aztlan,  whose  insidious 

tongue 
Bids  ye  desert  the  Children  of  the  Sea, 
And  vow  again  your  former  vassalage. 
Speaks  Aztlan  of  the  former  ?    O  my 

people, 
I  too  could  tell  ye  of  the  former  days. 
When  yonder  plain  was  om-s,  with  all  its 

woods 
And  waters  and  savannahs  !  .  .  of  those 

days,  160 

When,  following  where  her  husband's 

stronger  arm 
Had  open'd  the  light  glebe,  the  wilUng 

wife 
Dropt  in  the  yellow  maize ;   ere  long  to 

bear 
Its  increase  to  the  general  store,  and  toss 


THE  FESTIVAL   OF   THE   DEAD 


537 


Her  flowing  tresses  in  the  dance  of  joy. 
And  I  could  toll  yc  how  those  summer 

stores 
Were  hoarded  for  the  uivader's  winter 

feasts  ; 
And  how  the  widows  dipt  those  llowiiig 

locks 
To  strew  them,  .  .  not  upon  their  luis- 

hands  i^ravc,  .  . 
Their  husbands  had  no  graves  !  .  .  but 

on  the  rocks  170 

And    mountains   in    their    llight.     And 

even  these  rocks 
And  mountains  could  not  save  us  I   Year 

by  year 
Our  babes,  like  firstlings  of  the  tlock, 

were  culTd 
To  be  the  banquet  of  these  Aztecas  ! 
Tliis  very  wretch,  who  tells  us  of  t  he  past, 
Hath  chosen  them  for  the  butchery.  .  . 

Oh,  I  thank  you 
For  tliis  brave  anger  1  .  .  In  vour  name 

I  take 
The  war-gift  ! 

Gods  of  Aztlan,  Helhua  cried, 
As  to  Erillyab's  ready  liand  he  gave  179 
The  deadly  symbol,  in  your  name  I  give 
The  war-gift  !    Yc  have   thirsted  over 

long  ; 
Take  now  your  till  of  blood  ! . .  He  tum'd 

away ; 
And  Queen  Erillyab  bade  the  tribe  fulfil 
Thcii-  customary  rites. 

Each  family 
Bore  its  own  dead,  and  to  the  general 

grave. 
With  melancholy  song  and  sob  of  woe. 
The  slow  procession  moves.    The  general 

grave 
Was  delved  within  a  deep  and  shady 

dell. 
Fronting  a  cavern  in  the  rock,  .  .  the 

scene 
Of    many    a    bloody    rite,    ere    Madoc 

came,  .  .  190 

A  temple,  as  they  decm'd,  by  Nature 

made. 
Where  the  Snake-Idol  stood.     On   fur 

and  cloth 
Of  woven  grass,  they  lay  their  burtliens 

down, 
Witliin  the  ample  pit ;    their  olTering.s 

range 


piously  a  nor*'""  •■ 
earth,  to  wn. 


Of  that  eold  curui,io  wii.  :  now 

Consign'd,  they  lea\u  ti..  .duel 

to  dust  ; 
Sad  relic  that,  and  wim^  reinvinbnuiccr. 

But  as  with  bark  and  rcainuus  bouglui 

they  pile 
The  sepulchre,  suddenly  Neolin  aoo 

Sprung  up  aloft,  and  shriek'd,  an  ono 

who  treads 
Upon  a  vii)cr  in  his  hccdlcra  imtli. 
The  God  !   the  very  God  !  ho  cried,  and 

howl'd 
One  long,  shrill,  piercing,  modulated  cry ; 
Whereat  from  that  dark  temple  issued 

forth 
A  Serpent,  huge  and  liideous.     On  hv 

came. 
Straight  to  the  somid,  and  curl'd  around 

the  Priest 
His     mighty     folds     iiniocuous,     over- 
topping 
His  human  height,  and  arching  down  his 

head,  209 

Sought  in  the  hands  of  Neolin  for  food  ; 
Then  questing,  rear'd  and  stretch'd  and 

waved  his  neck. 
And  glanced  his  forky  tongue.     Who 

then  had  seen 
The  man,  with  what  triumphant  fear- 

les.sness. 
Arms,    thigh.«,    and    neck,    and    body, 

wreathed  and  ring'd 
In    those    tremendous   folds,    he   stood 

secure, 
Play'd    witli    the    reptile's    jaws,    and 

call'd  for  footl, 
Food  for  the  present  (Jod  !  .  .  who  then 

had  seen 
The  fiendish  joy  wliich  tinKi  hiu  coun- 
tenance. 
Might   well   have   wccu'd  that   he  had 

summoned  up 
The  dreadful  monster  from  ita  native 

Hell,  ^         "o 

By  devilish  |M)«rr.  hiuiM.If  .1  Ki'ud  in- 

lle.sh'd. 

Blood  for  the  God:  hctiitd;  luntoya'* 
bIo<Ki  ! 
Friend  of  the  Seriwut'a  foe  ! .  .  Liucoya*« 
blooti: 


538 


IVIADOC  IN  AZTLAN 


Cried  Amalahta,  and  the  people  turn'd 

Their  eyes  to  seek  the  victim,  as  if  each  i 

Sought  his  own  safety  in  that  sacrifice. 

Alone   Erillyab  raised   her  voice,   con- 
fused 

But   not    confounded ;     she   alone   ex- 
claim'd, 

Madoc  shall  answer  this  !   Unheard  her 
voice  229 

By  the  bewilder' d  people,  by  the  Priest 

Unheeded  ;   and  Lincoya  sure  had  fallen 

The  victim  of  their  fear,  had  he  been 
found 

In    that    wild    hour ;     but    when    his 
watchful  eye 

Beheld  the  Serpent  from  his  den  come 
forth, 

He  fled  to  bear  the  tidings.  .  .  Neolin 

Repeats  the  accursed  call,  Food  for  the 
God! 

Ayayaca,  hia  unbelieving  Priest ! 

At  once  all  eager  eyes  were  fix'd  on  him. 

But  he  came  forward  calmly  at  the  call ; 

Lo  !    here  am  I !    quoth  he  ;    and  from 
his  head  240 

Plucking  the  thin  grey  hairs  he  dealt 
them  round.  .  . 

Countrymen,   kinsmen,   brethren,   chil- 
dren, take 

These  in  remembrance  of  me  !    there 
will  be 

No  relic  of  your  aged  Priest  but  this. 

From  manhood  to  old  age,  full  three- 
score years, 

Have  I  been  your  true  servant :   fit  it  is 

That   I,    who    witness' d   Aztlan's   first 
assault, 

Should  perish  her  last  victim  !  .  .  and 
he  moved 

Towards  the  death.     But  then  Erillyab 

Seized  him,  and  by  the  garment  drew 
him  back  !  .  .  250 

By  the  Great  Spirit,  but  he  shall  not  die  ! 

The  Queen  exclaim' d ;    nor  shalt  thou 
triumph  thus. 

Liar   and   traitor !     Hoamen,    to  youi' 
homes  ! 

Madoc  shall  answer  this  ! 

Irresolute 

They  heard,  and  inobedient ;   to  obey 

Fearing,  yet  fearful  to  remain.     Anon, 

The  Queen  repeats  her  bidding,  To  your 
homes,  \ 


My  people  !  .  ^  But  when  Neolin  per- 
ceived 
The   growing   stir   and   motion   of   the 

crowd, 
As  from  the  outward  ring  they  moved 

away,  260 

He  utter' d  a  new  cry,  and  disentangling 
The  passive  reptile's  folds,  rush'd  out 

among  them. 
With  outstretch'd  hands,  like  one  pos- 
sess'd,  to  seize 
His  victim.     Then  they  fled ;    for  who 

could  tell 
On  whom  the  madman,  in  that  hellish 

fit. 
Might  cast  the  lot  ?   An  eight-years'  boy 

he  seized 
And  held  him  by  the  leg,  and,  whirling 

Mm 
In  ritual  dance,  till  breath  and  sense 

were  gone. 
Set  up  the  death-song  of  the  sacrifice. 
Amalahta,  and  what  others  rooted  love 
Of  evil  leagued  with  him,  accompHces 
In  treason,  join'd  the  death-song  and 

the  dance.  272 

Some  too  there  were,  believing  what  they 

fear'd. 
Who  yielded  to  their  old  idolatry, 
And  mingled  in  the  worship.     Round 

and  round 
The     accursed     minister     of     murder 

whirl' d 
His  senseless  victim  ;    they  too  round 

and  round 
In  maddening  motion,  and  with  mad- 
dening cries 
Revolving,    whirl' d    and    wheel' d.     At 

length,  when  now. 
According  to  old  rites,  he  should  have 

dash'd  280 

On  the  stone  Idol's  head  the  wretch's 

brains, 
Neolin  stopt,  and  once  again  began 
The   long,    shrill,    piercing,    modulated 

cry. 
The  Serpent  knew  the  call,  and,  rolling 

on. 
Wave  above   wave,   his  rising  length, 

advanced 
His  open  jaws  :  then,  with  the  expected 

prey. 
Glides  to  the  dark  recesses  of  his  den. 


THE   SNAKE   (iOI) 


539 


VII.    THE  SNAKE  GOD 

^Ieantimk  Erillyab's  mcsseugcr  had  t;irt. 
dis  loins,  aud  like  a  roebuck,  o'er  the 

hills 
tie  s})ed.     He  met  Cadwailoii  and  the 

Prince 

[n  arms,  so  quickly  Madoc  had  ohcy'd 
Lincoya's  call ;    at  noon  he  heard  the 

call, 
And  still  the  sun  was  riding  high  in 

heaven. 
When  up  the  valley  where  the  Hoaiuen 

dwelt 
He  led  his  twenty  spears.     O  welcome, 

friend 
lAnd  brother  !    cried  the  Queen.     Even 

as  thou  saidst 
«So  hath  it  proved  ;   and  those  accursed 

schemes  lo 

Of  treachery,  which  that  wretched  boy 

reveal' d 
Under  the  influence  of  thy  potent  drink, 
Have  ripen'd  to  elTcct.     From  what  a 

snare 
The  timely  warning  saved  me  !   for,  be 

sure, 
What  I  had  seen  I  else  should  have 

believed, 
In  utter  fear  confounded.     The  Great 

Spirit, 
Who  taught  thee  to  foresee  the  evil 

thing, 
Will  give  thee  power  to  quell  it. 

On  they  went 
Toward  the  dell,  where  now  the  Idolaters 
Had  built  their  dedicated  lire,  and  still 
With  feast  and  tits  of  song  and  violent 

dance,  21 

Pursued     their     rites.     Wlien     Ncolin 

j)erceived 
The    Prince    approach,    fearlessly    he 

came  forth. 
And  raised  his  arm,  and  cried,  Strangers, 

away  ! 
Away,  profane  !   hence  to  your  mother- 
land ! 
Hence  to  your  waters  ;    for  the  (lod  is 

here  ;  .  . 
He  came  for  blood,  and  he  shall  have  his 

fill! 
Impious,  away  ! 


Seize  him  !  exclaim' d  tho  Prinoo  ; 

Nor  had  he  time  for  motion  nor  f<»rtlij?ht, 
So  instantly  was  that  command  ol^-y'd. 
Hoamen,  said  Madoc,  hear  mo  !  .   .   I 

came  here,  31 

Stranger  alike  to  Aztlan  and  to  you  ; 
I  fouiul  ye  an  oppre.st  and  wretclird  racr, 
( Iroaning  beneath  your  chains  ;   at  your 

re(|uest, 
For  your  deliverance,  I  unsheathed  tho 

sword. 
Redeem' d  ye  from  your  bondage,  ami 

preser\ed 
Your  children  from  the  slaughter.   With 

those  fo»\s 
Whose  burthen  yo  for  forty  years  en- 
dured. 
This    traitor    hath    conspired,    against 

yourselves. 
Your  Queen,  and  me  your  friend  ;    tho 

solemn  faith  40 

Which   in   the   face  of  yonder  sun  we 

pledged. 
Each  to  tho  other,  this  jxirfidious  man 
Hath  broken,  and  hath  stain'd  his  hands 

this  day 
With  innocent  blood.     Life  must  atone 

for  life  : 
Ere  I  destroy  the  Scrinint,  whom  his 

wiles 
Have  train'd  so  well,  last  victim,  he  shall 

glut 
The  monster's  maw. 

Strike,  man  !  (juoth  Neolin. 
This  is  my  con.summation  !  the  reward 
Of  my  true  faith  !   the  best  that  1  could 

ask. 
The  best  the  God  could  give  :  .  .  to  rc»t 

in  him,  50 

Body  with  body  be  incorporate, 
Soul  into  soul  absorb' d,  and  I  and  He 
One  life,  inseparable,  for  evcrmorr. 
Strike,  1  am  weary  of  this  mortal  part  ; 
Unite  me  to  the  Cod  ! 

Triumphantly 
He  spake  ;   the  assembled  people,  at  bia 

words. 
With  rising  awe  ga/x'd  on  the  mi.Htn-ant ; 
Madoc  himself,  when  now  he  would  have 

given 
The  sign  for  death,  in  admiration  pauwd. 
Such  {wwer  hath  fortitude.   An-l  '"   '-  "^ 

ceived 


540 


MADOC  IN  AZTLAN 


The  auspicious  moment,  and  set  up  his 

cry. 
Forth,  from  the  dark  recesses  of  the 

cave, 
The  Serpent  came  :   the  Hoamen  at  the 

sight 
Shouted,  and  they  who  held  the  Priest, 

appall' d 
Relax' d    their    hold.     On    came    the 

mighty  snake, 
And  twined,  in  many  a  wreath,  round 

Neolin, 
Darting  aright,  aleft,  his  sinuous  neck, 
With  scare liing  eye,  and  lifted  jaw  and 

tongue 
Quivering,  and  hiss  as  of  a  heavy  shower 
Uj)on  the  summer  woods.     The  Britons 

stood  70 

Astounded  at  the  powerful  reptile's  bulk 
And  that  strange  sight.    His  girth  was 

as  of  man, 
But  easily  could  he  have  overtopp'd 
Goliath's   helmed  head,   or   that  huge 

Kmg 
Of  Basan,  hugest  of  the  Anakim  : 
What  then  was  human  strength,  if  once 

involved 
Within  those  dreadful  coils  ?   .   .   The 

multitude 
Fell     prone,     and     worshipp'd ;      pale 

Erillyab  grew, 
And  turn'd  upon  the  Prince  a  doubtful 

eye; 
The  Britons  too  were  pale,  albeit  they 

held  80 

Their  spears  protended  ;   and  they  also 

look'd 
On  Madoc,  who  the  while  stood  silently, 
Contemplating  how  wisehest  he  might 

cope 
With  that  surpassing  strength. 

But  Neolin, 
Well  hoping  now  success,  when  he  had 

awed 
The  general  feeling  thus,  exclaim' d  aloud. 
Blood    for    the    God  !     give    him    the 

Stranger's  blood  ! 
Avenge  him  on  his  foes  !  And  then,  per- 
chance. 
Terror  had  urged  them  to  some  desperate 

deed. 
Had  Madoc  ponder' d  more,  or  paused 

in  act  90 ] 


One     moment.     From     the     sacrificial 

flames 
He  snatch' d  a  firebrand,  and  with  fire 

and  sword, 
Rush'd    at    the    monster :     back    the 

monster  di'ew 
His   head  upraised  recoiling,   and  the 

Prince 
Smote  Neolm ;   all  circled  as  he  was. 
And  dipt  in  his  false  Deity's  embrace, 
Smote    he    the    accursed    Priest ;     the 

avenging  sword 
Fell  on  his  neck ;    thi'ough  flesh  and 

bone  it  drove 
Deep    in    the    chest :      the    wretched 

criminal 
Totter' d,  and  those  huge  rings  a  moment 

held  100 

His  bloody  corpse  upright,  while  Madoc 

struck 
The  Serpent :   twice  he  struck  him,  and 

the  sword 
Glanced  from  the  impenetrable  scales ; 

nor  more 
Avail' d  its   thrust,   though   driven   by 

that  strong  arm  ; 
For  on  the  unyielding  skin  the  temper' d 

blade 
Bent.     He  sprung  upward  then,  and  in 

the  eyes 
Of  the  huge  monster  flashed  the  fiery 

brand. 
Impatient  of  the  smoke  and  bm-ning, 

back 
The    reptile    wreathed,    and   from    his 

loosening  clasp 
Dropt  the  dead  Neolin,  and  turn'd,  and 

fled  no 

To  his  dark  den. 

The  Hoamen,  at  that  sight 
Raised   a   loud   wonder-cry,    with   one 

accord. 
Great  is  the  Son  of  Ocean,  and  his  God 
Is  mightiest !   But  Erillyab  silently 
Approach' d  the  great  Deliverer ;    her 

whole  frame 
Trembled  with  strong  emotion,  and  she 

took 
His  hand,  and  gazed  a  moment  earnestly, 
Having  no  power  of  speech,  till  with  a 

gush 
Of  tears  her  utterance  came,  and  she 

exclaim' d, 


THE   SNAKE   (JOD 


641 


Blessed  art  thou,  uiy  brother!    for  tho 

power  120 

^^i  God  is  in  thee  ! .  .  and  she  would  have 

kissed 

iia  hand  in  adoration  ;    i)ut  ho  crifd. 
iod  is  indi'cil  with  us,  anil  in  hi3  name 
Vill  we  complete  tlio  work  !  .  .  then  to 

the  cave 
\dvanced,   and   call'd  for   fire.     Brincj 

fire  !   quoth  he  ; 
By  his  own  element  the  spawn  of  holl 
^hall  perish  !   atul  ho  onterM,  to  explore 
Ihe    cavern    depths.     Cadwallon     fol- 
low" d  him, 
Bearing  in  either  hand  a  flaming  brand, 
For  sword  or  spear  avail'd  not. 

Far  in  tho  hill, 
!I!ave    within    cave,    the    ample    grotto 

pierced,  131 

Three  chambers  in  the  rock.     Fit  vesti- 
bule 
The  first  to  that  wild  temple,  long  and 

low, 
Shut  out  the  outward  day.     The  second 

vault 
Had  its  own  daj'light  from  a  central 

chasm 
High  in  the  hollow  ;    here  the  Image 

stood. 
Their  rude  idolatry,   .   .   a  sculptured 

snake.  .  . 
If  term   of   art  may  such   mis-.shapen 

form 
Beseem, .  .  around  a  human  figure  coil'd, 
And  all  begrimed  with  blood.     The  in- 
most cell  140 
Dark;    and  far  up  witliin  its  blackest 

depth 
They  saw  the  Serpent's  still  small  eye 

of  fire. 
Not  if  they  thinn'd  the  forest  for  their 

pile, 
Could  they,   with  flame  or  suffocating 

smoke. 
Destroy   him   there;    for   through   the 

open  roof 
Tlif    clouds   would    pass    away.     They 

jjaused  not  long  : 
Drive  him  beneath  thechasm, Cadwallon 

cried. 
And  hem  him  in  with  fire,  and  from 

above 
We  crush  him. 


Forth  they  went  and  climb'd 

the  hill. 
With   all   their   people.      Their  united 

strength  150 

Loo.sen'd  the  rock.**,  and  runted   them 

roiuid  the  brink. 
Impending.     With    Cadwallon    on    tho 

height 
Ten  Britons  wait  ;    ten  with  the  I'rincc 

descend. 
And, wit  h  a  tirebrandeach  in  either  hand. 
Enter     the    outer    cave.     Madoc    ad- 
vanced. 
And  at  the  entrance  of  the  Inner  den, 
He  took   his  stand  alone.     A   bow  ho 

bore, 
And  arrows  round  whose  head.s  dry  tow 

was  twined. 
In   pine-gum  dij)t  ;    he   kindled   these, 

and  shot  159 

The  fiery  shafts.  I'pon  the  scaly  skin. 
As  on  a  rock,  the  bone-tipt  arrow.s  fell  ; 
But,  at  their  bright  and  blazing   light 

etlray'd. 
Out  rush'd  the  reptile.     Madoc  from  hi.i 

path 
Retired  against  the  side,  and  callM  hia 

men. 
And  in  they  came  and  circled  round  the 

Snake, 
And  shaking  all  their  flames,  oa  with 

a  wheel 
Of  fire,  they  ring'd  liim  in.     From  sido 

to  side 
The  monster  turns  ! . .  where'er  he  turn.««, 

the  flame 
Flares  in  his  nostrils  and  his  blinking 

eyes  ; 
Nor  aught  against  the  dreaded  element 
Did  that  brute  force  avail,  which  could 

have  crush' d  i7« 

Milo's  young  limbs.  orTheban  HcrcuJwi. 
Or  old  Manoah's  mightier  son,  ere  yet 
Sliorn  of  his  strength.     They  pri'jw  him 

now,  and  now 
CJive  back,  here  urging,  and  here  yielding 

way. 
Till  ri^ht  beneath  the  cha.«<m  they  centre 

him. 
At  once  the  crags  are  loo*ied,  and  down 

they  fall 
Thundering.   They  fell  like  thunder,  but 

the  crash 


542 


IVIADOC   IN  AZTLAN 


Of  scale  and  bone  was  heard.     In  agony 
The  Serpent  writhed  beneath  the  blow  ; 

in  vain,  180 

From  under  the  incumbent  load  essay' d 
To  drag  his  mangled  folds.     One  heavier 

stone 
Fasten' d  and  flatten' d  him  ;    yet  still, 

with  tail 
Ten  cubits  long,  he  lash'd  the  air,  and 

foined 
From  side  to  side,  and  raised  his  raging 

head 
Above  the  height  of  man,  though  half  his 

length 
Lay  mutilate.     Who  then  had  felt  the 

force 
Of  that  wild  fury,  little  had  to  him 
Buckler  or  corselet  profited,  or  mail. 
Or  might  of  human  arm.     The  Britons 

shrunk  190 

Beyond  its  arc  of  motion ;     but    the 

Prince 
Took  a  long  spear,  and  springing  on  the 

stone 
Which  fix'd  the  monster  do wti, provoked 

his  rage. 
Uplifts   the   Snake   his   head  retorted, 

high 
He  lifts  it  over  Madoc,  then  darts  down 
To  seize  his  prey.     The  Prince,  with  foot 

advanced 
Inclines  his  body  back,  and  points  the 

spear 
With  sure  and  certain  aim,  then  drives 

it  up, 
Into  his  open  jaws  ;   two  cubits  deep 
It  pierced,  the  monster  forcing  on  the 

wound.  200 

He  closed  his  teeth  for  anguish,  and  bit 

short 
The  ashen  hilt.     But  not  the  rage  which 

now 
Clangs  all  his  scales,  can  from  his  seat 

dislodge 
The  barbed  shaft :    nor  those  contor- 
tions wild, 
Nor  those  convulsive  shudderings,  nor 

the  throes 
Which  shake  his  inmost  entrails,  as  with 

the  air 
In  suffocating  gulps  the  monster  now 
Inhales  his  own  life-blood.     The  Prince 

descends ; 


He  lifts  another  lance  ;    and  now  th& 

Snake, 
Gasping,  as  if  exhausted,  on  the  ground 
Reclines  his  head  one  moment.     Madoc 

seized  211 

That  moment,  planted  in  his  eye  the 

spear. 
Then  setting  foot  upon  his  neck,  drove 

down 
Through  bone  and  brain  and  throat,  and 

to  the  earth 
Infixed  the  mortal  weapon.     Yet  once 

more 
I  The  Snake  essay'd  to  rise ;    his  dying 

strength 
Fail'd  him,  nor  longer  did  those  mighty 

folds 
Obey  the  moving  impulse,  crush' d  and 

scotch' d  ; 
In  every  ring,  through  all  his  mangled 

length. 
The  shrinking  muscles   quiver' d,   then 

collapsed  220 

In  death. 

Cadwallon  and  his  comrades  now 
Enter    the  den ;    they  roll    away   the 

crag 
Which  held  him  down,  pluck  out  the 

mortal  spear, 
Then  drag  him  forth  to  day  ;   the  force 

conjoin' d 
Of  all  the  Britons  difficultly  drag 
His     lifeless     bulk.       But     when    the 

Hoamen  saw 
That   form   portentous   trailing   in   its 

gore, 
The  jaws  which,  in  the  morning,  they 

had  seen 
Purpled  with  human  blood,  now  in  their 

own 
Blackening,  .  .  aknee  they  fell  before 

the  Prince,  230 

And  in  adoring  admiration  raised 
Their  hands  with  one  accord,  and  all  in 

fear 
Worshipped  the  mighty  Deicide.     But 

he, 
Recoiling   from    those   sinful    honours, 

cried. 
Drag  out  the  Idol  now,  and  heap  the  fire. 
That  all  may  be  consumed  ! 

Forthwith  they  heap'd 
The  sacrificial  fire,  and  on  the  pile 


i 


THE   SNAKE   GOD 


ftii|i 


543 


The  Serpent   aiul   tln^   Itnapc  and   the 

corpse 
Of    Neolin    were    laiil  ;     with    jirompt 

supply 
They  feed  the  raging  flnme.-^.  hour  aftor 

hour,  240 

Till  now  the  black  and  nauseous  smoke 

is  s}K>nt, 

And  mingled  with  the  ruins  of  the  pile. 
The  undistinguishable  ashes  lay. 
Go  !    cried  Prince  Madoc,  cast  them  in 

the  stream. 
And  scatter  them  u|X)n  the  winds,  that 

so 
No  relic  of  this  foul  idolatry 
! Pollute  the  land.     To-morrow  meet  me 

here. 
Hoamen.  and  I  will  purify  yon  den 
Of  your  abominations.     Come  ye  here 
With  humble  hearts  ;   for  ye,  too,  in  the 

sight  250 

Of  the  Great  Spirit,  the  Beloved  One. 
jMust  be  made  pure,  and  cleansed  from 

your  otYence, 
And  take  upon  yourselves  liis  holy  law. 


!i  VIII.    THE    COXVERSION    OF 
m:  THE    HOAMEN 

llHow  beautiful,  O  Sun,  is  thine  uprise, 
J I  And  on  how  fair  a  scene!    Before  the 

I  i         Cave 
jjI'The  Elders  of  the  Hoamen  wait  the  will 

!iOf    their    Deliverer;     ranged    without 


their  ring 


'The  tribe  look  on,  thronging  the  narrow 
y  '         vale. 

And  what  of  gradual  rise  the  shelving 
.    ;         coml>e 

Displayed,  or  steeper  eminence  of  wood, 
1  Broken  with  crags  and  sunny  slope  of 
lii ;         green, 

I  And  grassy  platform.     With  the  Elders 
,.,, !  Siite 

^^    Tho    Queen    and    Prince,    their   rank's 
prerogative,  xo 

luded  else  for  sex  unfit,  and  youth 
r     counsel     immature.     Before     the 
arch, 
i  J  that  rude  fane,  rude  portal,  stands 
the  Cross, 


By    Madoc's    hand    victorioufl    planted 

t  hrre. 
And  lo.  Prince  Madoc  comos  !  no  longrr 

maird 
In  arms  of  mortal   might  ;    the  Hprar 

and  sword, 
The  hauberk  and  the  lu'hnct  laid  aaidc, 
Ciorget  and  gauntlet,  griev«>H  and  shield. 

.  .  he  comes 
In  iK'Oceful  tunic  clad,  and  mnntlr  long  ; 
His  hyacinthinc  hwks  now  HJiadnwing  so 
That  face,  which  late,   with  iron  over- 

brow'd. 
Struck  from  within  thf  avcntayle  such 

awe 
And  terror  to  the  heait.      Harcheaded 

l>e. 
Following  the  servant  of  the  altar,  leads 
The    reverential    train.     B<'forf    thcni, 

raised 
On  high,  the  sacred  images  are  borne  ; 
There,  in  faint  semblance,  holiest  Mary 

l>ends 
In  virgin  l)eauty  o'er  her  bal)e  divine,  . . 
A  sight  whi(  h  almost  to  idolatry 
Might  win  th«*  soul  by  love.      Hut  who 

can  gaze  jo 

I'pon   that   other  form,   which   on   the 

rooil 
In  ^gony   is  st retch* d  ?   .   .    his   hands 

transfix'd. 
And  lacerate  with  the  iKxly's  pendent 

weight  ; 
The  black  and  deadly  paleneas  of  hia 

face, 
Streak'd  with  the  blood  which  from  that 

crown  of  scorn 
Hath  ceased  to  tlow  ;    the  side  wound 

streaming  still  : 
And  open  still  those  eyes,  from  which 

the  look 
Not  yet  hath  pass'd  away,  that  went  lo 

Heaven, 
When,  in   that    hour,   the  Son  of   .Man 

exclaim'd. 
Forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what 

they  do  !  <• 

And  now  arrivfil  U»fore  the  cavr,  the 

train 
Halt  :    to  the  a>»««'rabl<Hl  Eldera.  whrrr 

thev  Bate 
Ranged'  in    half    circle,    Madoo    then 

advanced. 


544 


MADOC   IN  AZTLAN 


And  raised,  a3  if  in  act  to  speak,  his 

hand. 
Thereat  was  every  human  sound  sup- 
press'd  ; 
And  every  quicken' d  ear  and  eager  eye 
Were  center' d  on  his  Hps. 

The  Prince  began,  .  . 
Hoamen,  friends,  brethren,  .  .  friends 

we  have  been  long, 
And  brethren  shall  be,  ere  the  day  go 

down.  .  . 
I  come  not  here  propounding  doubtful 

things  50 

For  counsel,  and  deUberate  resolve 
Of     searching     thought  ;       but      with 

authority 
From  Heaven,  to  give  the  law,  and  to 

enforce 
Obedience.      Ye     shall     worship    God 

alone, 
The  One  Eternal.     That  Beloved  One 
Ye  shall  not  serve  with  offer  d  fruits,  or 

smoke 
Of  sacrificial  fire,  or  blood,  or  life  : 
Far  other  sacrifice  he  claims,  .  .  a  soul 
Resign' d,  a  will  subdued,  a  heart  made 

clean 
From  all  offence.     Not  for  your  lots  on 

earth,  60 

Menial  or  mighty,  slave  or  highly-born, 
For  cunning  in  the  chase,  or  strength  in 

war, 
Shall  ye  be  judged  hereafter ;  .  .  as  5^0 

keep 
The  law  of  love,  as  ye  shall  tame  your 

wrath, 
Forego  revenge,  forgive  your  enemies. 
Do  good  to  them  that  wrong  ye,  ye  will 

find 
Your  bliss  or  bale.     This  law  came  down 

from  Heaven. 
Lo,  ye  behold  Him  there  by  whom  it 

came  ; 
The  Spirit  was  in  Him,  and  for  the  sins 
Of  man  He  suffered  thus,  and  by  His 

death  ^o 

Must  all  mankind  be  blest.     Not  know- 
ing Him, 
Ye    wander' d   on    in   error ;     knowing 

now. 
And  not  obeying,  what  was  error  once 
Is  guilt  and  wilful  wrong.     If  ever  more 
Ye  bow  to  your  false  deities  the  knee ; 


If  ever  more  ye  worship  them  with  feast, 
Or  sacrifice  or  dance  ;    whoso  offends 
Shall  from  among  the  people  be  cut  off, 
Like  a  corrupted  member,  lest  he  taint 
The    whole    with    death.     With    what 

appointed  rites  80 

Your  homage  must  be  paid,  ye  shall  be 

taught ; 
Your  children,  in  the  way  that  they  shall 

go, 
Be  train' d  from  childhood  up.     Make  ye 

meantime. 
Your  prayer  to  that  Beloved  One,  who 

sees 
The  secrets  of  all  hearts  ;   and  set  ye  up 
This,  the  memorial  of  his  chosen  Son, 
And  Her,  who,  blessed  among  women, 

fed 
The  Appointed  at  Her  breast,  and  by 

His  cross 
Endured   intenser    anguish ;     therefore 

sharing 
His  glory  now,  with  sunbeams  robed, 

the  Moon  90 

Her  footstool,  and  a  wreath  of  stars  her 

crown. 

Hoamen,  ye  deem  us  children  of  a 

race 
Mightier  than  ye,  and  wiser,   and  by 

Heaven 
Beloved  and  favour' d  more.     From  this 

pure  law 
Hath  all  proceeded,  .  .  wisdom,  power, 

what  e'er 
Here  elevates  the  soul,  and  makes  it  ripe 
For  higher  powers  and  more  exalted 

bliss. 
Share  then  our  law,  and  be  with  us.  on 

earth. 
Partakers    of    these    blessings,  and.  in 

Heaven, 
Co-heritors  with  us  of  endless  joy.     100 

Ere  yet  one  breath  or  motion  had 

disturb' d 
The  reverential  hush,  Erillyab  rose. 
My  people,  said  the  Queen,  their  God  is 

best 
And    mightiest.     Him    to    whom    we 

offered  up 
Blood  of  our  blood  and  of  our  flesh  the 

flesh. 


r' 


IlloTe' 


iii; 
ion 


Hi  til! 


THE    CONVERSION    OF    THE    HOAMEX         545 


'ainly  we  deem'd  divine  ;  no  spirit  he 
)f  good  or  evil,  by  the  conquering  arm 
)£  Madoc  mortal  proved.     What  then 

remains 
3ut  that  the  blessing,  proller'd  thus  in 

love, 
ji  love  we  take  ?  .  .  Deliverer,  Teacher, 

Friend,  no 

rirst  in  the  fellowship  of  faith  I  claim 
Che  initiatory  rite. 

I  also,  cried 
The  venerable  Priest  Ayayaca, 
31d  6ts  I  am,  I  also,  like  a  child, 
iVould   learn   this   wisdom   yet    before 

I  die. 
rhe  Elders  rose  and  answer' d,  We  and 

all! 
4nd  from  the  congregated  tribe  burst 

forth 
5ne  universal   shout,  .  .  Great  ia  the 

God 
Of  Madoc,  .  .  worthy  to  be  served  is  He  ! 

Then  to  the  mountain  rivulet,  which 

roll'd  120 

e  amber  over  its  dark  bed  of  rock, 
TDid  Madoc  lead  Erillyab,  in  the  name 
Of  Jesus,  to  his  Christian  family 
Accepted  now.     On  her  and  on  her  sou, 
The  Elders  and  the  People,  Llorien 
Sprinkled  the  sanctifying  waters.     Day 
Was  scarcely  two  hours  old  when  he 

began 
His  work,  and  when  he  ceased,  the  sun 

had  pass'd 
The   heights   of   noon.      Ye   saw   that 

blessed  work. 
Sons  of  the  Cymry,  Cadog,  Deiniol,    130 
Padarn,  and  Teilo  !    ye  whose  sainted 

names 
Your  monumental  temples  still  record  ; 
Thou,  David,  still  revered,  who  in  the 

vale. 
Where,   by  old  Hatterill's  wintry  tor- 
rents swoln 
Rude  Hodney  rolls  his  raging  stream, 

didst  choose 
Thy  hermit  home  ;    and  ye  who  by  the 

sword 
Of  the  fierce  Saxon,  when  the  bloodier 

Monk 
Urged  on  the  work  of  murder,  for  your 

faith 


And  freedom  fell,  .  .  Martyrs  and  Saintt. 

ye  saw 
This   triumph    of   the   Cymry   and   the 

Cross,  "  ,^ 

And  struck  your  golden  harps  to  hymn* 

of  joy. 


IX.    TLALALA 

As  now  the  rites  were  ended,  Caradoo 
Came  from  the  ships,  leading  an  Aztoca 
Guarded    and    bound.     I'rinco    Madoc, 

said  the  Bard, 
Lo  !  the  first  captive  of  oiir  arms  I  bring. 
Alone,  beside  the  river  I  had  stray'd, 
When,  from  his  lurking  place,  the  savage 

hurl'd 
A  javelin.     At  the  rustle  of  the  reods. 
From   whence   the    blow  was   aim'd.   I 

turn'd  in  time, 
And  heard  it  whizz  beside  me.     Well  it 

was. 
That  from  the  ships  they  saw  and  sue- 

cour'd  me  ;  10 

For,  subtle  as  a  serpent  in  my  grasp. 
He  seemed  all  joint  and  flexure  ;    nor 

had  I 
Armour  to  ward,  nor  weapon  to  offend. 
To  battle  all  unused  and  unprepared  ; 
But  I  too  here  upon  this  barbarous  land 
Like  Elmur  and  like  Aronan  of  old, 
Must  lift  the  ruddy  spear. 

This  is  no  day 
For  vengeance,  answer' d  Madoc,  else  his 

deed 
Had  met  no  mercy.     Freely  let  him  go  ! 
Perchance  the  tidings  of  our  triumph 

here  »o 

May  yet  reclaim  his  country.  .  .  Azteca, 
Go,  let  your  Pabaa  know  that  wo  have 

crush'd 
Their    complots    here ;      beneath    our 

righteous  sword 
The   Priest  and   his  false   Deity   have 

fallen  ; 
The  idols  are  consumed,  and  in  their 

stead 
The  emblems  of  our  holy  faith  set  up. 
Whereof    the    Hoamcu    have    this   day 

been  made 
Partakers.     Say  to  Aztlan,  when  she  too 


546 


MADOC  IN  AZTLAN 


Will  make  her  temples  clean,  and  put 

away 
Her  foul  abominations,  and  accept      30 
The  Christian  Cross,  that  Madoc  then 

accords 
Forgiveness  for  the  past,  and  peace  to 

come. 
This  better  part  let  her,  of  her  free  will 
And  wisdom,  choose  In  time. 

Till  Madoc  spake. 
The  captive  reckless  of  his  peril  stood. 
Gazing  with  resolute  and  careless  eye. 
As  one  in  whom  the  lot  of  life  or  death 
Moved  neither  fear  nor  feeling ;    but 

that  eye 
Now  sparkling  with  defiance,  .  .  Seek  ye 

peace  ? 
He  cried  :    0  weak  and  woman-hearted 

man !  40 

Already  wouldst  thou  lay  the  sword  to 

rest  ? 
Not  with  the  burial  of  the  sword  this 

strife 
Must  end,  for  never  doth  the  Tree  of 

Peace 
Strike  root  and  flourish,  till  the  strong 

man's  hand 
Upon  his  enemy's  grave  hath  planted  it. 
Come  ye  to  Aztlan  then  in  quest  of 

peace  ? 
Ye  feeble  souls,  if  that  be  what  ye  seek, 
Fly  hence  !    our  Aztlan  suffers  on  her 

soil 
No  living  stranger. 

Do  thy  bidding,  Chief  ! 
Calmly  Cadwallon  answered.     To   her 

choice  so 

Let   Aztlan   look,   lest   what   she   now 

reject 
In  insolence  of  strength,  she  take  upon 

her, 
In    sorrow    and    in    suffering    and    in 

shame. 
By  strong  compulsion,  penitent  too  late. 
Thou  hast  beheld  our  ships  with  gallant 

men 
Freighted,  a  numerous  force,  .  .  and  for 

our  arms,  .  . 
Surely  thy  nation  hath  acquired  of  them 
Disastrous  knowledge. 

Curse  upon  your  arms  ! 
Exclaim' d  the  savage :  .  .  Is  there  one 

among  you 


Dare  lay  that  cowardly  advantage  by. 
And  meet  me,  man  to  man,  in  honest 

strife  ?  61 

That  I  might  grapple  with  him,  weapon- 
less. 
On  yonder  rock,  breast  against  breast, 

fair  force 
Of  limb  and  breath  and  blood, . .  till  one, 

or  both, 
Dash'd  down  the  shattering  precipice, 

should  feed 
The  mountain  eagle  !  .  .  Give  me,  I  be- 

seech  you. 
That  joy  ! 

As  wisely,  said  CynetVia's  son, 
Thy  foe  might  challenge  thee,  and  bid 

thee  let 
Thy  strong  right  hand  hang  idle  in  the 

fray. 
That  so  his  weakness  with  thy  strength 

might  cope  70 

In  equal  battle  !  .  .  Not   in  wrongful 

war, 
The  tyrants  of  our  weaker  brethren. 
Wield  we  these  dreadful  arms,  .  .  but 

when  assail' d 
By  fraud  and  force,  when  call'd  upon  to 

aid 
The  feeble  and  oppress' d,  shall  we  not 
Then  put  our  terrors  forth,  and  thunder- 
strike 
The  guilty  ? 

Silently  the  Savage  heard  ; 
Joy  brighten' d  in  his  eyes,  as  they  un- 
loosed 
His   bonds  ;    he  stretch' d  his  arms  at 

length,  to  feel 
His  Uberty,  and  like  a  greyhound  then 
Slipt  from  the  leash,  he  bounded  o'er 

the  hills.  81 

What  was  from  early  morning  till  noon 

day 
The  steady  travel  of  a  well-girt  man. 
He,  with  fleet  feet  and  unfatiguable. 
In  three  short  hours  hath  traversed  ;  in 

the  lake 
He   plunged,    now   shooting   forth   his 

pointed  arms,     • 
Arrow-like  darting  on  ;  recumbent  now. 
Forces   with   springing  feet   his   easier 

way  ; 
Then  with  new  speed,  as  freshen' d  by 

repose, 


TLALALA 


'47 


j^ain  he  breasts  the  water.      On  the 
shore  90 

[  Aztlan  now  he  stands,  and  breathes 

at  will. 
nd   wrings  his  dripping  locks  ;    then 

through  the  gate 
ursued  his  way. 

Green  garlands  deck  the  gate  ; 
ay  are  the  temples  with  green  boughs 

affix'd ; 
he  door-posts  and  the  lintels  hung  with 

wreaths ; 
he  fire  of  sacrifice,   with  flames  be- 

dimm'd, 
turns  in  the  sun-light,  pale;  the  victims 

wait 
round,     impatient     of     their     death 

delay' d. 
he  Priest,  before  Tezcalipoca's  shrine, 
batches  the  maize-strewn  threshold,  to 
announce  100 

!he  footsteps  of  the  God ;   for  this  the 

day, 

Then  to  his  favoured  city  he  vouchsafes 
[is  annual  presence,  and,  with  unseen 
feet, 
prints  the  maize-strewn  threshold  ; 
follow' d  soon 
Jy  all  whose  altars  with  eternal  fires 
Lztlan  illumed,   and  fed   with  human 

blood ;  .  . 
fexitii,    woman-born,    who    from    the 

womb, 

!!!hild  of  no  mortal  sire,  leapt  terrible, 
Che    arm'd    avenger    of    his    mother's 
I        fame  ; 

knd  he  whose  will  the  subject  winds 
I        obey,  1 10 

Quetzalcoal ;    and  Tlaloc,  Water-God, 
And  all  the  host  of  Deities,  whose  power 
Requites  with   bounty   Aztlan's   pious 

zeal, 
Health  and  rich  increase  giving  to  her 

sons, 
And  withering  in  the  war  her  enemies. 
80   taught   the   Priests,   and   therefore 

were  the  gat«8 
Green-garlanded,     the    temples    green 

with  boughs. 
The  door-posts  and  the  lintels  hung  with 

wreaths  ; 
And  yonder  victims,  ranged  around  the 
fire,  119 


Are  dostin'd,  with  the  steam  of  B*crilicc, 
To  greet  their  dreadful  coming. 

With  the  train 
Of  warrior  Chiefs  Coanocotzin  hiooti. 
That   when   the   Priest   prodaim'd   the 

enter'd  CJod, 
His  lips  before  tiie  present  Deity 
Might     pour     effectual     prayer.      The 

assembled  Chiefs 
Saw  Tlalala   approach,    more   welcomo 

now, 
As  one  whoso  absence  from  the  appointed 

rites 
Had  waken'd  fear  and  wonder.  .  .  Think 

not  ye, 
The  youth  exclaim'd,  careless  impiety 
Could    this    day    lead    me    wandering. 

I  went  forth  130 

To   dip   my   javelin   in    the   Strangers' 

blood,  .  . 
A  sacrifice,  raethought,  our  Gods  had 

loved 
To  scent,  and  sooner  hasten'd  to  enjoy. 
I  fail'd,  and  fell  a  prisoner  ;    but  their 

fear 
Released  me,  .  .  coward  fear,  or  childish 

hope. 
That,  like  Yuhidthiton,  I  might  become 
Their   friend,    and   merit   chastisement 

from  Heaven, 
Pleading  the  Strangers'   cause.     They 

bade  me  go 
And  proffer  peace.   .   .   Chiefs,   were  it 

possible 
That  tongue  of  mine  could  win  you  to 

that  shame,  140 

Out  would  I  pluck  the  member,  though 

my  soul 
Followed  its  bloody  roots.    The  Stranger 

finds 
No  peace  in  Aztlan,  but   the  peace  of 

death  ! 

'Tis  bravely  said!  Yuhidthiton  replied. 
And  fairly   may'st   thou   boa^jt,  young 

Tlalala. 
For    thou    art    brave    in    battle.     Yet 

'twere  well 
If  that  same  fearless  tongue  were  tau^'ht 

to  check 
Its  boyifllj  licence  now.      No  law  forbade 
C)ur  friendship  with  the  Stranger,  when 

my  voice 


548 


MADOC  IN   AZTLAN 


Pleaded  for  proffered  peace  ;   that  fault 
I  shared  150 

In  common  with  the  King,  and  with  the 
Chiefs, 

The  Pabas  and  the  People,  none  fore- 
seeing 

Danger  or  guilt :    but  when  at  length 
the  Gods 

Made  evident  their  wrath  in  prodigies, 

I  yielded  to  their  manifested  will 

My  prompt  obedience.  .  .  Bravely  hast 
thou  said, 

And  brave  thou  art,  young  Tiger  of  the 
War  ! 

But  thou  hast  dealt  with  other  enemies 

Than  these  impenetrable  men,  .  .  with 
foes. 

Whose  conquered  Gods  lie  idle  in  their 
chains,  x6o 

And   with   tame  weakness   brook  cap- 
tivity. 

When  thou  hast  met  the  Strangers  in  the 
fight, 

And  in  the  doings  of   that  fight  out- 
done 

Yuhidthiton,  revile  him  then  for  one 

Slow   to   defend    his   country  and    his 
faith ; 

Till  then,  with  reverence,  as  beseems  thy 
youth, 

Respect  thou  his  full  fame  ! 

I  wrong  it  not  ! 

I  wrong  it  not !  cried  the  young  Azteca  ; 

But  truly,  as  I  hope  to  equal  it, 

Honour  thy  well-earned  glory.  .  .  But 
this  peace  !  .  .  170 

Renounce  it !  .  .  say  that  it  shall  never 
be!  .  . 

Never,  .  .  as  long  as  there  are  Gods  in 
Heaven, 

Or  men  in  Aztlan  ! 

That,  the  King  replied, 

The   Gods   themselves   have  answer' d. 
Never  yet 

By  holier  ardour  were  our  countrymen 

Possess' d  ;  peace-offerings  of  repentance 
fill 

The  temple  courts  ;    from  every  voice 
ascends 

The  contrite  prayer;  daily  the  victim's 
heart,  178 

Sends  its  propitiatory  steam  to  Heaven  ; 

And  if  the  aid  divine  may  be  procured 


By  the  most  dread  solemnities  of  faith, 
And  rigour  of  severest  penitence, 
Soon     shall     the     present      influence 

strengthen  us, 
And  Aztlan  be  triumphant. 

While  they  spake, 
The  ceaseless  sound  of  song  and  instru- 
ment 
Rung  through  the  air,  now  rising  like 

the  voice 
Of  angry  ocean,  now  subsiding  soft, 
As    when    the    breeze    of   evening    dies 

away. 
The   horn,    and   shrill-toned   pipe,    and 

drum,  that  gave 
Its  music  to  the  hand,   and  hollow' d 

wood,  190 

Drum-like,   whose  thunders,   ever  and 

anon. 
Commingling  with  the  sea-shell's  spiral 

roar. 
Closed  the  full  harmony.     And  now  the 

eve 
Pass'd  on,   and,   through  the  twilight 

visible. 
The     frequent     fire-flies'      brightening 

beauties  shone. 
Anxious    and    often    now    the    Priest 

inspects 
The  maize-strewn  threshold  ;    for  the 

wonted  hour 
Was  come,  and  yet  no  footstep  of  the 

God !  ^ 

More  radiant  now  the  fire  of  sacrifice. 
Fed  to  full  fury,  blazed  ;    and  its  red 

smoke  200 

Imparted  to  the  darker  atmosphere 
Such    obscure    light    as,    o'er    Vesuvio 

seen, 
Or  pillared  upon  Etna's  mountain-head, 
Makes  darkness  dreadful.     In  the  cap- 
tives' cheeks 
Then  might  a  livid  paleness  have  been 

seen. 
And  wilder  terror  in  their  ghastly  eyes. 
Expecting  momently  the  pang  of  death. 
Soon  in  the  multitude  a  doubt  arose. 
Which   none    durst    mention,    lest    his 

neighbour's  fears. 
Divulged,  should  strengthen  his ;  .  .  the 

hour  was  past,  210 

And    yet    no    foot    had    mark'd    the 

sprinkled  maize  ! 


I' 


!:• 


mis 
U 


1- 
d 


THE    ARRIVAL   OF   THE   GODS 


649 


X.    THE   ARRIVAL  OF 
THE   GODS 

Now  every  moment  gave  their  doubts 
new  force. 

And  every  wondering  eye  disclosed  the 
fear 

Which  on  the  tongue  was  trembling, 
when  to  the  King, 

Emaciate  like  some  bare  anatomy. 

And  deadly  pale,  Tezozomoc  was  led, 

By  two  supporting  Priests.     Ten  pain- 
ful months. 

Immured  amid  the  forest  had  he  dwelt, 

In  abstinence  and  solitary  prayer 

Passing  his  nights  and  days  ;    thus  did 
the  Gods 

From  their  High  Priest  exact,  when  they 
enforced,  lo 

By  danger  or  distress,  the  penance  due 

For  public  sins  ;    and  he  had  dwelt  ten 
months. 

Praying  and  fasting  and  in  solitude. 

Till  now  might  every  bone  of  his  lean 
limbs 

Be  told,  and  in  his  starved  and  bony  face 

The  living  eye  appeared  unnatural,  .  . 

A  ghostly  sight. 

In  breathless  eagerness 

The  multitude  drew  round  as  he  began, . . 

0  King,   the  Gods  of  Aztlan  are  not 
come  ; 

They  will  not  come  before  the  Strangers' 
blood  20 

Smoke  on  their  altars  :    but  they  have 
beheld 

My  days  of  prayer,  and  nights  of  watch- 
fulness, 

And   fasts   austere,   and   bloody   disci- 
plines, 

And  have  reveal' d  their  pleasure.    Who 
is  here, 

Who  to  the  White  King's  dwelling-place 
dare  go, 

And  execute  their  will  ? 

Scarce  had  he  said. 

When  Tlalala  exclaim'd,  I  am  the  man. 

Hear  then  !    Tezozomoc  replied,  .   . 
Ye  know 
That  self-denial  and  long  penance  purge 
The  film  and  foulness  of  mortalitv,      30 


For  more  immediate  intercourse  with 

Heaven 
Preparing  the  pure  spirit ;    and  nil  pycH 
May  witness  that  with  no  relaxing  /.cal 
1   have   wrforni'd   my   duty.     Much   I 

fear  d 
For  Aztlan's  sins,  and  oft  in  bittcmeH,H, 
Have  groan'd  and  bled  for  her  iiii(|uity  ; 
But  chi','tly  for  this  solemn  day  the  fear 
Was  strong  upon  me,  lest  her  Deities, 
Estranged,  should  turn  away,  and  we  bo 

left 
A  spiritless  and  God-abandoned  race, 
A   warning   to   the  earth.     Ten   weary 

months  41 

Have  the  raw  maize  and  running  water 

been 
My  only  food  ;   but  not  a  grain  of  maize 
Hath  stay'd  the  gnawing  appetite,  nor 

drop 
Of  water  cool'd  my  parch'd  and  painful 

tongue. 
Since    yester-morn    arose.     Fasting    I 

pray'd, 
And,  praying,  gash'd  myself ;    and  all 

night  long, 
I    watch'd   and    wept   and   supplicated 

Heaven. 
Till  the  weak  flesh,  its  life-blood  almost 

drain'd.  49 

Sunk  with  the  long  austerity  :  a  dread 
Of  death  came  over  me  ;  a  deathy  chill 
Ran    through    my  veins,  and  loosen'd 

every  limb  ; 
Dim  grew  mine  eyes  ;    and  I  could  feel 

my  heart 
Dying  away  within  me,  intermit 
Its  slow  and  feeble  throbs,  then  sud- 
denly 
Start,  as  it  scem'd  exerting  all  its  force 
In  one  last  effort.     On  the  ground  1  fell, 
I  know  not  if  entranced,  or  dead  indeed, 
But  without  motion,  hearing,  sight,  or 

sense. 
Feeling,  or  breath,  or  life.     From  that 

strange  state,  ** 

Even  in  such  blessed  freedom  from  all 

pain. 
That   sure   I   thought   myself   in   very 

Heaven, 
I  woke,  and  raised  my  eyelidji.  and  l)ehold 
A  light  which  seemed  to  penetrate  my 

bones 


650 


MADOC  IN  AZTLAN 


I,  meantime,  will  seek 
power,   Mexitli's 
with 


With  life  and  health.  Before  me,  visible, 
Stood  Cbatlantona  ;  a  wreath  of  flowers 
Circled  her  hair,  and  from  their  odorous 

leaves 
Arose  a  lambent  flame  ;   not  fitfully, 
Nor  with  faint  flash  or  spark  of  earthly 

flowers  ; 
From  these,  for  ever  flowing  forth,  there 

play'd  70 

tn  one  perpetual  dance  of  pointed  light. 
The  azure  radiance  of  innocuous  fire. 
She  spake.  .  .  Hear,  Aztlan  !    and  give 

ear,  0  King  ! 
She  said,  Not  yet  the  offended  Gods 

relax 
Their  anger  ;  they  require  the  Strangers' 

blood, 
The  foretaste   of   their   banquet.     Let 

their  will 
Be  known  to  Aztlan,   and  the  brave 

perform 
Their  bidding 

to  soothe, 
With   all   a  mother's 

wrath. 
So   let   the  Maidens   daily   with  fresh 

flowers  80 

Garland  my  temple  !  .  .  Daily  with  fresh 

flowers 
Garland  her  temple,  Aztlan  !  and  revere 
The  gentle  mother  of  thy  guardian  God  ! 

And  let  the  brave,  exclaim' d  young 

Tlalala, 
Perform  her  bidding  !    Servant  of  the 

Gods, 
Declare  their  will !  .  .  Is  it,  that  I  should 

seek 
The  Strangers,  in  the  first  who  meets 

my  way 
To  plunge  the  holy  weapon  ?    Say  thou 

to  me 
Do  this  ;  .  .  and  I  depart  to  do  the  deed, 
Though    my   life-blood   should   mingle 

with  the  foe's.  90 

0   brave   young   Chief !     Tezozomoc 

replied. 
With  better  fortune  may  the  grateful 

Gods 
Reward  thj'  valour  !   deed  so  hazardous 
They  ask  not.     Couldst  thou  from  the 

mountain  holds 


Tempt  one  of  these  rash  foemen  to 
pursue 

Thine  artful  flight,  an  ambush' d  band 
might  rise 

Upon  the  unsuspecting  enemy. 

And  intercept  his  way ;  then  hither- 
ward 

The  captive  should  be  led,  and  Aztlan' s 
Gods 

On  their  own  altars  see  the  sacrifice,  100 

Well  pleased,  and  Aztlan' s  sons,  in- 
spirited, 

Behold  the  omen  of  assured  success. 

Thou  know'st  that  Tlaloc's  annual 
festival 

Is  close  at  hand.  A  Stranger's  child 
would  prove 

A  victim,  whose  rare  value  would 
deserve 

His  certain  favour.     More  I  need  not 


say. 


and 


Choose  thou  the  force  for  ambush 
thyself 

Alone,  or  with  a  chosen  comrade, 

The  mountain  dwellers. 

Instant  as  he  ceased, 

Ocellopan  began  ;   I  go  with  thee,     no 

0  Tlalala  !  My  friend  !  .  .  If  one  alone 

Could  have  the  honour  of  this  enter- 
prize, 

My  love  might  yield  it  thee  ;  .  .  but  thou 
wilt  need 

A  comrade.  .  .  Tlalala,  I  go  with  thee  ! 

Whom,  the  Chief  answer' d,  should  my 
heart  select, 

Its  tried  companion  else,  but  thee,  so 
oft 

My  brother  in  the  battle  ?     We  will  go, 

Shedder    of    blood !    together  will    we 

go. 
Now,  ere  the  midnight ! 

Nay  !  the  Priest  replied, 
A  little  while  delay,  and  ere  ye  go,  120 
Devote  yourselves  to  Heaven  !    Feebly 

he  spake 
Like   one   exhausted ;     gathering  then 

new  force, 
As  with  laborious  effort,  he  pursued,  .  . 
Bedew  Mexitli's  altar  with  your  blood. 
And  go  beneath  his  guidage.     I  have 

yet 
Strength  to  officiate,  and  to  bless  your 

zeal. 


THE   ARRIVAL   OF   THE   GODS 


551 


So  saying,  to  the  Temple  of  the  God 
He  led  the  way.     Tlie  warriors  follow' d 

him  ; 
And  with  his  chiefs,  Connocotzin  went. 
To  grace  with  all  solemnity  the  rito.  130 
They  pass  the   Wall   of  ScriKMits,   and 

ascend 
The  massive  fabric  ;    four  times   they 

surround 
Its  ample  square,  the  fifth  they  reach 

the  height. 
There,  on  the  level  top,   two  temple- 
towers 
Were    rear'd ;     the    one    Tezcalii>oca's 

fane. 
Supreme   of   Heaven,    where   now    the 

wily  Priest 
Stood,  watchful  for  his  presence,  and 

observed 
The  maize-strewn  threshold.      His  the 

other  pile. 
By  whose  peculiar  power  and  patronage 
Aztlan  was  blest,  Mexitli,  woman-born. 
Before  the  entrance,  the  eternal  tire   141 
Was  burning  ;   bare  of  foot  they  enter' d 

there. 

On  a  blue  throne,  with  four  huge  silver 

snakes. 
As  if  the  keepers  of  the  sanctuary. 
Circled,  with  stretching  neck  and  fangs 

displaj-'d, 
Mexitli  sate  :    another  graven  snake 
Belted  with  scales  of  gold  his  monster 

bulk. 
Around   the   neck   a   loathsome   collar 

hung. 
Of  human  hearts  ;  the  face  was  mask'd 

with  gold. 
His  specular  eyes  seem'd  fire  ;  one  hand 

uprear'd  150 

A  club,  the  other,  as  in  battle,  held 
The   shield ;     and   over   all   suspended 

hung 
The  banner  of  the  nation.     They  beheld 
In  awe,  and  knelt  before  the  Terrible 

God. 

Guardian  of  Aztlan  !  cried  Tezozomoc, 

Who  to  thy  mortal  mother  hast  assign'd 

The  kingdom  o'er  all  trees  and  arborets. 

And  herbs  and  flowers,  giving  her  endless 

life, 


A  Deity  among  the  Deitie«  ; 

While  Coatlantona  implores  thy  lovo  i6e 

To  thine  own  jK-ople,  they  in  fear  ftj>. 

proach 
Thy   aweful   fane,    who    know   no   fear 

beside. 
And  olTer  up  the  worthiest  Bacrificc, 
The  blood  of  heroes  ! 

To  the  ready  Chiefs 
He  turn'd,  and  said.  Now  stretch  your 

arms,  and  make 
The  offering  to  the  (Jo<l.     They   their 

bare  arms 
Stretch'd  forth,  and  stabh'd  thrm  with 

the  aloe-ix)int. 
Then,  in  a  golden  vase,  Tezozomoc 
Received  the  mingled  streams,  and  held 

it  up  169 

Toward  the  giant  Idol,  and  cxclaira'd, 
Terrible  God  !    Protector  of  our  realm  ! 
Receive  thine  incense  !    Let  the  steam 

of  blood 
Ascend  to  thee,  delightful  !    So  mayest 

thou 
Still  to  thy  chosen  people  lend  thine  aid  ; 
And  these  blaspheming  strangers  from 

the  earth 
Be  swept  away  ;    as  erst  the  monster 

race 
Of  Mammuth.  Heaven's  tierce  ministore 

of  wrath. 
Who  drain'd  the  lakes  in  thirst,  and  for 

their  food 
Exterminated  nations.     And  as  when. 
Their  dreadful  ministry  of  death  fulHII'd, 
Ipalnemoani,  by  whom  we  live,  i«i 

Bade    thee    go    forth,    and    with    thy 

hghtnings  fill 
The   vault   of   Heaven,    and    with    thy 

thunders  rock 
The  rooted  earth,  till  of  the  monstor 

race 
Only     their     monumental     bones     rc- 

main'd,  .  . 
So  arm  thy  favour'd  ixx)ple  with  thy 

mi^'ht. 
Terrible  God  !   and  purify  the  land 
Frotn  these  blaspheming'  fofa  ! 

lie  Haid.  &nd  gave 
Ocellopan  the  vase.  .  .  Clucfs,  ye  have 

jHJur'd 
Your    strength    and    courage    to    tli« 

Terrible  God,  «90 


552 


MADOC   IN  AZTLAN 


Devoted  to  his  service  ;   take  ye  now 
The    beverage    he    hath    hallow' d.     In 

your  youth 
Ye    have    quaff' d    manly    blood,    that 

manly  thoughts 
Might  ripen  in  j-our  hearts ;    so  now 

with  this, 
Which  mingling  from  such  noble  veins 

hath  flowed, 
Increase   of   valour   drink,    and   added 

force. 
Ocellopan  received  the  bloody  vase, 
And  drank,  and  gave  in  silence  to  his 

friend 
The  consecrated  draught ;   then  Tlalala 
Drain' d  off  the  offering.     Braver  blood 

than  this  200 

My  lips  can  never  taste  !  quoth  he  ;  but 

soon 
Grant  me,  Mexitli,  a  more  grateful  cup, . . 
The  Stranger's  life  ! 

Are  all  the  rites  perform' d  ? 
Ocellopan  enquired.     Yea,  all  is  done, 
Answer"  d    the    Priest.     Go !     and    the 

guardian  God 
Of  Aztlan  be  vour  guide  ! 

They  left  the  fane. 
Lo  !    as  Tezozomoc  was  passing  by 
The  eternal  fire,  the  eternal  fire  shot  up 
A   long   blue   flame.     He   started ;     he 

exclaim' d. 
The    God  1     the    God  I     Tezcalipoca's 

Priest  210 

Echoed  the  welcome  cry,  The  God  !  the 

God! 
For  lo  !  his  footsteps  mark  the  maize- 
strewn  floor. 
A  mighty  shout  from  all  the  multitudes 
Of  Aztlan  rose  ;  they  cast  into  the  fire 
The  victims,  whose  last  shrieks  of  agony 
Mingled  unheeded  with  the  cries  of  joy. 
Then  louder  from  the  spiral  sea-shell's 

depth 
Swell'd   the   full   roar,    and   from    the 

hollow  wood 
Peal'd    deeper    thunders.     Round    the 

choral  band. 
The  circling  nobles,  gay  with  gorgeous 

plumes,  220 

And  gems  which  sparkled  to  the  mid- 
night fire. 
Moved  in  the  solemn  dance ;    each  in 

his  hand, 


In  measured  movements  lifts  the  fea- 

thery  shield. 
And  shakes  a  rattling  ball  to  measured 

sounds. 
With  quicker  steps,  the  inferior  chiefs 

without, 
Equal  in  number,  but  in  just  array. 
The  spreading  radii  of  the  mystic  wheel, 
Revolve  ;    and,  outermost,  the  youths 

roll  round, 
In   motions   rapid   as   their   quicken' d 

blood. 
So  thus  with  song  and  harmony  the 

night  230 

Pass'd  on  in  Aztlan,  and  all  hearts  re- 
joiced. 


XL    THE   CAPTURE 

Meantime  from  Aztlan,  on  their  enter- 
prize, 
Shedder  of  Blood  and  Tiger  of  the  War. 
Ocellopan  and  Tlalala  set  forth. 
With    chosen    followers,    through    the 

silent  night, 
Silent  they  travell'd  on.     After  a  way 
Circuitous  and  far  through  lonely  tracks, 
The}'  reach' d  the  mountains,  and  amid 

the  shade 
Of    thickets    covering    the    uncultured 

slope. 
Their     patient     ambush     placed.     The 

chiefs  alone 
Held   on,    till   winding  in   ascent   they 

reach' d  10 

The   heights    which   o'er   the   Briton's 

mountain  hold 
Impended  ;    there  they  stood,  and  by 

the  moon 
Who    yet,    with    undiminished    lustre, 

hung 
High  in  the  dark  blue  firmament,  from 

thence 
Explored  the  steep  descent.  Precipitous 
The  rock  beneath  them  lav,  a  sudden 

cliff 
Bare    and   unbroken ;     in    its    midway 

holes. 
Where  never  hand  could  reach,  nor  eye 

intrude. 
The  eagle  built  her  eyrie.     Farther  on, 


THE  CAPTURE 


653 


Ita  interrupted  crags  and  ancient  woods 
Offered  a  difficult  way.     From  crag  to 

crag,  21 

By  rocky  shelf,  by  trunk,  or  root,  or 

bough, 
A  painful  toil  and  perilous  they  pass'd  ; 
And  now,  st retch' d  out  amid  the  matted 

shrubs. 
Which,  at  the  entrance  of  the  valley, 

clothed 
The  rugged  bank,  they  crouch'd. 

By  this  the  stars 
Grew  dim  ;    the  glow-worm  hath    put 

out  her  lamp  ; 
The  owls  have  ceased  their  night  song. 

On  the  top 
Of  yon  magnolia  the  loud  turkey's  voice 
Is  heralding  the  dawn  ;    from  tree  to 

tree  30 

Extends  the  wakening  watch-note,  far 

and  wide, 
Till  the  whole  woodlands  echo  with  the 

cry. 
Now  breaks  the  morning  ;  but  as  yet  no 

foot 
Hath  mark'd  the  dews,  nor  sound  of 

man  is  heard. 
Then  first  Ocellopan  beheld,  where  near. 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  a  half -roof 'd  hut, 
A  sleeping  Stranger  lay.     He  pointed 

him 
To  Tlalala.     The  Tiger  look'd  around  : 
None  else  was  nigh.  .  .  Shall  I  descend, 

he  said. 
And  strike  him  ?  here  is  none  to  see  the 

deed.  40 

We  offered  to  the  Gods  our  mingled  blood 
Last  night  ;    and  now,  I  deem  it,  they 

present 
An  offering  which  shall  more  propitiate 

them, 
And  omen  sure  success.     I  will  go  down 
And  kill ! 

He  said,  and,  gliding  like  a  snake, 
Where  Caradoc  lay  sleeping  made  his 

way. 
Sweetly  slept  he,  and  pleasant  were  his 

dreams 
Of  Britain,  ajid  the  blue-eyed  maid  he 

loved. 
The  Azteca  stood  over  him  ;   he  knew 
His  victim,  and  the  power  of  vengeance 

gave  50 

T 


Malignant  joy.     Once  haat  thou  'scajwd 

my  arm  : 
But   what  shall   save   thee   now  ?     the 

Tiger  thought, 
Exultuig  ;    and  ho  raised  his  epear  to 

strike. 
That  instant,  o'er  the  Briton's  unK'cn 

harp 
The  gale  of  morning  pass'd,  and  swept 

its  strings 
Into  so  sweet  a  harmony,  that  euro 
It  seem'd  no  earthly  tone.     The  savage 

man 
Suspends  his  stroke  ;  he  looks  astonish'd 

round  ; 
No  human  hand  is  near  :  .  .  ajid  hnrk  I 

again  59 

The  aerial  music  swells  and  dies  away. 
Then  first  the  heart  of  Tlalala  felt  fear  : 
He  thought  that  some  protecting  spirit 

watch' d 
Beside  the  Stranger,  and,  abash'd,  with- 
drew. 

A  God  protects  him  !   to  Ocellopan. 
Whispering,   he  said.     Didst   thou   not 

hear  the  sound 
Which  enter'd  into  me.  and  fix'd  my 

arm 
Powerless  above  him  ? 

Was  it  not  a  voice 
From  thine  own  Gods  to  strengthen  thee. 

replied 
His  sterner  comrado.  and  make  evident 
Their  pleasure  in  the  deed  ? 

Nay  :  Tlalala  70 
Rejoin' d  ;    they  8jx;ak  in  darkness  and 

in  storms  : 
The  thunder  is  their  voice,  that  jwals 

through  heaven. 
Or,  rolling  underneath  us,  makes  earth 

rock 
In   tempest,   and  destroys  the  sons  of 

men. 
It  was  no  sound  of  theirH.  Ocelloimn  ! 
No  voice  to  hearten,  .  .  for  I  felt  it  |muw 
Unmanning  every  limb  :   yea.  it  rrlax'd 
The    sinews   of    mv    soul.     Shedder    of 

Blood. 
I  cannot  lift  my  hand  again.st  tiie  man. 
Go,  if  thy  heart  l>c  stroneer  ! 

Bijt  meantime  80 
Young  Caradoc  arose,  of  lu.«i  cscaj^ 


554 


MADOC   IN  AZTLAN 


Unconscious  ;    and  by  this  the  stirring 

sounds 
Of  day  began,  increasing  now,  as  all 
Now  to  their  toil  betake  them.     Some 

go  fell 
The  stately  tree ;   some  from  the  trunk 

low-laid 
Hew  the  huge  boughs ;    here  round  the 

fire  they  char 
The  stake-points  ;   here  they  level  with 

a  line 
The  ground-plot,  and  infix   the  ready 

piles. 
Or,    interknitting    them    with    osiers, 

weave 
The   wicker    wall ;     others    along    the 

lake,  90 

From  its  shoal  waters  gather  reeds  and 

canes,  .  . 
Light  roofing,  suited  to  the  genial  sky. 
The    woodman's  measured   stroke,  the 

regular  saw. 
The  wain  slow-creaking  and  the  voice 

of  man 
Answering  his  fellow,  or,  in  single  toil. 
Cheering    his    labour    with   a   cheerful 

song. 
Strange  concert   made   to  those  tierce 

Aztec  as, 
Who,  beast-like,  in  their  silent  lurking 

place 
Couch'd  close  and  still,  observant  for 

their  prey. 

All  overseeing,  and  directing  all,     100 
From  place  to  place  moved  Madoc,  and 

beheld 
The  dwellings  rise.     Young  Hoel  at  his 

side 
Ran  on,  best  pleased  when  at  his  Uncle's 

side 
Courting    indulgent    love.     And    now 

they  came 
Beside  the  half -roof  d  hut  of  Caradoc  ; 
Of  all  the  mountain-dwelhngs,  that  the 

last. 
The  little  boy,  in  boyish  wantonness, 
A\'ould  quit  his  Uncle's  hold,  and  haste 

away 


Now  toward  the  entrance  of  the  valley 

straits. 
But  wheresoe'er  he  turned,  Ocellopan 
With  hunter' s-eye  pursued  his  heedless 

course. 
In     breath-suspending     vigilance.     Ah 

me  ! 
The  little  wretch  toward  his  lurking- 
place 
Draws  near,  and  calls  on  Madoc  ;    and 

the  Prince 
Thinks  of  no  danger  nigh,  and  follows 

not 
The  childish  lure  !    nearer  the  covert 

now 
Young  Hoel  runs,  and  stops,  and  calls 

again  ; 
Then,   like   a  lion,  from  his   couching 

place  120 

Ocellopan  leapt  forth,   and  seized  his 

prey. 

Loud  shriek' d  the  affrighted  cliild,  as 

in  his  arms 
The  savage  grasp'd  him  ;    startled  at 

the  cry, 
Madoc  beheld  him  hastening  through 

the  pass. 
Quick  as  instinctive  love  can  urge  his 

feet 
He  follows,  and  he  now  almost  hath 

reach' d 
The    incumber' d    ravisher,    and    hope 

inspires 
New  speed, . .  yet  nearer  now,  and  nearer 

still. 
And  lo  !    the  child  holds  out  his  little 

arms  ! 
That  instant,  as  the  Prince  almost  had 

laid  130 

His  hand  upon  the  boy,  young  Tlalala 
Leapt  on  his  neck,  and  soon,  though 

Madoc' s  strength 
W'ith  frantic  fury  shook  him  from  his 

hold. 
Far    down    the    steep    Ocellopan    had 

fled. 
Ah  I  what  avails  it  now,  that  they,  by 

whom 


With    childhood's    frolic    speed,    then  ■  Madoc   was    standing   to   survey  their 

laugh  aloud,  toil, 

To  tempt  pursuit,  now  running  to  the    Have  raiss'd  their  Chief,  and  spread  the 

liuts,  no  1  quick  alarm  ? 


Jl 


THE   CAPTURE 


What  now  avails  it,  that  with  distant 

aid. 
His  gallant  mon  come  down  ?  Regarding 

nought 
But   Hoel,    but    the   wretched   Llaian's 

grief,  140 

He  rushes  on  ;   and  ever  as  he  draws 
Near  to  the  child,  the  Tiger  Tlalala 
Impedes  his  way  ;    and  now  they  reach  1 

the  place 
Of   ambush,   and   the   ambush' d   band 

arise. 
And  Madoc  is  their  prisoner. 

Caradoc, 
In  vain  thou  leadest  on  the  late  pursuit  ! 
In    vain,    Cadwalloii.    hath    thy    love 

alarm' d 
Caught  the  first  sound  of  evil  !    They 

pour  out 
Tumultuous  from  the  vale,  a  half-arm'd 

troop  ; 
Each  with  such  weapons  as  his  hasty 

hand  150 

Can  seize,  they  rush  to  battle.     Gallant 

men. 
Your  valour  boots  not  I    It  avails  not 

now, 
With  such  fierce  onset  that  ye  charge 

the  foe, 
'  And    drive    with    such    full    force    the 

weapon  home  ! 
;  They,  while  ye  slaughter  them,  impede 

pursuit, 
And  far  away,   meantime,   their  com- 
rades bear 
The  captive  Prince.     In  vain  his  noble 

heart 
Swells  now  with  wild  and  suffocating 

rage; 
In  vain  he  struggles  :  .  .  they  have  bound 

his  limbs 
With  the  tough  osier,  and  his  struggles 

now  160 

But  bind  more  close  and  cuttingly  the 

band. 
They  hasten  on  ;    and  while  they  bear 

the  prize. 
Leaving  their  ill-doom'd  fellows  in  the 

fight 
To  check  pursuit,  foremost  afar  of  all, 
With    unabating   strength    by   joy  in- 
spired 
Ocellopan  to  Aztlan  bears  the  child. 


XII.    HOEL 

Good  tidings  travel  fast.  .  .  The  ciur:  is 
seen  ; 

Ho  hastens  on  ;    ho  holds  the  child  on 
hi^h  ; 

He     sliouts     aloud.     Through     Aztlan 
spreads  the  news  ; 

Each  to  his  neighbour  tells  the  happy 
tale,  .  . 

Joy. .  .  joy  to  Aztlan  !  the  blood-sheddcr 
comes  ! 

Tlaloc  has  given  his  victim. 

Ah.  jKXjr  ehiltl  ! 

They  from  the  gate  swarm  out  to  wel- 
come thee, 

Warriors,    and    men    grown    grey,    and 
youths  and  maids, 

Exulting,     forth     they      crowd.      The 
mothers  throng 

To  view  thee,   and,   while  thinking  of 
thy  doom,  10 

They  clasp  their  own  dear  infants  to  the 
4)reast 

With  deeper  love,  delighted  think  that 
thou 

Shalt  suffer  for  them.     He,  i)Oor  child, 
admires 

The   strange   array  !     with    wonder   he 
beholds 

Their  olive  limbs,  lialf  bare,  their  plumy 
crowns. 

And  gazes  round  and  round,  where  all 
was  new. 

Forgetful  of  his  fears.     But  when  the 
Priest 

Approach' d  to  take  him  from  the  War- 
rior's arms. 

Then    Hoel    scream' d,    and    from    that 
hideous  man 

Averting,  to  Ocellopan  he  tum'd.       » 

And  would  have  clung  to  him,  so  dread- 
ful late. 

Stern  as  he  was,  and  terrible  of  eye. 

Less  dreadful   than   the   Prie.st,   whoeo 
dark  asjx^ct 

Which  nature  with  her  har»hest  charac- 
ters 

Had   featured,    art    made    worse.     His 
cowl  wa.s  white  ; 

His  untrimni'd  h.iir,  a  long  and  loath- 
some mass, 


656 


IVIADOC   IN  AZTLAN 


\yith  cotton  cords  intwisted,  clung  with 

gum, 
And  matted  with  the  blood,  which,  every 

morn. 
He  from  his  temples  drew  before  the 

God, 
In  sacrifice  ;    bare  were  his  arms,  and 

smear' d  30 

Black.     But  his  countenance  a  stronger 

dread 
Than  all  the  horrors  of  that  outward 

garb. 
Struck   with   quick  instinct   to   young 

Hoel's  heart ; 
It  was  a  face,  whose  settled  sullenness 
No  gentle  feeling  ever  had  disturb' d ; 
Which,  when  he  probed  a  victim's  living 

breast, 
Retained  its  hard  composure. 

Such  was  he 
Who  took  the  son  of  Llaian,  heeding  not 
His  cries  and  screams,  and  arms,  in  sup- 
pliant guise. 
Stretch' d  out  to  all  around,  and  strug- 

glings  vain.  •     40 

He  to  the  temple  of  the  Water-God 
Convey' d  his  victim.     By  the  threshold, 

there 
The  ministering  Virgins  stood,  a  comely 

band 
Of  high-born  damsels,  to  the  temple  rites 
By  pious  parents  vow'd.  Gladly  to  them 
The  little  Hoel  leapt ;  their  gentle  looks 
No  fear  excited  ;  and  he  gazed  around. 
Pleased  and  surprised,  unconscious  to 

what  end 
These  things  were  tending.     O'er  the 

rush-strewn  floor 
They  to  the  azure  Idol  led  the  boy,     50 
Now  not  reluctant,  and  they  raised  the 

hymn. 

God  of  the  Waters  !   at  whose  will  the 

streams 
Flow  in  their  wonted  channel,  and  diffuse 
Their  plenty  round,  the  blood  and  life 

of  earth  ; 
At  whose  command  they  swell,  and  o'er 

their  banks 
Burst  with  resistless  rum,  making  vain 
The  toils  and  hopes  of  man,  .  .  behold 

this  child  ! 
0  strong  to  bless,  and  mighty  to  destroy, 


Tlaloc  !  behold  thy  victim  !  so  mayest 
thou 

Restrain  the  peaceful  streams  within 
their  banks,  60 

And  bless  the  labours  of  the  husband- 
man. 

God  of  the  Mountains  !   at  whose  will 

the  clouds 
Cluster     around     the     heights ;      who 

sendest  them 
To  shed  their  fertilizing  showers,  and 

raise 
The  drooping  herb,  and  o'er  the  thirsty 

vale 
Spread  their  green  freshness  ;   at  whose 

voice  the  hills 
Grow  black  with  storms  ;   whose  wrath 

the  thunder  speaks, 
Whose  bow  of  anger  shoots  the  lightning 

shafts. 
To  blast  the  works  of  man  ;  .  .  behold 

this  child  ! 
0  strong  to  bless,  and  mighty  to  destroy, 
Tlaloc  !   behold  thy  victim  !   so  mayest 

thou  71 

Lay  by  the  fiery  arrows  of  thy  rage, 
And    bid   the   genial   rains   and   dews 

descend. 

0  thou.  Companion  of  the  powerful 

God, 
Companion  and  Beloved  !  .  .  when  he 

treads 
The  mountain-top,  whose  breath  diffuses 

round 
The  sweets  of  summer ;    when  he  rides 

the  waves, 
Whose  presence  is  the  sunshine  and  the 

calm,  .  . 
Aiauh,  0  green-robed  Goddess,  see  this 

child  ! 
Behold  thy   victim  !    so   mayest  thou 

appease  80 

The  sterner  mind  of  Tlaloc  when  he 

frowns,  NrJ 

And  Aztlan   flourish   in   thy   fostering 

smile. 
Young  Spirits  !   ye  whom  Aztlan' s  piety 
Hath  given  to  Tlaloc,  to  enjoy  with  him, 
For  aye,  the  cool  delights  of  Tlalocan,  .  . 
Young  Spirits  of  the  happy ;   who  have 

left 


HOEL 


567 


Your  Heaven  to-day,  unseen  assistants 

liere,  .  . 
Bohold  vour  comrade  !    see  the  chosen 

child. 
W'lio  through  the  lonely  cave  of  death 

must  pass. 
Like  you.  to  join  you  in  eternal  joy.     90 

Now  from  the  rush-strewn  temple  they 

depart. 
They  place  their  smiling  victim  in  a  car, 
Tpon  whose  sides  of  pearly  shell  there 

play'd, 
iShading  and  shifting  still,  the  rainbow 

light. 
( »n  virgin  shoulders  is  he  borne  aloft, 
W  ith  dance  before,  and  song  and  music 

round  ; 
And  thus  they  seek,  in  festival  array. 
The  water-side.     There  lies  the  sacred 

bark. 
All  gay  with  gold,  and  garlanded  with 

flowers  : 
The  virgins  with  the  jo\'Ous  boy  embark; 
Ten  boatmen  urge  them  on  ;  the  Priests 

behind  loi 

Follow,  and  all  the  long  solemnity. 
The  lake  is  overspread  with  boats  ;   the 

sun 
Shines  on  the  gilded  prows,  the  feathery 

crowns. 
The  sparkling  waves.     Green  islets  float 

along. 
Where  high-born  damsels,  under  jasmin 

bowers. 
Raise   the   sweet   voice,   to   which   the 

echoing  oars, 
In  modulated  motion,  rise  and  fall. 
The  moving  multitude  along  the  shore 
Flows  like  a  stream  ;    bright  shines  the 

unclouded  sky  ;  no 

Heaven,  earth,  and  waters  wear  one  face 

of  joy. 
Young  Hoel   with  delight  beholds  the 

pomp  ; 
His  heart   throbs  joyfully  ;    and  if  he 

thinks 
I'pon  his  mother  now,  'tis  but  to  think 
How  beautiful  a  tale  for  her  glad  ear 
He  hath  when  he  returns.     Meantime 

the  maids 
Weave  garlands  for  his  head,  and  raise 

the  song. 


Oh  !    happy  thou,  whom  early  from 

the  world 
The  (Jods  rotiuire  !    not  by  the  wajttinn 

worm 
Of  sorrow  canker'd,  nor  condemn'd  to 

feel  lao 

The  pang  of  sickness,  nor  the  wound  of 

war, 
Nor  the  long  miseries  of  protracted  ago  ; 
But   thus  in   childhood  chosen   of   tho 

God, 
To    share     his    joys.     Soon    shall    thy 

rescued  soul, 
Child  of   the  Stranger  !   in   his   hli.ssful 

world, 
Mix  with  the  blessed  spirits  ;    for  not 

thine, 
Amid  the  central  darkness  of  the  earth. 
To  endure  the  eternal  void  ;  .  .  not  thino 

to  live. 
Dead  to  all  objects  of  eye,  ear,  or  sense. 
In  the  long  horrors  of  one  endless  night, 
With  endless  being  curst.     For  thee  tho 

bowers  131 

Of  Tlalocan  have  blos.som'd  with  new 

sweets  ; 
For  thee  have  its  immortal  trees  matured 
The  fruits  of  Heaven  ;    thy  comrades 

even  now 
Wait  thee,  impatient,  in  their  lields  of 

bliss  ; 
The  God  will  welcome  thee,  his  chosrn 

child. 
And  Aiauii  love  thee  with  a  mother's 

love. 
Child  of  the  Stranger,  dreary  is  thy  way  I 
Darkness  and  Famine  through  the  cavo 

of  Death 
Must  guide  thee.    Happy  thou,  when  on 

that  night  «4« 

The  morning  of  the  eternal  day  shall 

dawn. 

So  as  they  sung  young  Hoera  song  of 

death. 
With  rapid  strength  the  boatmen  plied 

their  oars. 
And  through  the  water  swift  they  glided 

on. 
And    now    to    shore    they    drfw.     The 

stately  bank 
Rose  with  the  majesty  of  woo<U  o'er- 

hung, 


558 


>L\DOC   IN   AZTLAN 


I 


And  rocks,  or  peering  through  the  forest 

shade. 
Or  rising  from  the  lake,  and  with  their 

bulk 
Glassing   its   dark   deep   waters.     Half 

way  up, 
A  cavern  pierced  the  rock  ;    no  human 

foot  150 

Had  trod  its  depths,  nor  ever  sunbeam 

reach' d 
Its  long  recesses  and  mysterious  gloom  ; 
To   Tlaloc  it   was  hallowed  ;     and   the 

stone, 
Which  closed  its  entrance,  never    was 

removed. 
Save  when  the  yearly  festival  return' d, 
And  in  its  womb  a  child  was  sepulchred, 
The    living    victim.     Up    the    winding 

path, 
That  to  the  entrance  of  the  cavern  led, 
With   many   a   painful   step   the   train 

ascend  : 
But  many  a  time,  upon  that  long  ascent, 
Young  Hoel  would  have  paused,  with 

weariness  i6i 

Exhausted  now.     They  urge  him  on,     . 

poor  child  ! 
They  urge  him  on  !  .  .  Where  is  Cad- 

wallon's  aid  ? 
Where  is  the  sword  of  Ririd  ?  where  the 

arm 
Of  Madoc  now  ?  .  .  Oh  !    better  had  he 

lived, 
Unknowing  and  unknown,  on  Arvon  s 

plain. 
And  trod  upon  his  noble  father's  grave, 
With  peasant  feet,  unconscious  ! .  .  They 

have  reach' d 
The  cavern  now,  and  from  its  mouth 

the  Priests 
Roll    the    huge    portal.     Thitherward 

they  force  170 

The  son  of  Llaian.     A  cold  air  comes 

out ;  .  . 
It  chills  him,  and  his  feet  recoil ;  .  .  in 

vain 
His  feet  recoil  ;   .  .   in  vain  he  turns 

to  fly, 
Affrighted  at  the  sudden  gloom   that 

spreads 
Around  ;  .  .  the  den  is  closed,  and  he  is 

left 
In  solitude  and  darkness,  .  .  left  to  die  ! 


XIII.    COATEL 

That  morn  from  Aztlan  Coatel  had  gone 
In  search  of  flowers,  amid  the  woods  and 

crags. 
To  deck  the  shrine  of  Coatlantona  ; 
Such  flowers  as  in  the  solitary  wilds 
Hiding  their  modest  beauty,  made  their 

worth 
More  valued  for  its  rareness.     'Twas  to 

her 
A  grateful  task  ;   not  only  for  she  fled 
Those  cruel  rites,  to  which  nor  reverent 

use, 
Xor  frequent  custom  could  familiarize 
Her  gentle  heart,  and  teach  it  to  put  of! 
All  womanly  feeling ;  .  .  but  that  from 

all  eyes  11 

Escaped,  and  all  obtrusive  fellowship, 
Slie  in  that  solitude  might  send  her  soul 
To  where  Lincoya  with  the  Strangers 

dwelt. 
She  from  the  summit  of  the  woodland 

heights 
Gazed  on  the  lake  below.     The  sound 

of  song 
And  instrument,  in  soften' d  harmony. 
Had   reach' d   her    where    she   stray' d  ; 

and  she  beheld 
The  pomp,  and  listen' d  to  the  floating 

sounds, 
A  moment,  with  delight :    but  then  a 

fear  20 

Came  on  her,  for  she  knew  with  what 

design 
The  Tiger  and  Ocellopan  had  sought 
The  dweUings  of  the  Cymry.  .  .  Now  the 

boats 
Drew  nearer,  and  she  knew  the  Stranger's 

child. 
She  watch' d  them  land  below  ;  she  saw 

them  wind 
The   ascent :    .    .    and  now  from   that 

abhorred  cave 
The  stone  is  roll'd  away,  .  .  and  now  the 

child 
From  light  and  life  is  cavern' d.    Coatel 
Thought  of  his  mother  then,  of  all  the  ills 
Her  fear  would  augur,  and  how  worse 

than  all  30 

Which  even  a  mother's  maddening  fear 

could  feign. 


COATEL 


550 


His  actual  I'aie.     She  tbouglit  of  this, 

aiul  bow'il 
Her  face  upon  her  kuees,  and  closed  her 
HH  eyeii, 

^     Shuddering.       Suddenly    in    the    brake 

beside, 
A   rustling  started  her,   and  from   the 

shrubs 
A  Vulture  rose, 

8he  moved  toward  the  spot, 
i(     Led  by  an  idle  impulse,  as  it  scem'd. 
To  see  from  whence  the  carrion  bird  had 

lied. 
The  bushes  overhung  a  narrow  chasm 
Which  pierced  the  hill  :  upon  its  mossy 

sides  40 

Sliade-loving  herbsand  flowers  luxuriant 

grew. 
And    jutting    crags     made     easy     tlie 

descent. 
A  little  way  descending,  Coatel 
Moopt  for  the  flowers,   and  heard,   or 

thougiit  she  heard, 
A  feeble  sound  Ijclow.     She  raised  lier 

head. 
And  anxiously  she  listened  for  the  sound, 
Not  without  fear.  .  .  Feebly  again,  and 

like 
A  distant  cry,  it  came  ;    and  then  she 

thought. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  voice  of  that  poor 

child, 
By  tiie  slow  pain  of  hunger  doora'd  to 

die.  50 

She    shudder'd    at    the    thought,    and 

breathed  a  groan 
unavailing  pity  ;  .  .  but  the  sound 
V  <ime  nearer,  and  her  trembling  heart 

conceived 
A  dangerous  ho|x».     The  Vulture  from 

that  chasm 
Had  fled,  jxjrchance  accustomed  in  the 

cave 
To  seek  his  banquet,  and  by  living  feet 
Alarm' d  :  .  .  there  was  an  entrance  then 

below  ; 
And  were  it  possible  that  she  could  save 
The  Stranger's  child,  .  .  Oh  what  a  joy 

it  were 
To  tell  Lincoya  that ! 

It  was  a  thought  60 
Which  made  her  heart  with  terror  and 

delight 


Throb  audibly.      Kruni  cnii;  to  cra^c  "ho 

pass'il 
Descending,  and  l)eheld  a  narrow  c*vo 
Enter  the  hill.     A  little  way  the  light 
Fell,  .  .  but  it.s  feeble  glimmering  tho 

herself 
Obstructed  half,  a.s  stooping  in  she  weoU 
Tho  arch  grew  loftier,  and  tlic  incrowing 

gloom 
Fill'd  her  with  more  affright ;   ami  now 

she  paused  ; 
For  at  a  sudden  and  abrupt  descent 
She  stood,  and  fear'd  its  unseen  depth  ; 

her  heart  70 

Fail'd,  and  she  back  had  hastcn'd  ;   but 

the  cry 
Rcach'd  her  again,  the  near  and  certain 

cry 
Of  that  most  pitiable  innocent. 
Again    adown    the    dark    descent    she 

look'd. 
Straining  her  eyes ;  by  this  the  strength- 

en'd  siirht 
Had  grown  adapted  to  the  gloom  around. 
And  her  dilated  j)upils  now  received 
Dim  .sense  of  objects  near.     Something 

below. 
White,  in  the  darkness  lay:    it  mark'd 

the  depth. 
Still    Coatel    stood    dubious ;     but    she 

heard  80 

The  wailing  of  the  child,  and  his  loud 

sobs ;  .  . 
Then,  clin^dng  to  the  rock  with  fearful 

hands. 
Her  feet  explored  below,  and  twice  she 

felt 
Firm  footing,  ere  her  fearful  hold  reUx'd. 
The  sound  she  made,  along  the  hollow 

rock 
Ran  echoing.     Hoel   henril   it,   ami   he 

came 
Groping  along  the  side.     A  dim,  dim 

li^'ht 
Broke  on  the  darknc-wj  of  his  iopulchrp  ; 
A  human  form  drew  near  him  ;  .  .  ho 

sprang  on. 
Screaming    with    joy.    and    clung    to 

Coatel.  90 

And  cried,  O  take  roc  from  this  dismal 

place  ! 
She  answor'd  not  ;   she  undrrstoo<l  him 

not  ; 


560 


MADOC   IN   AZTLAN 


But   clasp'd   the   little   victim   to   her 

breast. 
And  shed  delightful  tears. 

But  from  that  den 
Of  darkness  and  of  horror,  Coatel 
Durst  not  convey  the  child,  though  in 

her  heart 
There  was  a  female  tenderness  which 

yearn' d, 
As  with  maternal  love,  to  cherish  him. 
She  hush'd  his  clamours,  fearful  lest  the 

sound 
Might  reach  some  other  ear  ;  she  kissed 

away  loo 

The  tears  that  stream' d  adown  his  little 

cheeks ; 
She  gave  him  food  which  in  the  mom 

she  brought, 
For  her  own  wants,  from  Aztlan.   Some 

few  words 
Of  Britain's  ancient  language  she  had 

learnt 
From  her  Lincoya,  in  those  happy  days 
Of  peace,  when  Aztlan  was  the  Stranger's 

friend : 
Aptly    she   learnt,    what    willingly    he 

taught. 
Terms  of  endearment,  and  the  parting 

words 
Which  promised  quick  return.     She  to 

the  child 
These  precious  words  address' d  ;   and  if 

it  chanced  no 

Imperfect  knowledge,  or  some  difficult 

sound 
Check' d  her  heart's  utterance,  then  the 

gentle  tone, 
The  fond  caress,  intelligibly  spake 
AfiFection's  language. 

But  when  she  arose. 
And  would  have  climb' d  the  ascent,  the 

affrighted  boy 
Fast  held  her,  and  his  tears  interpreted 
The  prayer  to  leave  him  not.     Again 

she  kiss'd 
His  tears  away  ;  again  of  soon  return 
Assured  and  soothed  him  ;  till  reluc- 
tantly 119 
And  weeping,  but  in  silence,  he  unloosed 
His  grasp ;  and  up  the  difficult  ascent 
Coatel  climb' d,  and  to  the  light  of  day 
Returning,  with  her  flowers  she  hastened 

home. 


XIV. 


THE  STONE   OF 
SACRIFICE 


Who  comes  to  Aztlan,  bounding  like  a 
deer 

Along  the  plain  ? .  .  The  herald  of  suc- 
cess ; 

For  lo  !  his  locks  are  braided,  and  his 
loins 

Cinctured  with  white  ;  and  see,  he  lifts 
the  shield. 

And  brandishes  the  sword.  The  popu- 
lace 

Flock  round,  impatient  for  the  tale  of 

joy. 

And  follow  to  the  palace  in  his  path. 

Joy  !  joy  !  the  Tiger  hath  achieved  his 
quest ! 

They  bring  a  captive  home  !  .  .  Trium- 
phantly 

Coanocotzin  and  his  Chiefs  go  forth      10 

To  greet  the  youth  triumphant,  and 
receive 

The  victim  whom  the  gracious  gods  have 
given, 

Sure  omen  and  first  fruits  of  victory. 

A  woman  leads  the  train,  young,  beauti- 
ful, .  . 

More  beautiful  for  that  translucent  joy 

Flushing  her  cheek,  and  sparkling  in 
her  eye  ;  .  . 

Her  hair  is  twined  with  festal  flowers, 
her  robe 

With  flowing  wreaths  adorn' d ;  she 
holds  a  child. 

He,  too,  bedeck' d  and  garlanded  with 
flowers. 

And,  lifting  him,  with  agile  force  of 
arm,  20 

In  graceful  action,  to  harmonious  step 

Accordant,  leads  the  dance.  It  is  the 
wife 

Of  Tlalala,  who,  with  his  child,  goes  forth 

To  meet  her  hero  husband. 

And  behold 

The  Tiger  comes  !  and  ere  the  shouts 
and  sounds 

Of  gratulation  cease,  his  followers  bear 

The  captive  Prince.  At  that  so  wel- 
come sight 

Loud  rose  the  glad  acclaim  ;  nor  knew 
they  yet 


THE    STONE    OF   SACRIFICE 


501 


That  lie  who  there  lay  patient   in   lus 

bonds. 
Expecting  the  inevitable  lot,  30 

Was  Madoc.     Patient  in  his  bonds  ho 

lay. 
Exhausted  with  vain  efforts,   hopeless 

now. 
And  silently  resign'd.     But  when  the 

King 
ApproaclVd  the  prisoner,  and  beheld  his 

face. 
And  knew  the  Chief  of  Strangers,  at 

that  sound 
Electric  joy  shot  through  the  multitude, 
And,  like  the  raging  of  the  hurricane. 
Their     thundering     transports     peal'd. 

A  deeper  joy. 
A  nobler  triumph  kindled  Tlalala, 
As,  limb  by  limb,  his  eye  surveyed  the 
Prince.  40 

With  a  calm  fierceness.     And  by  this 

the  Priests 
Approach' d  their  victim,  clad  in  vest- 
ments white 
Of  sacrifice,  which  from  the  shoulders 

fell. 
As  from  the  breast,  unbending,  broad 

and  straight. 
Leaving  their   black   arms   bare.     The 

blood-red  rol^e. 
The  turquoise  pendant  from  his  down- 
drawn  lip, 
Tlie  crown  of  glossy  plumage,   whose 

green  hue 
Vied     with     his     emerald     ear-drops, 

mark'd  their  Chief 
Tezozomoc  :  his  thin  and  ghastly  cheek. 
Which.   .    .   save   the   temple  serpents, 
when  he  brought  50 

Their  human  banquet, .  .never  living  eye 
Rejoiced  to  see,  became  more  ghastly 

now, 
As  in  Mexitli's  name,  upon  the  Prince 
He  laid  his  murtherous  hand.     But  as 

he  spake, 
Up  darted  Tlalala  his  eagle  glance.  .  . 
Away  !   away  !    he  shall  not  perish  so  ! 
The  warrior  cried.  .  .  Not  tamely,  by  the 

knife. 
Nor  on  the  jaspar-stone,  his  blood  shall 

flow  ! 
TheGods  of  Aztlan  love  a  Warrior  Priest! 
I  am  their  Prie«t  to-dav  ! 


A  murmqrinf;  60 
Ran  through  the  train  ;    nor  waitotl  ho 

to  hear 
Denial  thence  ;    but  on  the  niultiludo 
Aloud  he  call'd.  .  .  When  tirst  our  fnthrrs 

seized 
This  land,  there  was  a  .suviigo  rhicf  who 

stopt 
Their  progress.     He  had  gained  the  rank 

ho  bore. 
By  long  probation  :    stripes,  which  laid 

his  flesh 
All  bleeding  bare,  had  forceti  not  one 

complaint  ; 
Not   when   the   working   bowels   might 

be  seen. 
One  movement  ;    hand-bound,  ho  had 

been  confined 
Where  myriad  insects  on  his  nakedness 
Inlix'd  their  venomous  anger,  and  no 

start,  71 

No  shudder,  shook  his  frame  ;    last,    in 

a  net 
Suspended,  he  had  felt  the  agony 
Of  fire,  which  to  his  bones  and  marrow 

pierced. 
And    breathed    the   suffocating    smoko 

which  tiU'd 
His  lungs  with  fire,   without  a  groan, 

a  breath, 
A  look  betokening  sense  ;    so  gallantly 
Had  he  subdued  his  nature.     This  bravo 

man 
Met  Aztlan 

Chiefs 
To  shame. 

forgot 
How  from   the  slaughter'd   brother  of 

their  King 
He  stript  the  skin,  and  form'd  of  it  a 

drum. 
Whose  sound  affrighted  armies.     With 

this  man 
My  father  cojK'd  in  battle  ;    hen'  he  led 

him. 
An  otTering  to  the  (JchI  ;    and.  man  to 

man. 
He  slew  him  here  in  fight.     I  was  a  child 
Just    old    enough    to    lift    ra)    father's 

shield  ; 
But  I  rememl)cr.  on  that  f^lorioua  day. 
When    from    the    sacred    combat    bo 

return'd. 


in   the   war,   and   put    lu-r 
Our  Elders  have  not  yet 


562 


MADOC   IN   AZTLAN 


His   red   hands   reeking   with    the    hot 

heart's  blood,  90 

How  in  his  arms  he  took  me,  and  be- 
sought 
The  God  whom  he  had  served,  to  bless 

his  boy, 
And  make  me  like  my  father.     Men  of 

Aztlan, 
^lexitli  heard  his  prayer  ;  .  .  Here  I  have 

brought 
The  Stranger- Chief,  the  noblest  sacrifice 
That  ever  graced  the  altar  of  the  God  ; 
Let  then  his  death  be  noble  !  so  my  boy 
Shall,  in  the  day  of  battle,  think  of  me  ; 
And  as  I  follow' d  my  brave  father's 

steps, 
Pursue  my  path  of  glory. 

Ere  the  Priest  100 
Could  frame  denial,  had  the  Monarch's 

look 
Given  his  absent.  .  .  Refuse  not  this,  he 

said, 
O  servant  of  the  Gods !    He  hath  not  here 
His  arms  to  save  him  ;   and  the  Tiger's 

strength 
Yields  to  no  mortal  might.     Then  for 

his  sword 
He  call'd,  and  bade  Yuhidthiton  address 
The  Stranger- Chief. 

Yuhidthiton  began. 
The  Gods  of  Aztlan  triumph,  and  thy 

blood 
Must   wet   their   altars.     Prince,    thou 

shalt  not  die 
The  coward's  death  ;  but,  s worded,  and 

in  fight,  no 

Fall  as  becomes  the  valiant.     Should 

thine  arm 
Subdue  in  battle  six  successive  foes. 
Life,  liberty,  and  glory,  will  repay 
The  noble  conquest.     Madoc,  hope  not 

this  : 
Strong  are  the  brave  of  Aztlan  ! 

Then  they  loosed 
The    Ocean    Chieftain's    bonds ;     they 

rent  away 
His    garments ;     and    with    songs    and 

shouts  of  joy, 
They  led  him  to  the  Stone  of  Sacrifice. 
Round  was  that  Stone  of  Blood  ;    the 

half-raised  arm 
Of   one   of   manly   growth,    who   stood 

below,  120 


ipLJ 


I  flight  rest  upon  its  height ;    the  circ 
j  small, 

I  An    active    boy    might    almost    hour 
I  across. 

Nor   needed   for   the   combat,    amj 

space  ; 
For  in  the  centre  was  the  prisoner's  fo( 
Fast     fetter' d     down.     Thus     fetter'; 
Madoc  stood.  | 

He  held  a  buckler,  light  and  small,  <{ 

cane 
O'erlaid  with  beaten  gold  ;    his  swore 

the  King, 
Honouring  a  noble  enemy,  had  given, 
A  weapon  tried  in  war,  .  .  to  Madoc' 

grasp 

Strange  and  unwieldy  :    'twas  a  broa. 

strong  staff,  13 

:  Set  thick    with    transverse    stones,  01 

j  either  side 

j  Keen-edged  as  SjTian  steel.     But  whei 

he  felt 
j  The  weapon,  Madoc  call'd  to  mind  hi 
I  deeds 

Done  on  the  Saxon  in  his  fathers'  land 


within     hi 


N( 


And    hope     arose 

though  now 
Naked  he  stood,  did  fear  for  that  assai 
His  steady  heart ;  for  often  had  he  seeri 
His    gallant    countrymen    with    naked;! 

breasts. 
Rush  on  their  iron-coated  enemy,  , 

And  win  the  conquest. 

Now  hath  Tlalala  140 
Array' d   himself  for   battle.     First   he 

donn'd 
A  gipion,  quilted  close  of  gossampine ; 
O'er  that  a  jointed  mail  of  plates  of  gold, 
Bespotted  like  the  tiger's  speckled  pride. 
To  speak  his  rank  ;  it  clad  his  arms  half- 
way. 
Half-way  his  thighs  ;    but  cuishes  had 

he  none. 
Nor  gauntlets,  nor  feet-armour.     On  his 

helm 
There  yawn'd  the  semblance  of  a  tiger's  > 

head. 
The  long  white  teeth  extended,  as  for 

prey  ; 
Proud  crest,  to  blazon  his  proud  title 

forth,  150 

And    now     toward     the    fatal     stage, 

equipp'd 


THE   STONE    OF   SACRIFICE 


563 


cite 


For   li«lit.    In'    wont  ;     when,   from    the 

press  iK'liitul, 
A  warrior's  voice  was  heard,  and  clad  in 

arms. 
And   shaking    in    Itis   angry   gra^p    the 

swortl, 
Ocellopan  riish'd  on.  and  crie<l  aloud. 
And  for  himself  the  holy  combat  claim'd. 
The    'ligcr.    heedless    of    his    clamour, 

sprung 
Upon  the  stone,  and  turn'd  him  to  the 

war. 
Fierce  leaping  forward  came  Ocellopan. 
And  bounded  \ip  the  ascent,  and  seized 

his  arm  :  .  .  160 

Why  wouldst  thou  rob  me  of  a  deed  like 

'this  ? 
Equal  our  peril  in  the  enterprize. 
Equal  our  merit  ;  .  .  thou  wouldst  reaj) 

alone  i 


Darken'd  his  cheek,  am  angrily  he  piut 
To  earth  the  lu.stile  lot.  .  .  Shr<ldrr  of 

Iiloo<l, 
Thino   is   the   lirst   a<lvrnture!     ho  ex. 

claim'd  ; 
Rut  thou  mayst  jx^nsh  here  !  ,  .  «nd  In 

his  heart 
The  Tiger  hojM^d  Ocellopan  might  f«I|, 
As  sullenly  retiring  from  tli«<  htnt^o. 
Ho  mingled  with  the  crowd. 

And  now  op{K>M'il 
In  battle,  on  tlto  Stone  of  Sacrifice, 
Prince  Madoc  and   the   Lifc-Dwtroycr 

stood. 
Thi.s   clad    in    arms   complete,    free    to 

advance  190 

In  quick  as.sault,  or  shim  the  threAton'd 

blow. 
Wielding  his  wonted  sword  ;    the  other. 
tript. 


The  guerdon  1    Never  shall  my  Hiildren  |  Save  of  that  fragile  shield,  of  all  defence; 


lift 
Their  little  hands  at  thee,  and  say.  Lo  ! 

there 
The  Chief  who  .slew  tlie  White  King  !  .  . 

Tlalala. 
Trust  to  the  lot,  or  turn  on   me,   and 

{)rove, 
le  best  chance  to  wliich  the  bravo 

appeal, 
Wlio  best  deserves  this  glory  ! 

Stung  to  wrath, 
The  Tiger  answer'd  not ;    ho  rai.sed  his 

sword,  170 

And  they  had  rush'd  to  battle  ;    but  the 

Priests 
Camo  hastening  up,  and  by  their  com- 
mon (lods, 
And   by   their   common   country,    bade 

them  cease 
Their   impious   strife,    and   let    the    lot 

decide 
From   whom   ^Fexitli   should   that    day 

receive 
Hi.s  noble  victim.     Botli  im.satisfied, 
P.ut  both  obedient,  heard.     Two  equal 

shafts. 


His  weapon  stramre  and  ctimbroua  ;  and 

f)inn'd  down, 
>led  from  all  on.Ht,  all  retreat. 

With  looks  of  greedy  joy,  Ocellopan 
Survey'd    hi.s    foe,    and    wonder'd    to 

behold 
Tho    brea.st    so    broa«l,    the    bare    and 

brawny  limbs. 
Of    matchles.s    strength.     Tho    eye    of 

Madoc,  too. 
Dwelt  on  his  foe  ;    hi.s  coimtenanco  waa 

calm,  joo 

Something  more  palo  tlian  wonttnl  ;  likn 

a  man 
Prepared     to     meet     hiH     death.     The 

Azteca 
Fiercely  lx>gan  the  tight  ;  now  herr,  now 

there. 
Aright,  aleft.  al)Ove,  Ih-Iow.  he  uhecl'd 
Tho  rapid  sword  :    Htill  Mndi'C'ii  rapUl 

eyo 
Pursued    the    motion,    and    hU    ready 

shield, 
Tn    prompt    interpo«u(ion.    caught    t   .• 

blow. 
As    outwardly    they  seem'd.   tho    Paba  jor  tuni'd  itn  edge  aajdc.      Nor  did  iho 

brou-ht";  '  I  Prince 

His    mantle    hid    their    points;      and    Vet  aim  the  tiwonl  to  wound,  but  held  it 


Tlalala 

Drew  forth  tho  broken  stave.     A  bitter 
smile  180 


forth, 
Another   shield,    to   iiaro   him.    (i'l   hia 
hand,  «io 


564 


MADOC   IN   AZTLAN 


Familiar    with    its    weight    and    shape 

uncouth, 
Might  wield  it  well  to  vengeance.    Thus 

he  stood, 
Baffling  the  impatient  enemy,  who  now 
Wax'd  wrathful,  thus  to  waste  in  idle 

strokes 
Reiterate  so  oft,  his  bootless  strength. 
And  now  yet  more  exasperate  he  grew  ; 
For,    from    the   eager    multitude,    was 

heard. 
Amid  the  din  of  undistinguish'd  sounds, 
The  Tiger's  murmur' d  name,  as  though 

they  thought, 
Had  he  been  on  the  Stone,  ere  this, 

besure,  220 

The  Gods  had  tasted  of  their  sacrifice. 
Now     all     too     long     delay' d.     Then 

fiercelier. 
And  yet  more  rapidly,   he  drove  the 

sword ; 
But  still  the  wary  Prince  or   met    its 

fall. 
And  broke  the  force,  or  bent  him  from 

the  blow  ; 
And  now  retiring,  and  advancing  now, 
As  one  free  foot  permitted,  still  pro- 
voked. 
And    baffled    still    the    savage ;      and 

sometimes. 
With  cautious  strength  did  Madoc  aim 

attack, 
^Mastering  each  moment  now  with  abler 

sway  230 

The  acquainted  sword.     But,  though  as 

yet  unharm'd 
In  life  or  limb,  more  perilous  the  strife 
Grew    momently ;     for    with    repeated 

strokes. 
Battered  and  broken  now,   the  shield 

hung  loose  ; 
And  shouts  of  triumph  from  the  multi- 
tude 
Arose,    as    piece-meal    they   beheld    it 

fall, 
And  saw  the  Prince  exposed. 

That  welcome  sight. 
Those  welcome  sounds,  inspired  Ocello- 

pan  ; 
He  felt  each  limb  new-strung.  Impatient 

now 
Of  conquest  long  delay'd,  with  wilder 

rage  240 


He  drives  the  weapon ;    Madoc' s  lifted    1 

sword  1 

Received  its  edge,  and  shiver' d  with  the    \ 

blow.  I 

A   shriek   of   transport   burst  from   all    1 

around  ; 
For   lo !     the   White   King,    shieldless, 

weaponless, 
Naked   before    his   foe  !     That  savage 

foe, 
Dallying  with  the  delight  of  victory. 
Drew    back   a   moment    to   enjoy    the 

sight, 
Then  yell'd  in  triumph,  and  sprang  on 

to  give 
The  consummating  blow.     Madoc   be- 
held 
The  coming  death  ;    he  darted  up  his 

hand  250 

Instinctively  to  save,  and  caught  the 

wrist 
In  its  mid  fall,  and  drove  with  desperate 

force 
The  splinter' d  truncheon  of  his  broken 

sword 
Full  in  the  enemy's  face.     Beneath  his 

eye 
It  broke  its  way,  and  where  the  nasal 

nerves 
Branch  in  fine  fibrils  o'er  their  mazy 

seat, 
Burst  through,  and  slanting  upward  in 

the  brain 
Buried  its  jagged  point. 

Madoc  himself 
Stood  at  his  fall  astonished,  at  escape 
Unhoped,    and    strange    success.     The 

multitude  260 

Beheld,  and  they  were  silent,  and  they 

stood 
Gazing  in  terror.    But  far  other  thought. 
Rose  in  the  Tiger's  heart ;   it  was  a  joy 
To  Tlalala ;    and  forth  he  sprung,  and 

up 
The  Stone  of  Sacrifice,  and  call'd  aloud 
To  bring  the  Prince  another  sword  and 

shield, 
For  his  last  strife.     Then  in  that  inter- 
val, 
Upon  Ocellopan  he  fix'd  his  eyes, 
Contemplating    the    dead,    as    though 

thereby 
To  kindle  in  his  heart  a  fiercer  thirst  270 


THE   STONE   OF   SACRIFICE 


505 


For  vengeance.     Nor  to  ^ladoc  was  the 

'  \  Bting 

I  Of  anger  wanting,  when  in  Tlalala 
'    He  knew  the  captive  wlioin  his  mercy 
freed, 
The  man  whose  ambush  had  that  day 

destroy' d 
Vouni;  Hot'l  and  himself ;  .  .  for.  sure. 
I  he  dcom'd 

''  Young  Hocl  was  with  (.iod.  and  he  hiiu- 
self 
At  his  death  day  arrived 
graijpt 


But  now  a  murmur  roao 
Amid   the   multitude ;    and   they   who 

stood 
So    thickly    throned,    and    with    such 

eager  eyes 
Late  wntch'd  the  lighl,ha.stilv  now  broke 

UJ). 

And,  with  disorder  d  s|>ccd  and  »uddcn 

arms. 
Ran    to   the   city  gates.      More  eager 
now, 
\nd  now  he  j  Conscious  of  what  hud  chanced,  fought 
Tlahihi  : 


»    A    second    sword,    and    iickl    another  i  And  hojH.*  invigorated  Mndoc's  heart  ; 
I  shield:  For  well  he  wccn'd  Cadwallun  waa  at 

And  from  the  Stone  of  Blood  Ocellopan  hand, 

Was  borne  away;    and,  fresh  in  arms.    Leading  his  gallant  friends.     Aright  bo 

and  tierce  280  ween'd  ;  3x0 

With  all  that  makes  a  savage  thirst  for    At   hand  Cadwallon  was  I    His  gallant 

war,  friends 

Hope,  vengeance,  courage,  superstitious    Came    from    the    mountains    with    im- 
hate,  l)etuous  sjx?cd, 

it  A  second  foe  came  on.     By   this  the    To  save  or  to  revenge.     Nor  long  en- 
\r        Prince  dured 

Could    wield    his    wea^wn    well  ;     and    The  combat  now  :    the  Priests  a«ccud 

dreading  now  the  stone. 

Lest,   in   protracted  combat,    he  might    And  bid  the  Tiger  ha.sten  to  defend 

stand  His  country  and  his  CJotls  ;    and,  hand 

Again    defenceless,    he    put    forth    his  and  foot, 

strength,  Binding  the  captive  Prince,  they  bear 

As  oft  assaihng  as  assail'd,  and  watch'd  him  thence 

So     well     the     Tiger's     motions,     and    And  lay  him  in  the  temple.     Then  his 

received  heart 

The  Tiger's  blows  so  warily,  and  aimed    Resign'd    itself    to   death,    and    Madoc 
His  own  so  tierce  and  fast,  that  in  the 
crowd  290 

Doubt  and  alarm   prevail" d.     llanquel 

grew 
Pale  at  her  husband's  danger  ;    and  she 

clasp' d 
The  infant  to  her  breast,  whom  late  she 

held 
On  high,  to  see  his  victory.     The  throng 
Of  the  beholders  silently  lookd  on  ; 
;   And  in  their  silence  might  at  times  be 
1  heard 

I    An  indrawn  breath  of  terror  ;    and  the 
(  Priests 

I    Angrily  murmur'd,  that  in  evil  hour, 
I    Coanocotzin  had  indulged  the  pride 


thought 

Of  Llaian  and  Goervyl :   and  he  felt  j»o 
That  death  was  dreadful.     But  not  do 

the  King 
Permitted;     but    not    so    had    Hca\cn 

decreed  ; 
For  noble   was   the   King   of   Axllan'* 

heart, 
And  pure  his  tongue  from  falwehood  : 

he  hud  wiid. 
That    by    the    warrior's    death   sliould 

Madoc  die  ; 
Nor  dared  the  Paba^t  violently  break 
The    irrevocable    word.     There    Madoc 

lay  sn 

In  solitude  ;    the  distant  battk  reach'd 


Of    vaunting  valour,    and  from  certain    His  car  ;   inactive  and  in  bondw  he  lay 

300    Expecting  the  dread  ii»ur.  and  almost 


death 
Reprieved  the  foe 


Wifih'd  for  the  {^criU  uf  the  tight  agam. 


566 


MADOC   IN  AZTLAN 


XV.     THE  BATTLE 


the 


Not  unprepared  Cadwallon  found 

sons 
Of    Aztlan,    nor    defenceless    were    her 

walls ; 
But  when  the  Britons'   distant   march 

was  seen, 
A  ready  army  issued  from  her  gates, 
And  dight  themselves  to  battle :    these 

the  King 
Coanocotzin  had,  with  timely  care, 
And  provident  for  danger,  thus  array'd. 
Forth  issuing  from  the  gates,  they  met 

the  foe. 
And  with  the  sound  of  sonorous  instru- 
ments, 
And  with  their  shouts  and  screams  and 

yells,  drove  back  lo 

The  Britons'  fainter  war-cry,  as  the  swell 
Of  ocean,  flowing  onward,  up  its  course 
Repels   the   river-stream.     Their   darts 

and  stones 
Fell  like  the  rain  drops  of  the  summer- 
shower, 
►So  fast,   and  on   the  helmet  and  the 

shield. 
On  the  strong  corselet  and  the  netted 

mail. 
So  innocent  they  fell.     But  not  in  vain 
The  bowmen  of  Deheubarth  sent,  that 

day, 
Their  iron  bolts  abroad ;    those  volant 

deaths 
Descended  on  the  naked  multitude,    20 
And    through    the    chieftain's    quilted 

gossampine, 
Through  feathery  breastplate  and  efful- 
gent gold, 
They  reach' d  the  life. 

But  soon  no  interval 
For  archer's  art  was  left,  nor  scope  for 

flight 
Of    stone   from    whirlmg   sling :     both 

hosts,  alike 
Impatient  for  the  proof  of  war,  press  on  ; 
The  Aztecas,  to  shun  the  arrowy  storm. 
The  Cymry,  to  release  their  Lord,  or 

heap 
Aztlan  in  ruins,  for  his  monument. 
Spear  against  spear,  and  shield  to  shield, 

and  breast  30 


To  breast  they  met ;   equal  in  force  o 

limb 
And  strength  of  heart,  in  resolute  resolve 
And    stubborn    effort    of    deter minec 

wrath  : 
The  few,  advantaged  by  their  iron  mail , 
The    weaklier    arm'd,    of    near    retreat 

assured 
And  succour  close  at  hand,  in  tenfold 

troops 
Their  foemen  overnumbering.     And  ol 

all 
That  mighty  multitude,  did  every  man 
Of  either  host,  alike  inspired  by  all 
That  stings  to  will  and  strengthens  to 

perform,  40 

Then  put  forth  all  his  power ;    for  well 

the}''  knew 
Aztlan  that  day  must  triumph  or  must 

fall. 
Then   sword   and   mace   on   helm   and 

buckler  rang. 
And  hurtling  javelins  whirr'd  along  the 

sky. 
Nor  when  they  hurled  the  javelin,  did 

the  sons 
Of  Aztlan,  prodigal  of  weapons,  loose 
The  lance,  to  serve  them  for  no  second 

stroke ; 
A  line  of  ample  measure  still  retain' d 
The  missile  shaft ;    and  when  its  blow 

was  spent. 
Swiftly  the  dexterous  spearman  coiled 

the  string,  50 

And  sped  again  the  artificer  of  death. 
Rattling,  like  summer  hailstones,  they 

descend. 
But  from  the  Britons'  iron  panoply. 
Baffled   and   blunted,   fell ;    nor   more 

avail' d 
The  stony  falchion  there,  whose  broken 

edge 
Inflicts  no  second  wound  ;   nor  profited, 
On  the  strong  buckler  or  the  crested 

helm. 
The    knotty    club ;     though    fast,     in 

blinding  showers, 
Those  javelins  fly,  those  heavy  weapons 

fall 
With  stunning  weight.     Meantime  with 

wonted  strength,  60 

The    men  of    Gwyneth   through    their 

fenceless  foes 


THE  battll: 


667 


Tkoao  lancca  thrust,  whose  terrors  had 

so  oft 
Affray'd  the  Saxons,  aiid  whoso  home- 
driven  points. 
So     oft     had     pierced     the     Nor  men's 

knightly  arms. 
Little  did  then  his  pump  of  plumes  1>e- 

stead 
The  Azteca,  or  plittcrinp:  pride  of  gold. 
Against  the  tcmjx'r'd  sword;    little  his 

casque. 
Gay  with  its  feathery  coronal,  or  drest 
In  graven    terrors,    when    the   Briton's 

hand 
Drove  in  tlirough  liclm  and  head  the 

short -spiked  mace  :  70 

Or  swung  its  iron  weiglits  with  shatter- 
ing sway, 
\\'hich    where    they    struck   destroyed.  ' 

Beneath  those  arms  ! 

The  men  of  Aztlan  fell  ;    and   w  hoso 

dropt 
Dead  or  disabled,  him  his  comrades  bore 
Away    witli    instant    caution,    lest    the 

sight 
Of  those   whom   they   had   slaughter'd 

might  inspire 
The  foe  with  hope  and  courage.     Fast 

they  fell. 
And  fast  were  resuiiplied.  man  after  man 
Succeeding  to  the  death.     Nor  in  the 

town 
Did  now  the  sight  of  their  slain  country- 
men, 80 
Momentarily   carried   in    and    piled    in 

heaps. 
Awake    one    thought    of    fear.     Hark  ! 

through  the  streets 
Of  Aztlan,  how  from  house  to  house,  and 

tower 
To  tower,  reiterate,  Paynalton's  name 
Calls  all  her  sons  to  battle  !    at  whose 

name 
All  must  go  forth,  and  follow  to  the  field 
The  Leader  of  the  Armies  of  the  Gods, 
Whom,  in  his  unseen  power,  Mexitli  now 
Sends  out  to  lead  his  people.     They,  in 

crowds. 
Throncr  for  tlicir  wcai>ons  to  the  Hou.se 

of  Arms,  90 

Beneath  their  guardian  Deity  ])rescrved. 
Through  years  of  peace  ;   and  there  the 

Pabas  stood 


Withiu    the    tcmplo-court,    and    doalt 

around 
The  ablution  of  the  Stone  of  Sacrilic*. 
Bidding  them,  with  the  holy  bcvoragc, 
Imbil>o  diviner  valour,  htrength  of  arm 
Not  to  l>e  wearie<l.  lioix?  of  victorVt 
And    certain    faith    of    endle»8    joy    in 

Heaven, 
Their  sine  reward.  .  .  Oh  I   happy,  cried 

the  I'riests. 
Your  brethren  who  have  fallen  I  already 

they  too 

Have   join'd    the   company    of    blewaed 

souls  ; 
Already  they,  with  Hong  and  harmony. 
And  in  the  dance  of  beauty,  arc  gone 

forth. 
To  follow  down  his  wcsteni  path  of  light 
Von  Sun.  the  I*rince  of  (dory,  from  the 

world 
Retiring  to  the  Palace  of  hi.s  xvhX. 
Oh,  happy  they,  who  for  their  country's 

cause, 
And  for  their  Gods,  shall  die  the  brave 

man's  death  ! 
Them  will  their  country  consecrate  with 

prai.se. 
Them  will  the  (Jods  reward  I  .  .  They 

heard  the  Priests  no 

Intoxicate,  and  from  the  gate  swarmed 

out. 
Tumultuous  to  the  tight  of  martyrdom. 

But  when  Cadwallon  every  moment 

saw 
The  enemies  increase,  and  with  what  rage 
()i   drunken   valour  to   the  tight  they 

rush'd. 
He,  acainst  that  imiK-tuous  attack. 
As  best  he  could,  providing,  form'd  the 

trcK^ps 
Of  Britain  into  one  collected  maiw  : 
Three  eijual  sides  it  offered  to  the  foe. 
Close  and  comj>act ;  no  multitude  could 

break  *•• 

The   condenhcd    .strength :     it«   narrow 

]>oint  nre.st  on. 
Entering  the  throng's  niuBlancc,  like  a 

wedge. 
Still  from  Ixhind  im|>cird.     So  thought 

the  Chief 
Likeliest  the  galea  of  Axllau  might  be 

gain'd. 


568 


MADOC   IN  AZTLAN 


And  Hoel  and  the  Prince  preserved,  if 

yet 
They  were  among  mankind.    Nor  could 

the  force 
Of  hostile  thousands  break  that  strength 

condensed, 
Against  whose  iron  sides  the  stream  of 

war 
Roird  unavailing,  as  the  ocean  waves, 
Which  idly  round  some  insulated  rock 
Foam     furious,     warning     with     their 

silvery  smoke  131 

The  mariner  far  off.  Nor  could  the  point 
Of  that  compacted  body,  though  it  bore 
Right  on  the  foe,  and  with  united  force 
Press' d  on  to  enter,  through  the  multi- 
tude 
Win  now  its  difficult  way  ;  as  where  the 

sea 
Pours  through  some  strait  its  violent 

waters,  swoln 
By  inland  fresh,  vainly  the  oarmen  there 
With  all  their  weight  and  strength  essay 

to  drive 
Their  galley  through  the  pass,  the  stress 

and  strain  140 

Availing  scarce  to  stem  the  impetuous 

stream. 

And  hark !  above  the  deafening  din 
of  fight 

Another  shout,  heard  like  the  thunder- 
peal, 

Amid  the  war  of  winds  !  Lincoya  comes. 

Leading  the  mountain-dwellers.  From 
the  shock 

Aztlan  recoil' d.    And  now  a  second  troop 

Of  Britons  to  the  town  advanced,  for 
war 

Impatient  and  revenge.  Cadwallon 
these. 

With  tidings  of  their  gallant  Prince  en- 
thrall'd, 

Had  summon' d  from  the  ships.  That 
dreadful  tale  150 

Roused  them  to  iuvy.  Not  a  man  was 
left 

To  guard  the  fleet ;  for  who  could  have 
endured 

That  idle  duty  ?  who  could  have 
endured 

The  long,  inactive,  miserable  hours, 

And  hope  and  expectation  and  the  rage 


Of  maddening  anguish?    Ririd  led  them 

on  ; 
In  whom  a  brothers  love  had  call'd 

not  up 
More  spirit-stirring  pain,  than  trembled 

now 
In  every  British  heart ;   so  dear  to  all 
Was    Madoc.     On    they    came ;     and 

Aztlan  then  160 

Had  fled   appall' d  ;    but  in  that  dan- 
gerous hour 
Her    faith    preserved    her.     From    tho 

gate  her  Priests 
Rush'd  desperate  out,  and  to  the  fore- 
most rank 
Forced  their  wild  way,  and  fought  with 

martyr  zeal. 
Through  all  the  host  contagious  fury 

spread  : 
Nor  had  the  sight  that  hour  enabled  them 
To  mightier  efforts,  had  Mexitli,  clad 
In  all  his  imaged  terrors,  gone  before 
Their  way,  and  driven  upon  his  enemies 
His  giant  club  destroying.     Then  more 

fierce  170 

The  conflict  grew  ;   the  din  of  arms,  the 

yell 
Of  savage  rage,  the  shriek  of  agony. 
The  groan  of  death,  commingled  in  one 

sound 
Of  undistinguished  horrors  ;    while  the 

Sun, 
Retiring  slow  beneath  the  plain's  far 

verge. 
Shed  o'er  the  quiet  hills  his  fading  light. 


XVI.     THE  WOMEN 

Silent  and  solitary  is  thy  vale, 
Caermadoc,  and  how  melanchol}'  now 
That  solitude  and  silence  !   .   .   Broad 

noon-day. 
And  not  a  sound  of  human  life  is  there  ! 
The  fisher's  net,  abandon' d  in  his  haste, 
Sways  idly  in  the  waters  ;   in  the  tree. 
Where  its  last  stroke  had  pierced,  the 

hatchet  hangs  : 
The  birds,  beside  the  mattock  and  the 

spade. 
Hunt   in   the   uew-turu'd   mould,    and 

fearlessly 


THE    WOMEN 


>()9 


Fly    through    the    cage-work    of    the 

imi)erfcot  wall  ;  to 

Or  through  tlie  vacant  dwelling's  open 

door. 
Pass  and  repass  secure. 

In  Madoc's  house. 
And  on  his  bed  of  reeds.  (Joervyl  lies. 
Her    face     toward     the    ground.     She 

neither  weeps, 
Nor  sighs,  nor  groans  ;    too  strong  her 

agony 
For  outward  sign  of  anguish,  ami  for 

prayer 
Too  hopeless  was  the  ill  ;    and  though, 

at  times. 

The  pious  exclamation  pass'd  her  lips, 
Thy  will  be  done  !    yet  was  that  utter- 
ance 19 
Rather  the  breathing  of  a  broken  heart. 
Than  of  a  soul  resigned.     Mervyn  beside 
Hangs  over  his  dear  mistress  silently, 
Having  no  hope  or  comfort  to  bestow, 
Noraughtbut  sobs  and  unavailing  t^^ars. 
The  women  of  Caermadoc,  like  a  flock 
Collected  in  their  panic,  stand  around 
Tlie  house  of  their  lost  leader  ;   and  they 

too 

Are  mute  in  their  despair.     Llaian  alone 
Is  absent  ;    wildl}'  hath  she  wander'd 

forth 
To  seek  lier  child,  and  such  the  general 

woe,  30 

Tliat   none   hath    mark'd   her   absence. 

Yet  have  they. 
Though  unprotected  thus.no  selfish  fear; 
The    sudden    evil    hath    destroyed    all 

thought, 

All  sense  of  present  danger  to  them- 
selves. 
All  foresight. 

Yet  new  terrors  !  Malinal. 
Panting  with  speed,  bursts  in,  and  takes 

the  arms 
Of  Madoc  down.  Goervyl,  at  that  sound. 
Started  in  sudden  hope  ;    but  when  she 

saw 
The  Azteca,  she  uttered  a  faint  scream 
Of  wrongful  fear,  remembering  not  the 

proofs  40 

Of    his    tried    truth,    nor    recognizing 

aught 
In    those    known    features,    save    their 

hostile  hue. 


But  he.  by  worscr  fear  abating  i»oon 
Her  vain  alarm,  exelaim'd.  1  wiw  a  b«nd 
( )f  Hoamen  coming  up  the  Klraitu,  for  ill, 
Hesure.  for  Amalahta  lcft<ls  them  on. 
Buckle    this    harnes.s    on,    that,    being 

arm'd. 
I  may  defend  ihe  entrance. 

Scarce  Imd  nhe 
Fastened     the     breast -plate     with     her 

trembling  hands. 
When,  Hying  from  the  sight  of  men  in 

arms.  50 

The    women    crowded    in.     Ha.slily    he 

seized 
The    shield    and    spear,    and    on    the 

threshold  took 
His  stand  ;  but,  waken'd  now  to  provi- 
dent thought, 
Goervyl,  following,  helm'd  him.    There 

was  now 
No  time  to  gird  the  l)auldric  on  ;    she 

held 
Her  brother's  sword,  and  l)a(le  him  look 

to  her 
For    prompt   supply    of    weapons ;     in 

herself 
Being  resolved  not  idly  to  abide. 
Nor  unprepared   of   hand   or   heart    to 

meet 
The  issue  of  the  danger,  nor  to  die       60 
Reluctant  now. 

Richtly  had  they  divinc<l 
The  Hoamcn's  felon  purj>os<\     Wheivhc 

heard 
The  fate  of  Madoe.  from  his  mother's  eye 
He  mask'd  his  secret  joy,  and  took  his 

arms, 
And  to  the  rescue,  with  the  foremost 

band. 
Set  forth.     But  soon.  ui>on  the  wav.  he 

told 
The  a.ssociates  of  his  crime,  that  now 

their  hour 
Of  triumph  was  arrived  ;    Caermadoc, 

left 
Defenceless,  would  l)ecome.  with  all  its 

wealth. 
The  Kjwiler's  enHy   prey,   raiment   and 

arms  ?• 

And  iron  ;  skins  of  that  sweet  Ijcveragr, 
Which  to  a  sense  of  its  own  life  could 

stir 
The  joyful  blood  ;   the  women  above  all. 


670 


MADOC  IN  AZTLAN 


Whom  to  the  forest  they  might  bear 

away. 
To  be  their  slaves,  if  so  their  pleasure 

was  ; 
Or,  yielding  them  to  Aztlan,  for  such 

prize 
Receive  a  royal  guerdon.     Twelve  there 

were, 
Long  leagued  with  him  in  guilt,  who 

turn'd  aside  : 
And  they  have  reach' d  Caermadoc  now, 

and  now 
Rush    onward,    where    they    see    the 

women  fiy  ;  80 

When,  on  the  threshold,  clad  in  Cimbric 

arms. 
And  with  long  lance  protended,  MaUnal 
Rebuffs  them  from  the  entrance.     At 

that  sight 
Suddenly  quail' d,  they  stood,  as  mid- 
night thieves 
Who  find  the  master  waking ;    but  ere 

long, 
Gathering  a  boastful  courage,  as  they 

saw 
No  other  guard,  press' d  forward,  and 

essay' d 
To   turn   his   spear   aside.     Its   steady 

point, 
True  to  the  impelling  strength,  held  on, 

and  thrust 
The  foremost  through  the  breast,  and 

breath  and  blood  90 

Followed     the     re-drawn     shaft.     Nor 

seem'd  the  strife 
Unequal  now,  though  with  their  num- 
bers, they 
Beleaguer' d  in  half -ring  the  door,  where 

he. 
The  sole  defender,  stood.     From  side 

to  side. 
So   well  and  swiftly   did  he  veer  the 

lance, 
That  every  enemy  beheld  its  point 
Aim'd  at  himself  direct.     But  chief  on 

one 
Had  Malinal  his  deadly  purpose  fix'd, 
On  Amalahta  ;   by  his  death  to  quell 
The   present   danger,    and   cut   oif   the 

root  100 

Of  many  an  evil,  certain  else  to  spring 
From  that  accursed  stock.     On  him  his 

eye 


Turn'd  with  more  eager  wilfulness,  and  I 

dwelt 
With  keener  ken  ;  and  now,  with  sudden 

step 
Bending  his  body  on,  at  him  he  drives 
The    meditated    blow :      but    that    ill 

Prince, 
As  chiefly   sought,   so  chiefly  fearing, 

swerved 
Timely  aside  ;   and  ere  the  Azteca 
Recovered  from  the  frustrate  aim,  the 

spear 
Was  seized,  and  from  his  hold,  by  stress 

and  weight  no 

Of  numbers  wrench' d.    He,  facing  still 

the  foe. 
And  holding  at  arm's  length  the  targe, 

put  back 
His  hand,  and  called  Goervyl,  and  from 

her 
Received  the  sword  :  .  .  in  time,  for  the 

enemy 
Prest  on  so  near,  that  having  now  no 

scope 
To  raise  his  arm,  he  drove  the  blade 

straight  on. 
It  entered  at  the  mouth  of  one  who 

stood 
With  face  aslant,  and  glanced  along  the 

teeth 
Through    to    the    ear,    then,    slivering 

downward,  left 
The  cheek-flap  dangling.     He,  in  that 

same  point  120 

Of  time,  as  if  a  single  impulse  gave 
Birth  to  the  double  action,  dash'd  his 

shield 
Against  another's  head,  with  so  fierce 

swing 
And  sway  of  strength,  that  this  third 

enemy 
Fell  at  his  feet.     Astounded  by  such 

proof 
Of  prowess,  and  by  unexpected  loss 
Dismay' d,  the  foe  gave  back,  beyond 

the  reach 
Of  his  strong  arm  ;    and  there  awhile 

they  stood, 
Beholding  him  at  bay,  and  counselling 
How  best  to  work  their  vengeance  upon 

him,  130 

Their  sole   opponent.     Soon  did    they 

behold 


({CD 

i! 

Iitti 

0 
loti 


THE  WOMEN 


571 


The  vantage,  overlook' d  by  hasty  hope. 
How  vulnerable  he  stood,  his  arms  and 

thighs 
IJare  for  their  butt.     At  once  they  bent 

their  bows  ; 
At  once  ten  arrows  fled  ;   seven,  shot  in 

vain. 
Hung    on    his   shield ;     but,    with    un- 

hapj)ier  mark, 
Two  shafts  hung  quivering  in  his  leg ; 

a  third 
IVlow     the     shoulder     pierced.     Then 

Malinal 
<lroan'd.  not  for  anguish  of  his  wounds, 

but  grief 
And  agony  of  spirit ;    yet  resolved     140 
To  his  last  gasp  to  guard  that  precious 

post, 
Nor  longer  able  to  endure  afoot. 
He,  falling  on  his  knees,  received  un- 

harra'd 
Upon  the  shield,  now  ample  for  defence, 
Their  second  shower,  and  still  defied  the 

foe. 
But  the3%  now  sure  of  conquest,  hasten'd 

on 
To  thrust  him  down,  and  he  too  felt  his 

strength 
Ebbing  away.     Goervyl,  in  that  hour 
Of  horror  and  despair,  collected  still, 
rCaught  him,  and  by  the  shoulders  drew 
7  him  in ;  150 

And,  calling  on  her  comrades,  with  their 

help 
Shut  to  the  door  in  time,  and  with  their 

weight 
Secured  it,  not  their  strength  ;    for  she 

alone. 
Found  worthy  of  her  noble  anccstrj', 
In  tiiis  emergence  felt  her  faculties 
All  present,  and  heroic  strength  of  heart. 
To  cope  with  danger  and  contempt  of 

death. 
Shame  on  ye,  British  women  !    shame  ! 

exclaim'd 
The  daughter  of  King  Owen,  as  she  saw 
The    trembling    hands    and    bloodless 

countenance  160 

Pale  as  sepulchral  marble  ;  silent  some ; 
Others  with  womanish  cries  lamenting 

now 
That  ever,  in  unhappy  hour,  they  left 
Their  native  land  ;  .  .  a  pardonable  fear; 


For    hark,    the    war-whoop!     sound. 

whereto  the  howl 
Of  tigers  or  hyenas,  hoard  ;.t  night 
By  captive  from  barbarian  f<H«.s  c»capcd. 
And  wandering  in  the  ]mthlc!*«  wilder- 
ness. 
Were  music.     Shame  on  ye  I    (;oorvyl 

cried  ; 
Think    what    your   fathers    wc-re,    your 

husbands  what,  '   170 

And  what  your  sons  should  be  I   Thcjw 

savages 
Seek   not   to   wreak   on    ye   immediate 

death  ; 
80  arc  ye  .safe,  if  safety  such  as  this 
Be  worth  a  thought  ;  and  in  the  interval 
We  yet  may  gain,  by  keeping  to  the  Inst 
This  entrance,  easily  to  be  maintain'd 
By  us,  though  women,  against  foes  so 

few,  .  . 
W'ho   knows  what  succour  chance,   or 

timely  thought 
Of  our  own  friends  may  send,  or  Provi- 
dence, 
Who  slumbereth  not  ?  .  .  While  thus  she 

spake,  a  hand  180 

In   at   the  window  came,   of  one   who 

sought 
That    way   to   win 

drew  out 
The  arrow  through 
With  gentle  care,  .  . 

that.  .  . 

And  held  it  .short  above  the  bony  barb, 
And,  adding  deeds  to  words,  with  all  her 

might 
She  stabbed  it  through  the  hand.     The 

sudden  i)ain 
Provoked  a  cry,  and  back  the  sa\a;;e 

fell. 
Loosening    his    hold,    and    niaini'd    for 

further  war. 
Nay  !    leave  that  entrance  oj)cn  !    »he 

exclaim'd 
To  one  who  would  have  closed  it. 

comes  next 
Shall  not  go  thence  so  cheaply  I 

she  now 
Had   taken   up  a  8j)ear  to  guard   that 

way, 
Easily  guarded,  even  by  female  mi^ht. 
0  heart  of  proof !   what  now  avails  thy 

worth 


the  entrance.     She 

the  arm  of  Malinal, 
the  readiest  weapon 


190 
who 

for 


572 


MADOC   IN  AZTLAN 


And  excellent  courage  ?   for  the  savage 

foe, 
With  mattock  and  with  spade,  for  other 

use 
Design' d,  hew  now  upon  the  door,  and 

rend 
The   wattled  sides ;     and  they   within 

shrink  back, 
For  now  it  splinters  through,  .  .  and  lo, 

the  way  200 

Is  open  to  the  spoiler  ! 

Then  once  more, 
Collecting  his  last  strength,  did  Malinal 
Rise  on  his  knees,  and  over  him  the  maid 
Stands     with     the    ready     spear,     she 

guarding  him 
Who  guarded  her  so  well.     Roused  to 

new  force 
By  that  exampled  valour,  and  with  will 
To  achieve  one  service  yet  before  he 

died,  .  . 
If  death  indeed,   as  sure  he  thought, 

were  nigh,  .  . 
Malinal  gather' d  up  his  fainting  powers. 
And  reaching  forward,  with  a  blow  that 

threw  210 

His  body  on,  upon  the  knee  he  smote 
One  Hoaman  more,  and  brought  him 

to  the  ground. 
The  foe  fell  over  him  ;  but  he,  prepared. 
Threw  him  with  sudden  jerk  aside,  and 

rose 
Upon   one  hand,   and   with   the  other 

plunged 
Between    his    ribs    the    mortal    blade. 

Meantime  , 

Amalahta,  rushing  in  blind  eagerness 
To   seize   Goervyl,   set   at  nought  the 

power 
Of  female  hands,  and  stooping  as  he 

came 
Beneath  her  spear-point,  thought  with 

lifted  arm  220 

To  turn  the  thrust  aside.     But  she  drew 

back. 
And  lowered  at  once  the  spear  with  aim 

so  sure. 
That    on   the   front   it   met   him,    and 

plough' d  up 
The   whole   scalp-length.     He,   blinded 

by  the  blood, 
Stagger' d  aside,  escaping  by  that  chance 
A  second  push,  else  mortal.    And  by  this, 


The    women,    learning    courage    from 

despair, 
I  And  by  Goervyl's  bold  example  fired. 
Took  lieart,  and  rushing  on  with  one 

accord. 
Drove  out   the  foe.     Then   took   they 

hope  ;   for  then  230 

They  saw  but  seven  remain  in  plight  for 

war  ; 
And,  knowing  their  own  number,  in  the 

pride 
Of  strength,  caught  up  stones,  staves, 

or  axe,  or  spear. 
To  hostile  use  converting  whatsoe'er 
The    hasty    hand    could    seize.     Such 

fierce  attack  ; 

Confused  the  ruffian  band ;    nor  hadj 

they  room 
To  aim  the  arrow,   nor  to  speed  the; 

spear,  ' 

Each  now  beset  by  many.     But  their' 

Prince, 
Still  mindful  of  his  purport,  call'd  to' 

them,  .  . 
Secure  my  passage  while  I  bear  away       ; 
The  White  King's  Sister;    having  her,; 

the  law  241 

Of  peace  is  in  our  power.  .  .  And  on  he 

went 
Toward  Goervyl,  and,  with  sudden  turn, 
While  on  another  foe  her  eye  was  fix'd, . 
Ran  in  upon  her,  and  stoop' d  down,  and ; 

claspt 
The  Maid  above  the  knees,  and  throwing 

her 
Over  his  shoulder,  to  the  valley  straits 
Set  off  :  .  .  ill  seconded  in  ill  attempt  ; 
For  now  his  comrades  are  too  close  beset 
To  aid  their  Chief,  and  Mervyn  hath 

beheld  250 

His  lady's  peril.  At  the  sight,  inspired 
With  force,  as  if  indeed  that  manly  garb 
Had  clothed  a  manly  heart,  the  Page 

ran  on. 
And  with  a  bill-hook  striking  at  his  ham, 
Cut  the  back  sinews.     Amalahta  fell ; 
The  Maid  fell  with  him  :    and  she  first 

hath  risen. 
While,    grovelling    on    the    earth,    he 

gnash'd  his  teeth 
For  agony.     Yet,  even  in  those  pangs. 
Remembering  still  revenge,  he  turn'd 

and  seized 


THE    WOMEN 


57:t 


Goervyl's  skirt,  and  pluck'd  her  to  the 

ground,  260 

And  roll'd  himself  upon  her,  and  essay'd 
To   kneel    upon    her    breast ;     but   she 

clench' d  fast 
His  bloody  locks,  and  drew  him  down 

aside. 
Faint  now  with  anguish,  and  with  loss 

of  blood  ; 

And  Mervyn,  coming  to  her  help  again. 

As  once  again  he  rose,  oround  the  neck 

,  Seized  him,  with  throttling  grasp,  and 

held  him  down.  .  . 
Strange  strife  and  horrible. . .  till  Malinal 
1   Crawl'd  to  the  spot,  and  thrust  into  his 

groin 
r  The  mortal  sword  of  Madoc  ;  he  himself. 
At  the  same  moment,  fainting,  now  no 

more  271 

By  his  strong  will  upheld,  the  service 
,  done. 

The  few  surviving  traitors,  at  the  sight 
Of  their  fallen  Prince  and  Leader,  now 

too  late 
Believed  that  some  diviner  power  had 

given 
These  female  arms  strength  for  their 

overthrow. 
Themselves  proved  weak  before  them, 

as,  of  late. 
Their  God,  by  Madoc  crush' d. 

Away  they  fled 
Toward  the  valley  straits  ;    out  in  the 

gorge 
Erillyab  met  their  flight :   and  then  her 

heart,  280 

Boding  the  evil,  smote  her,  and  she  bade 
Her  people  seize,  and  bring  them  on  in 

bonds. 
For     judgement.     She     herself,     with 

quicken' d  pace, 
Advanced,  to  know  the  worst ;   and  o'er 

the  dead 
i   Casting  a  rapid  glance,  she  knew  her 
'  son. 

-    She  knew  him  by  his  garments,  by  the 

work 
Of  her  own  hands  ;    for  now  his  face, 

besmear' d 
And  black  with  gore,  and  stiffen' d  in  its 

pangs. 
Bore  of  the  life  no  semblance.  .  .  Clod  is 

good  ! 


She  cried,  and  closed  hot  eyelids,  and 

her  lips  ,^ 

Shook,  and  her  countenance  changed. 

But  in  her  heart 
She  quell'd  the  natural  foolinvj.  •  •  I^ar 

away 
These  wretches  !  .  .  to  her  followers  she 

exclaim'd  ; 
And  root  them  from  the  earth.     Then 

she  approach'd 
Goervyl,  who  was  pale  and  trembling 

now. 
Exhausted  with  past  effort ;  and  she  took 
Gently   tlio   Maiden's  tremulous   hand, 

and  said. 
God  comfort  thee,  my  Sister!    At  that 

voice 
Of  consolation,  from  her  dreamy  .state 
(Joervyl  to  a  sense  of  all  her  woo        300 
Awoke,  and  burst  into  a  gush  of  tears. 
God  comfort  thee,  my  Sister  !   cried  the 

Queen, 
Even  as  He  strengthens  me.     I  would 

not  raise 
Deceitful  hope,  .  .  but  in  His  hand,  even 

yet. 
The  issue  hangs  ;   and  He  is  merciful. 

Yea,  daughter  of  Aberfraw,  take  thou 

hope  I 
For  Madoc  lives  ! .  .  he  lives  to  wield  tho 

sword 
Of  righteous  vengeance,  and  accomplish 

all. 


XVII.     THE  DELIVERANCE 

Madoc,  meantime,  in  l)ond.s  and  solitude. 
Lay  listening  to  the  tumult.     How  his 

heart 
Panted!     how     then,     with     fruitless 

strength,  he  strove 
And  struggled  for  enlargement,  a.4  the 

sound 
Of  battle  from  without  the  city  camo  ; 
While  all  things  near  were  still,  nor  foot 

of  man 
Nor  voice,  in  that  de.sorteti  i>art,  wcro 

heard. 
At  length  one  light  and  .solitary  «t.'p 
Approach'd  tho  place  ;  a  woman  crowd 

tho  door. 


574 


MADOC   IN   AZTLAN 


\ 


From   Madoc's   busy   mind   her  image 

pass'd,  .  10 

Quick  as  the  form  that  caused  it ;    but 

not  so 
Did  the  remembrance  fly  from  Coatel, 
That  Madoc  lay  in  bonds.   That  thought 

possess' d 
Her  soul,  and  made  her,  as  she  garlanded 
The  fane  of  Coatlantona  with  flowers, 
Tremble  in  strong  emotion. 

It  was  now 
The  hour  of  dusk ;    the  Pabas  all  were 

gone, 
Gone  to  the  battle ;  .  .  none  could  see 

her  steps  ; 
The    gate    was    nigh.     A    momentary 

thought 
Shot  through  her ;    she  delay' d  not  to 

reflect,  20 

But  hasten" d  to  the  Prince,  and  took 

the  knife 
Of  sacrifice,  which  by  the  altar  hung. 
And  cut  his  bonds,  and  with  an  eager 

eye, 
Motioning  haste  and  silence,  to  the  gate 
She  led  him.     Fast  along  the  forest  way, 
And  fearfully,  he  foUow'd  to  the  chasm. 
She  beckon' d,  and  descended,  and  drew 

out 
From  underneath  her  vest,  a  cage,  or  net 
It  rather  might  be  called,  so  fine  the 

twigs 
Which  knit  it,  where  confined  two  fire- 
flies gave  30 
Their  lustre.     By  that  light  did  Madoc 

first 
Behold  the  features  of  his  lovely  guide  ; 
And  through  the  entrance  of  the  cavern 

gloom 
He  followed  in  full  trust. 

Now  have  they  reach' d 
The  abrupt  descent ;    there  Coatel  held 

forth 
Her  living  lamp,  and  turning,  with  a 

smile 
Sweet  as  good  Angels  wear  when  they 

present 
Their  mortal  charge  before  the  throne 

of  Heaven, 
She  show'd  where  little  Hoel  slept  below. 
Poor  child  !  he  lay  upon  that  very  spot, 
The  last  whereto  his  feet  had  followed 

her ;  41 


And,  as  he  slept,  his  hand  was  on  the 

bones 
Of  one,  who  years  agone  had  perish' d 

there. 
There,    on    the    place    where    last    his 

wretched  eyes 
Could   catch   the   gleam   of   day.     But 

when  the  voice, 
The  well-known  voice  of  Madoc,  wakened 

him,  .  . 
His  uncle's  voice,  .  .  he  started,  with  a 

scream 
Which    echoed    through    the    cavern's 

winding  length. 
And  stretch' d  his  arms  to  reach  him. 

Madoc  hush'd 
The  dangerous  transport,  raised  him  up 

the  ascent,  50 

And  followed  Coatel  again,  whose  face. 
Though    tears    of    pleasure    still    were 

coursing  down. 
Betoken' d  fear  and  haste.     Adown  the 

wood 
They  went ;  and  coasting  now  the  lake, 

her  eye 
First  what  they  sought  beheld,  a  light 

canoe, 
Moor'd  to  the  bank.     Then  in  her  arms 

she  took 
The  cliild,  and  kiss'd  him  with  maternal 

love, 
And  placed  him  in  the  boat ;   but  when 

the  Prince, 
With  looks  and  gestures  and  imperfect 

words 
Such  as  the  look,  the  gesture,  well  ex- 
plain'd,  60 
Urged   her   to   follow,    doubtfully   she 

stood  : 
A  dread  of  danger,  for  the  thing  she  had 

done. 
Came  on  her,  and  Lincoya  rose  to  mind. 
Almost  she  had  resolved  ;   but  then  the 

thought 
Of  her  dear  father,  whom  that  flight 

would  leave 
Alone  in  age ;  how  he  would  weep  for  her, 
As  one  among  the  dead,  and  to  the  grave 
Go  sorrowing  ;  or,  if  ever  it  were  known 
What  she  had  dared,  that  on  hia  head 

the  weight 
Of  punishment  would  fall.     That  dread- 
ful fear  70 


THE   DELIVERANCE 


lesolved  her,  and  she  waved  her  head, 

and  raised 
[er  hand,  to  bid  the  Prince  depart  in 

haste, 
V^ith  looks   whose  painful   seriousness 

forbade 
ill  farther  effort.     Yet  unwillingly, 
ind  boding  evil,  Madoc  from  the  shore 
*U3h'd  off  his  little  boat.     She  on  its 

way 
tood   gazing   for   a   moment,    lost   in 

thought, 
.""hen  struck  into  the  woods. 

Swift  through  the  lake 
ladoc's  strong  arm  imi:)eirci  the  light 

canoe. 

<^ainter  and  fainter  to  his  distant  ear  80 
?he  sound  of  battle  came ;    and  now 

the  Moon 
^rose  in  heaven,  and  poured  o'er  lake 

and  land 
^  soft  and  mellowing  ray.     Along  the 

shore 
Jaian  was  wandering  with  distracted 


\nd  groaning  for  her  child.     She  saw 

the  boat 
Approach ;    and  as  on  Madoc's  naked 

limbs, 
\nd  on  his  countenance,  the  moonbeam 

fell, 

And  as  she  saw  the  boy  in  that  dim  light, 
It  seem'd  as  though  the  Spirits  of  the 

dead 
\i\'ere  moving  on  the  waters  ;    and  she 

stood  90 

With  open  lips  that  breathed  not,  and 

fix'd  eyes, 
Watching  the  unreal  shapes  :   but  when 

the  boat 
Drew  nigh,  and  Madoc  landed,  and  she 

saw 
His  step  substantial,  and  the  child  came 

near, 
il'nable    then    to    move,    or   speak,    or 

breathe, 

I  Down  on  the  sand  she  sunk. 
But  who  can  tell, 
Who  comprehend,  her  agony  of  joy, 
!When,  by  the  Prince's  care  restored  to 

sense. 
She  recognized  her  child,  she  heard  the 
name 


Of  mother  from  that  voice,  which,  Hurc. 
she  thought  loo 

Had  pourd  upon  some  Priest's  rfniopH'- 
less  car 

Its  last  vain  prayer  for  life  !  No  U-nr 
relieved 

The  insupportable  feeling  that  con- 
vulsed 

Her  swelling  breast.  She  look'd,  and 
look'd,  and  felt 

The  child,  lest  some  delusion  should  have 
mock'd 

Her  soul  to  madnes-s  ;   then  the  gushing 

joy 

Burst  forth,  and  with  cares-sea  and  with 

tears 
She  mingled  broken  prayens  of  thanks 

to  heaven. 

And  now  the  Prince,   when  joy  had 

had  its  course. 
Said  to  her,  Knowest  thou  the  mountain 

path  ?  no 

For  I  would  to  the  battle.     But  at  that, 
A   sudden   damp   of   dread  came   over 

her,  .  . 
0  leave  us  not  !  she  cried  ;  lest  haply  ill 
Should  have  befallen  ;   for  I  remember 

now. 
How  in  the  woods  I  spied  a  savage  band 
Making  towards  Caermadoc.     (lod  fore- 
fend 
The  evil  that  I  fear  !  .  .  What  !   Madoc 

cried. 
Were  ye  then  left  defenceless  ?  .  .  She 

replied. 
All  ran  to  arms  :    there  was  no  time  for 

thought, 
Nor  counsel,   in   that  sudden  ill  ;    nor 

one  120 

Of  all  th\'  people,  who  could,  in  that  hour 
Have  brook'd  home-duty,  when  thy  life 

or  death 
Hung  on  the  chance. 

Now  (Jod  be  merciful  ! 
Said  he;  for  of  Ooervyl  then  he  thouyht. 
And  the  cold  sweat  started  at  every  tHire. 
(jiive  me  the  boy  !  .  .  he  travels  all  Uh> 

hIow. 
Then  in  his  arms  he  took  him,  and  spoil 

on. 
Suffering  more  painful  torrors.  than  of 

late 


576 


MADOC   IX   AZTLAN 


H 


His  own  near  death  provoked.     They 

held  their  way 
In  silence  up  the  heights  ;    and,  when 

at  length  130 

They  reached  the  entrance  of  the  vale, 

the  Prince 
Bade  her  remain,  wliile  he  went  on  to 

spy 

The  footsteps  of  the  spoiler.     Soon  he 

saw 
Men,  in  the  moonlight,  stretch'd  upon 

the  ground  ; 
And  quickening  then  his  pace,  in  worse 

alarm, 
Along  the  shade,  with  cautious  step,  he 

moved 
Toward  one,  to  seize  his  weapons  :  'twas 

a  corpse ; 
Xor  whether,  at  the  sight,  to  hope  or 

fear 
Yet  knew  he.     But  anon,  a  steady  light, 
As  of  a  taper,  seen  in  his  own  home,  140 
Comforted  him ;    and,  drawing  nearer 

now. 
He  saw  his  sister  on  her  knees,  beside 
The  rushes,  ministering  to  a  wounded 

man. 
Safe  that  the  dear  one  lived,  then  back 

he  sped 
With    joyful     haste,    and     summon'd 

Llaian  on, 
And  in  loud  talk  advanced.     Erillyab 

first 
Came  forward  at  the  sound  ;  for  she  had 

faith 
To  trust  the  voice.  .  .  They  live  !    they 

live  !   she  cried  : 
God  hath  redeem'd  them  !    .  .  Nor  the 

Maiden  yet 
Believed    the    actual    joy ;      like    one 

astound,  150 

Or  as  if  struggling  with  a  dream,  she 

stood. 
Till  he  came  close,  and  spread  his  arms, 

and  call'd 
Goervyl  !  .  .  and  she  fell  in  his  embrace. 

But  Madoc  linger' d  not,  his  eager  soul 
Was  in  the  war,  in  haste  he  donn'd  his 

arms  ; 
And  as  he  felt  his  own  good  sword  again, 
Exulting  play'd  his  heart.  .  .  Boy,  he 

exclaim' d 


To  Mervyn,  arm  thyself,  and  follow  me  I 
For  in  this  battle  we  shall  break  the. 

power 
Of  our  blood-thirsty  foe  :   and,  in  thine 

age,  160 

Wouldst  thou  not  wish,  when  young  mea 

men  crowd  around. 
To   hear   thee  chronicle   their  fathers' 

deeds, 
Wouldst  thou  not  wish  to  add,  .  .  And 

I,  too,  fought 
In  that  day's  conflict  ? 

Mervyn' s  cheek  turn'd  pale 
A  moment,  then,  with  terror  all  suffused, 
Grew    fever-red.     Nay,    nay,    Goervyl 

cried. 
He  is  too  young  for  battles  !  .  .  But  the 

Prince, 
With  erring  judgement,   in  that  fear- 
flush' d  cheek 
Beheld  the  glow  of  enterprizing  hope. 
And   youthful    courage.      I    was    such 

a  boy,  170 

Sister  !  he  cried,  at  Counsyllt ;  and  that 

day. 
In  my  first  field,   with  stripling  arm, 

smote  down 
Many  a  tall  Saxon.     Saidst  thou  not  but 

now. 
How  bravely  in  the  fight  of  yesterday, 
He  flesh' d  his  sword,  .  .  and  wouldst 

thou  keep  him  here 
And  rob  him   of   his  glory  ?     See   his 

cheek  ! 
How  it  hath  crimson' d  at  the  unworthy 

thought ! 
Arm  !   arm  !    and  to  the  battle  ! 

How  her  heart 
Then  panted  !    how,   with  late  regret, 

and  vain,  179 

Senena  wished  Goervyl  then  had  heard 
The  secret,  trembling  on  her  lips  so  oft. 
So  oft  by  shame  withheld.     She  thought 

that  now 
She  could  have  fallen  upon  her  Lady's 

neck, 
And  told  her  all ;   but  when  she  saw  the 

Prince, 
Imperious  shame  forbade  her,  and  she 

felt 
It    were   an   easier   thing   to   die   than 

speak. 
Avail'd  not  now  regret  or  female  fear  ! 


Gb'dffl 
Bit.  in  1' 
hm 

lore 

Ui 
eicl 

Hire  do 

OBtk! 


I: '" 

... 

Itet- 

u 


THE    DELIVERANCE 


he  mail'd  her  delicate  limbs  ;   beneath 

the  plate 
orapress'd  her  bosom  ;    on  her  colden 

locks 


The  lot  of  war  ?  .  .  CJoorvyl  hath  mv 

charge 
To  qnito  thee  for  thy  service  with  hcr- 


he  helmet's  overheavy  load  she  placed  ;  ,  That  so  t  hou  mayest  raise  np  seed  to  mo 
img  from  her  neck  the  shield;    and.    Of  mine  own  bfood,  who  may  inherit 


though  the  sword 


191  I 


here 


l^hich  swung  beside  her  lightest  she  had    The   obedience   of   thy   people   and   of 


chosen, 

'hough  in  her  iiand  she  held  the  slen- 
derest spear, 
ilike  unwieldy  for  the  maiden's  grasp, 
"he  sword  and  ashen  lance.     But  as  she 

touch' d 

he  murderous  point,  an  icy  shudder  ran 
hrough  every  tibre  of  her  trembling 

frame  ; 

nd,  overcome  by  womanly  terror  then, 
he  damsel  to  Goervyl  turn'd,  and  let 
he  breastplate  fall,  and  on  her  bosom 

placed  200 

lie  Lady's  hand,  and  hid  her  face,  and 

cried, 
ave  me  !   Tlie  warrior,  who  beheld  the 

act, 
nd  heard  not  the  low  voice,  with  angry 

eye 

riow'd  on  the  seemly  boy  of  feeble  heart. 
Jut,  in  Goervyl,  joy  had  overpower' d 
!he  wonder ;    joy  to  find  the  boy  she 

loved 
^as  one,  to  whom  her  heart  with  closer 

love 
fight  cling ;    and  to  her  brother  she 

exclaim'd, 
Ihe  must  not  go  I  We  women  in  the  war 
lave  done  our  parts. 

A  moment  Madoc  dwelt 
)n  the  false  Mervyn,  with  an  eye  from 

whence  211 

)i8pleasure  did  not  wholly  pass  away. 
Jor  loitering  to  resolve  Love's  riddle 

now 
To  Malinal   he   turn'd,    where,   on   his 

couch, 
rhe  wounded  youth  was  laid.  .  .  True 

friend,  said  he, 
Ind  brother  mine,  .  .  for  truly  by  that 

name 
[  trust  to  greet  thee,  .  .  if,  in  this  near 

fight, 
Vly  hour  should  overtake  me,  .  .  as  who 

knows 


mme.  .  . 
Malinal  took  his  hand,  and  to  his  lips 
Feebly  he  press' d  it,  saying,  One  boon 

more. 
Father  and  friend,  I  ask  !  .   .   if  thou 

sliouldst  meet 
Yuhidthiton  in  battle,  think  of  me. 


XVIII.    THE  VICTORY 

Merciful  (iod  !  how  horrible  is  night 
Upon  the  plain  of  Aztlan  !    there  the 

shout 
Of  battle,  the  barbarian  yell,  the  bray 
Of  dissonant  instruments,  the  clang  of 

arms. 
The  shriek  of  agony,  the  groan  of  death. 
In  one  wild  uproar  and  continuous  din. 
Shake  the  still  air  ;   while,  overhead,  the 

Moon, 
Regardless  of  the  stir  of  this  low  world. 
Holds  on  her  heavenly  way.     Still  un- 

allay'd 
By  slaughter  raged  the  battle,  unrelax'd 
By   lengthened   toil ;     anger  supplving 

still  ■    II 

Strength  undiminlsh'd  for  the  desperate 

strife. 
And  lo  !    where  yonder,  on  the  temple 

top, 
Blazing  aloft,  the  sacrificial  fire 
Scene  more  accurst  and  hideous  than 

the  war 
Displays  to  all  the  vale  ;    for  whosoe'iT 
That  night  the  Aztecaa  could  bear  away, 
Hoaman    or    Briton,    thither    waa    he 

borne  ; 
And  as  they  stretch'd  him  on  the  stone 

of  blood, 
Did  the  huge  tambour  of  the  Clod,  with 

voice  30 

Loud  as  the  thunder-peal,  and  hoard  as 

far, 


678 


MADOC   IN  AZTLAN 


Proclaim  the  act  of  death,  more  visible 
Than  in  broad  day-light,  by  those  mid- 
night fires 
Distinctlier     seen.      Sight     that     with 

horror  fill'd 
The    Cymry,    and   to   mightier  efforts 

roused. 
Howbeit,  this  abhorr'd  idolatry 
Work'd  for  their  safety;    the  deluded 

foes, 
Obstinate  in  their  faith,  forbearing  still 
The  mortal  stroke,  that  they  might  to 

the  God 
Present  the  living  victim,  and  to  him  30 
Let  the  life  flow. 

And  now  the  orient  sky 
Glow'd  with  the  ruddy  morning,  when 

the  Prince 
Came  to  the  field.     He  lifted  up  his 

voice, 
And   shouted  Madoc  !    Madoc  !    They 

who  heard 
The  cry,  astonish' d  tum'd ;    and  when 

they  saw 
The  countenance   his   open   helm   dis- 
closed. 
They  echoed,  Madoc !  IMadoc !  Through 

the  host 
Spread  the  miraculous  joy,  .  .  He  lives  ! 

he  lives  ! 
He  comes  himself  in  arms  !  .  .  Lincoya 

heard, 
As  he  had  raised  his  arm  to  strike  a  foe, 
And  stay'd  the  stroke,  and  thrust  him 

ofif,  and  cried,  41 

Go  tell  the  tidings  to  thy  countrymen, 
Madoc  is  in  the  war  !  Tell  them  his  God 
Hath  set  the  White  King  free  !  Astonish- 
ment 
Seized  on  the  Azteca  ;  on  all  who  heard. 
Amazement  and  dismay ;    and  Madoc 

now 
Stood  in  the  foremost  battle,  and  his 

sword,  .  . 
His  own  good  sword,  .  .  flash' d  like  the 

sudden  death 
Of  lightning  in  their  eyes. 

The  King  of  Aztlan 
Heard   and   beheld,    and   in   his  noble 

heart  50 

Heroic  hope  arose.     Forward  he  moved, 
And  in  the  shock  of  battle,  front  to 

front. 


Encountered  Madoc.    A  strong-statured 

man 
Coanocotzin  stood,  one  well  who  knew 
The  ways  of  war,  and  never  yet  in  fight 
Had  found  an  equal  foe.     Adown  his 

back 
Hung  the  long  robe  of  feather' d  royalty  ; 
Gold  fenced  his  arms  and  legs  ;  upon  his 

helm 
A  sculptured  snake  protends  the  arrowy 

tongue ; 
Around  a  coronal  of  plumes  arose,       60 
Brighter  than  beam  the  rainbow  hues 

of  light. 
Or  than  the  evening  glories  which  the 

sun 
Slants  o'er  the  moving  many-colour'd 

sea. 
Such  their  surpassing  beauty  ;    bells  of 

gold 
Emboss' d    his    glittering    helmet,    and 

where'er 
Their  sound  was  heard,  there  lay  the 

press  of  war, 
And  Death   was  busiest   there.     Over 

the  breast 
And  o'er  the  golden  breastplate  of  the 

King, 
A  feathery  cuirass,  beautiful  to  eye. 
Light  as  the  robe  of  peace,  yet  strong  to 

save ;  70 

For  the  sharp  faulchion's  baffled  edge 

would  glide 
From,  its  smooth  softness.     On  his  arm 

he  held 
A  buckler  overlaid  with  beaten  gold  ; 
And  so  he  stood,  guarding  his  thighs 

and  legs. 
His  breast  and  shoulders  also,  with  the 

length 
Of  his  broad  shield. 

Opposed,  in  mail  complete. 
Stood  Madoc  in  his  strength.   The  flexile 

chains 
Gave  play  to  his  full  muscles,  and  dis- 
play'd 
How  broad  his  shoulders,  and  his  ample 

breast. 
Small   was   his   shield,    there   broadest 

where  it  fenced  80 

The  well  of  life,  and  gradual  to  a  point 
Lessening,  steel-strong,  and  wieldy  in 

his  grasp. 


THE    VICTORY 


579 


It  boro  those  blazoned  eaglets,  at  whose 

sight. 
Along  the  Marches,  or  where  holv  Dee 
Through    Cestrian     pastures    rolls    his 

tamer  stream. 
So  oft  the  yeoman  had,  in  days  of  yore, 
Cursing  his  perilous  tenure,  wound  the 

horn. 
And  warden  from  the  castle-tower  rung 

out 
The   loud   alarum-bell,    heard   far   and 

wide. 
Upon   his   helm   no   sculptured   dragon 

sate,  90 

Sate  no  fantastic  terrors  ;  a  white  plume 
Nodded  above,   far-seen,    floating   like 

foam 
Upon  the  stream  of  battle,  always  where 
The  tide  ran  strongest.     Man  to  man 

opposed, 
The  Sea  Lord  and  the  King  of  Aztlan 

stood. 

Fast  on  the  intervening  buckler  fell 
The    Azteca's    stone    faulchion.     Who 

hath  watclvd 
Tlie  midnight  lightnings  of  the  summer 

storm. 
That    with  their  awful  blaze  irradiate 

heaven, 
Then  leave  a  blacker  night  ?   so  quick, 

so  fierce,  100 

Flash'd  Madoc's  sword,  which,  like  the 

serpent's  tongue. 
Seemed  double,   in  its  rapid  whirl  of 

light. 
Unequal  arms  !  for  ou  the  British  shield 
Avail' d  not  the  stone  faulchion' s  brittle 

edge, 
And   in   the   golden    buckler,   Madoc's 

sword 
Bit  deep.     Coanocotzin  saw,  and  dropt 
The  unprofitable  weapon,  and  received 
His    ponderous    club,    .    .    that    club, 

beneath  whose  force, 
Driven  by  his  father's  arm,  TepoUomi 
Had  fallen  subdued,  .   .  and  fast  and 

fierce  he  drove  110 

The  massy  weight  on  Madoc.     From  his 

shield. 
The  deadening  force  communicated  ran 
Up  hia  stimn'd  arm  ;    anon  upon  his 

helm. 


Crashing,  it  came  ;  .  .  his  cyca  shot  firo. 
his  brain 

Swam  dizzy.  .  .  he  roroik.       Iio  r.>-K. 
again 

The  club  descends. 

That  (laii^.;.  I  t(»  himm'U 

RecalTd    tin-    Lord   of   Ocean.     On    ho 
sprung, 

Within   the   falling   weapon's  curvo  of 
death. 

Shunning  its  frustrate  aim,  and  broa.st 
to  breast 

He  grappled  with  the  King.   The  pliant 
mail  120 

Bent  to  his  straining  limbs,  while  plates 
of  gold, 

The  feathery  robe,  the  buckler's  ampli- 
tude 

Cumbered  the  Azteea,  and  from  his  arm, 

Clench'd  in  the  Briton's  mighty  gra«p, 
at  once 

He  dropt  the  impeding  buckler,  and  let 
fall 

The  unfastcn'd  club  ;    which  when  the 
Prince  beheld, 

He  thrust  him  ofY,  and  drawing  back 
resimied 

The  sword  that  from  his  wrist  suspended 
hung. 

And  twice  he  smote  the  King  ;    twice 
from  the  quilt 

Of  plumes  the  iron  glides  :   audio!   the 
King,  130 

So  well  his    soldiers  watch  their  mon- 
arch's need. 

Shakes  in  his  hand  a  spear. 

But  now  a  cry 

Burst  on  the  ear  of  Madoc.  and  he  saw 

Through   opening   ranks,    where   Vrivn 
was  convey'd 

A  captive  to  his  death.     (Jrief  then  and 
shame 

And  rage  inspired  him.     With  a  mighty 
blow 

He  cleft  Coanocotzin's  helm  ;    exposed 

The    monarch    stood;    .    .    again    the 
thunder-stroko 

Came  on  him,  and  he  fell.  .     Tlie  multi- 
tude. 

Forgetful  of  their  country  and   them- 
selves. ^^ 

Crowd  round  their  dying  King.     Madoc. 
whoso  eye 


580 


MADOC   IN  AZTLAN 


Still  follow' d  Urien,  call'd  upon  his  men, 
And  through  the  broken  army  of  the  foe, 
Press' d  to  his  rescue. 

But  far  off  the  old  man 
Was  borne  with  furious  speed.     Ririd 

alone 
Pursued  his  path,  and  through  the  thick 

of  war 
Close   on   the   captors,    with   avenging 

sword, 
Follow' d   right    on,    and    through    the 

multitude, 
And  through  the  gate  of  Aztlan,  made 

his  way. 
And  through  the  streets,  till,  from  the 

temple-mound,  150 

The  press  of  Pabas  and  the  populace 
Repell'd  him,  while  the  old  man  was 

hurried  up. 
Hark  !  that  infernal  tambour  !  o'er  the 

lake 
Its  long-loud  thunders  roll,  and  through 

the  hills, 
Awakening  all  their  echoes.    Ye  accurst, 
Ye  blow  the  fall  too  soon  I   Ye  Dogs  of 

Hell, 
The  Hart  is  yet  at  bay  !  .  .  Thus  long  the 

old  man, 
As  one  exhausted  or  resign' d,  had  lain, 
Resisting  not ;     but   at   that   knell   of 

death. 
Springing    with    unexpected   force,    he 

freed  160 

His  feet,  and  shook  the  Pabas  from  their 

hold. 
And,  with  his  armed  hand,  between  the 

eyes 
Smote  one  so  sternly,  that  to  earth  he 

fell, 
Bleeding,  and  all  astound.     A  man  of 

proof 
Was  Urien  in  his  day,  thought  worthiest, 
In  martial  thewes  and  manly  discipline, 
To  train  the  sons  of  Owen.     He  had 

lost 
Youth's  supple  slight;  yet  still  the  skill 

remain' d, 
And  in  his  stiffen' d  limbs  a  strength, 

which  yet 
Might  put  the  young  to  shame.     And 

now  he  set  170 

His  back  against  the  altar,  resolute 
Not  as  a  victim  by  the  knife  to  die. 


But  in  the  act  of  battle,  as  became 

A  man  grown  grey  in  arms  :  and  in  his 

heart 
There  was  a  living  hope ;    for  now  he 

knew 
That  Madoc  lived,  nor  could  the  struggle 

long 
Endure  against  that  arm. 

Soon  was  the  way 
Laid  open  by  the  sword ;   for  side  by 

side 
The  brethren  of  Aberfraw  mow'd  their 

path ; 
And,  following  close,  the  Cymry  drive 

along,  180 

Till  on  the  summit  of  the  mound  their 

cry 
Of   victory   rings   aloud.     The   temple 

floor. 
So  often  which  had  reek'd  with  innocent 

blood, 
Reeks   now   with   righteous   slaughter. 

Franticly, 
In  the  wild  fury  of  their  desperate  zeal, 
The  Priests  crowd  round  the  God,  and 

with  their  knives 
Hack  at  the  foe,  and  call  on  him  to 

save ;  .  . 
At  the  altar,  at  the  Idol's  feet  they  fall. 
Nor  with  less  frenzy  did  the  multitude 
Flock  to   defend   their  God.     Fast   as 

they  fell,  190 

New  victims  rush'd  upon  the  British 

sword ; 
And  sure  that  day  had  rooted  from  the 

earth 
The  Aztecas,  and  on  their  conquerors. 

drawn 
Promiscuous  ruin,  had  not  Madoc  now 
Beheld  from  whence  the  fearless  ardour 

sprang  ;  .  . 
They    saw    Mexitli ;     momently    they 

hoped 
That  he  would  rise  in  vengeance.  Madoc 

seized 
A  massy  club,  and  from  his  azure  throne 
Shattered  the  giant  idol. 

At  that  sight 
The  men  of  Aztlan  pause ;  so  was  their 

pause  200 

Dreadful,  as  when  a  multitude  expect 
The  Earthquake's  second  shock.     But 

when  they  saw 


el? 
M- 
.{till »'. 

reD 
Frontd 


for 
iktie 
Ck 

k 


I  fa. 

joi 

On  the 

k 


b< 
Iktu 

CI 

Prest: 

d< 

hk 


THE    VICTORY 


581 


Earth  did  not  oikmi,  nor  the  temple  fall 
To  crush   thtur   iiupiou-s  enciniet*,   dia- 

may'd, 
They  felt  themselves  forsaken  by  their 

Ciods  ; 
Then  from  their  temples  aud  their  homes 

they  fled, 
Aiid.  leaviug  Aztlan  to  the  eoii({ueror. 
thought  the  near  city,  whither  tliey  hud 

seut 
Theix*  womeu,  timely  saved. 

But  Tlalala, 
With  growing  fury  as  the  danger  grew, 
Raged  in  the  battle  ;  but  Yuhidthiton 
iStill   with   calm   courage,   till   no   hope 

remain"  d,  212 

Fronted  the  rushing  foe.     When  all  was 

vain, 
When  back  within  the  gate  Cadwallon's 

force 
Resistless  had  compell'd  them,  then  the 

Chief 
Call'd  on  the  Tiger,  .  .  Let  us  bear  from 

hence 
The   dead    Ocellopan,    the   slaughter' d 

King; 
Not  to  the  strangers  should  their  bones 

be  left, 
0  Tlalala  !  .  .  The  Tiger  wept  with  rage. 
With  generous  anger.     To  the  place  of 

death,  220 

Where,   side  by  side,   the  noble  dead 

were  stretch' d, 
They  fought  their  way.     Eight  warriors 

jom'd  their  shields  ; 
On  these,  a  bier  which  well  beseemed  the 

dead. 
The  lifeless  Chiefs  were  laid.  Yuhidthiton 
Call'd  on  the  i^eople,  .  .  Men  of  Aztlan  ! 

,      yet 

One  effort  more  !  Bear  hence  Occlloj^an, 

Bear  hence  the  body  of  your  noble  Kmg! 

Not  to  the  Strangers  should  their  bones 
be  left  ! 

That  whoso  heard,  with  wailing  and  loud 
cries, 

Prest  round  the  body- bearers ;  few  in- 
deed, 230 

For  few  were  they  who  in  that  fearful 
hour 

Had  ears  to  hear, .  .  but  with  a  holy  zeal, 

Careless  of  death,  around  the  bier  they 
ranged 


Thcii-  bulwark  breaata.     So  toward  tlio 

farther  gute 

They  held  theii-  steady  wuy,  while  outer- 
most 

111  imabated  valour,  Tlalala 

Faced,  with  Yuhidthiton,  the  foe's  pur- 
suit. 

Yain  valour  then,  aud  fatal  piety. 

As  the  tiereo  conquerors  bore  on  then 
retreat. 

If  Madoc  had  not  seen  their  iH;rilou:i 
strife :  240 

Remembering  Malinal,  and  in  hi.i  heart 

Honouring  a  gallant  foe,  he  call'd  aloud. 

And  bade  his  jx^oplo  ceaae  the  hot 
pursuit. 

80,  through  the  city  gate,  they  bore  away 

The  dead  ;  and,  last  of  all  their  country- 
men. 

Leaving  their  homes  aud  temples  to  the 
foe, 

Yuhidthiton  and  Tlalala  retired. 


XIX.    THE   FUNERAL 

Southward  of  Aztlan  stood  beside  the 
Lake, 

A  city  of  the  Aztecas,  by  name 

Tatamba.  Thither,  from  the  hrsl 
alarm, 

The  women  and  infirm  old  men  were 
sent, 

Aud  children  :  thither  they  who  from 
the  tight. 

And  from  tiie  fall  of  Aztlan.  had  e.seaj)cd. 

In  scatter  d  bauds  repair' d.  Their  City 
lost, 

Their  Monarch  slain,  their  Idols  over- 
thrown, .  . 

These  tidings  spread  dismay  ;  but  to 
dismay 

Succeeded  horror  soon,  and  kiudlintj 
rage,  »o 

Horror,  by  each  nrw  circumMtaner 
uicreased. 

By  numbers,  rage  embolden'd.  Lo  !  lu 
the  town. 

Lamenting  loud,  a  numerous  liam  ap- 
proach. 

Like  mountain  torrents,  swelling  oa  ihoy 


582 


jviadoc  in  aztlan 


Borne  in  the  midst,  upon  the  bier  of 

shields, 
The  noble  dead  were  seeu.     To  tenfold 

grief 
That    spectacle    provoked,    to    tenfold 

wrath 
That  anguish  stung  them.     \Mth  their 

yells  and  groans 
Curses  are  mix'd,  and  threats,  and  bitter 

vows 
Of  vengeance  full  and  speedy.     From 

the  wreck  20 

Of  Aztlan  who  is  saved  ?    Tezozomoc. 
Chief  servant  of  the  Gods,  their  favoured 

Priest. 
The  voice  by  whom  they  speak  :   young 

Tlalala, 
Whom  even  defeat  with  fresher  glor}' 

crowns  ; 
And  full  of  fame,  their  country's  rock  of 

strength. 
Yuhidthiton :  him  to  their  sovereign  slain 
Allied  in  blood,  mature  in  wisdom  him, 
Of  valour  unsurpassable,  by  all 
Beloved  and  honour' d,  him  the  general 

voice 
Acclaims  their  King ;  him  they  demand, 

to  lead  30 

Their  gathered  force  to  battle,  to  revenge 
Their  Lord,  their  Gods,  then  kinsmen, 

to  redeem 
Their  altars  and  their  countr}'. 

But  the  dead 
First  from  the  nation's  gratitude  require 
The  rites  of  death.     On  mats  of  moun- 
tain palm, 
Wrought  of  rare  texture  and  of  richest 

hues, 
The  slaughter' d  warriors,  side  by  side, 

were  laid  ;  <# 

Their   bodies   wrapt   in   many-colour' d 

robes 
Of  gossampine,  bedeck' d  with  gems  and 

gold. 
The  livid  paleness  of  the  countenance, 
A  mask  conceal' d,  and  hid  their  ghastly 

wounds,  41 

The  Pabas  stood  around,  and  one  by 

one, 
Placed  in  their  hands  the  sacred  aloe 

leaves, 
With    mystic    forms    and    characters 

inscribed  ; 


And  as  each  leaf  was  given,  Tezozomoc 

Address' d  the  dead,  .  .  So  may  ye  safely 
pass 

Between  the  mountains,  which  in  endless 
war 

Hurtle,  M'ith  horrible  uproar  and  frusli 

Of  rocks  that  meet  in  battle.  Arm' d  with 
this. 

In  safety  shall  ye  walk  along  the  road,  50 

Where  the  Great  Serpent  from  his  lurid 
eyes 

Shoots  lightning,  and  across  the  guarded 
way 

Vibrates  his  tongue  of  fire.     Receive  the 
third. 

And  cross  the  waters  where  the  Crocodile 

In  vain  expects  his  prey.     Your  pass- 
port this 

Through  the  Eight  Deserts  ;    through 
the  Eight  Hills  this  ; 

And  this  be  your  defence  against  the 
Wind, 

Whose  fury  sweeps  like  dust  the  up- 
rooted rocks. 

Whose    keenness    cuts    the    soul.     Ye 
noble  dead. 

Protected  with  these  potent  amulets,   60 

Soon   shall   your   Spirits   reaoh   trium- 
phantly 

The  Palace  of  the  Sun  ! 

The  funeral  train 

Moved  to  Mexitli'  s  temple.    First  on  high 

The  noble  dead  were  borne  ;    in  loud 
lament 

Then  follow'd   all    by  blood   allied    to 
them, 

Or  by  affection's  voluntary  ties 

Attach' d  more  closely,  brethren,  kins- 
men, wives. 

The  Peers  of  Aztlan,  all  who  from  the 
sword 

Of  Britain  had  escaped,  honomiug  the 
rites. 

Came  clad  in  rich  array,  and  bore  the 
arms  70 

And  ensigns  of  the  dead.     The  slaves 
went  last. 

And  dwarfs,  the  pastime  of  the  living 
chiefs, 

In  life  their  sport  and  mockery,  and  in 
death 

Their     victims.       Wailing     and     with 
funeral  hymns, 


THE  FUNERAL 


683 


The  long  procession  moved.     Mexitli's 

Priest, 
With  all  his  servants,  from  the  temple- 
gate 
Advanced  to  meet  the  train.     Two  piles 

were  built 
Within    the    sacred    court,    of    odorous 

wood. 
And  rich  with  gums;   on  these,  with  all 

their  robes. 
Their  ensigns  and  their  arms,  they  laid 

the  dead,  80 

Then  lit  the  pile.     The  rapid  light  ran 

up. 
Up  flamed  the  tire,  and  o'er  the  darkened 

sky 
Sweet  clouds  of  incense  curl'd. 

The  Pabas  then 
Perform' d    their    bloody    office.     First 

they  slew 
The  women  whom  the  slaughter' d  most 

had  loved. 
Who  most  had  loved  the  dead.     Silent 

they  went 
Toward  the  fatal  stone,  resisting  not, 
Nor  sorrowing,  nor  dismay' d,  but,  as  it 

seem'd, 
Stunn'd,    senseless.     One    alone    there 

was,  whose  cheek 
Was  flush' d,   whose  eye  was  animate 

with  fire,  90 

Her  most  in  life  Coanocotziii  ]jrized. 
By  ten  years'  love  endear' d,  his  coun- 
sellor, 
His  friend,   the   partner  of   his   secret 

thoughts  ; 
Such  had  she  been,  such  merited  to  be. 
She  as  she  bared  her  bosom  to  the  knife, 
Call'd  on  Yuhidthiton.  ,  .  Take  heed, 

O  King  ! 
Aloud  she  cried,   and   pointed   to   the 

Priests, 
Beware  these  wicked  men  !   they  to  the 

war 
Forced  my  dead  Lord.  .  .  Thou  knowest, 

and  I  know. 
He  loved  the  Strangers  ;   that  his  noble 

mind,  100 

Enlighten'd  by  their  lore,  had  willingly 
Put  down  these  cursed  altars  I  .  .  As  she 

spake. 
They  dragg'd  her  to  the  stone.  .  .  Nay  ! 

nay  !   she  cried, 


There  needs  not  force  !  I  go  to  join  my 

Lord  ! 
His  blood  and  mine  bo  on  you  !  .  .  Ero 

she  ceased, 
The  knife  was  in  her  breast.  Tczozomoc, 
Trembling  with  rage,  held  up  towjird  tho 

Sun 
Her  reeking  heart. 

The  dwarfs  and  slaves  died  la.st. 
That  bloody  oflice  done,  they  gathered 

up 
The  ashes  of  the  dead,  and  coflfer'd  them 
Apart ;   tho  teeth  with  them,  which  un- 

consumed  m 

Among  tho  ashes  lay,  a  single  look 
Shorn   from    tho   corpse,   and    his   lip- 
emerald 
Now  held  to  be  the  Spirit's  flawless  heart, 
In  better  worlds.     The  I'riest  then  held 

on  high 
The  little   ark   which   shrined   his   la^t 

remains, 
And  call'd  upon  the  people  ;  .  .  Aztecaf, 
This  was  your  King,  the  bountiful,  tho 

brave. 
Coanocotzin  !    Men  of  Aztlan,  hold 
His  memory  holy  !    leam  from  him  to 

love  120 

Your  country  and  your  Uods  ;  for  them 

to  live 
Like  him,  like  him  to  die.     So  from  3'ou 

Heaven, 
Where  in  the  Spring  of  Light  his  Spirit 

bathes. 
Often  shall  he  descend  ;   hover  abovo 
On  evening  clouds,  or  plumed  with  rain 

bow  wings. 
Sip  honey  from  the  flowers,  and  warble 

joy. 
Honour  his  memory  !  emulate  his  worth ! 
So  saying,  in  tjie  temple-tower  he  laid 
The  relics  of  the  King. 

These  duties  done, 
The  living  claim  their  care.     His  birth. 

his  deeds,  130 

The  general  love,  tho  general  voice,  have 

mark'd 
Yuhidthiton    for    King.     Bare-headed, 

bare 
Of  foot,  of  linib,  Hcurfed  only  round  tho 

loins, 
The  Chieftain  to  Mexitli's  tenipio  moved 
And  knelt  before  the  (Jod.     Iczozomoc 


584 


MADOC   IN   AZTLAN 


I 


King  over  Aztlan  there  anointed  him, 

And  over  him,  from  hallowed  cedar- 
branch, 

Sprinkled  the  holy  water.  Then  the 
Priest 

In  a  black  garment  robed  him,  figured 
white 

With  skulld  and  bones,  a  garb  to  emblem 
war,  140 

iSlaughter,  and  ruin,  his  imperial  tasks. 

Next  in  his  hand  the  Priest  a  censer 
placed ; 

And  while  he  knelt,  directing  to  the  God 

The  steaming  incense,  thus  address' d  the 
King: 

Chosen  by  the  people,  by  the  Gods  ap- 
proved. 

Swear  to  protect  thy  subjects,  to  main- 
tain 

The  worship  of  thy  fathers,  to  observe 

Their  laws,  to  make  the  Sun  pursue  his 
course, 

The  clouds  descend  in  rain,  the  rivers 
hold 

Their  wonted  channels,  and  the  fruits 
of  earth  150 

To  ripen  in  their  season ;  Swear,  0  King  ! 

And  prosper,  as  thou  boldest  good  thine 
oath. 

He  raised  his  voice,  and  swore.  Then 
on  his  brow 

Tezozomoc  the  crown  of  Aztlan  placed  ; 

And  in  the  robe  of  emblem' d  royalty, 

Preceded  by  the  golden  wands  of  state, 

Yuhidthiton  went  forth,  anointed  King. 


XX.    THE   DEATH   OF  COATEL 

Whe>^  now  the  multitude  beheld  their 

King, 
In  gratulations  of  reiterate  joy 
They  shout  his  name,  and  bid  him  lead 

them  on 
To    vengeance.     But    to    answer    that 

appeal 
Tezozomoc  advanced.  .  .  Oh  !    go  not 

forth. 
Cried  the  Chief  Paba,  till  the  land  be 

purged 
From  her  offence  !   No  God  will  lead  ye 

on. 


While  there  is  guilt  in  Aztlan.     Let  the 

Priests 

Who  from  the  ruined  city  have  escaped, 
And  all  who  in  her  temples  have  per- 
formed 10 
The  ennobling  service  of   her  injured 

Gods, 
Gather  together  now. 

He  spake  ;  the  train 
Assembled,  priests  and  matrons,  youths 

and  maids. 
Servants  of  Heaven  I    aloud  the  Arch- 
Priest  began, 
The  Gods  had  favour"  d  Aztlan  ;    bound 

for  death 
The  White  King  lay  :    our  countrymen 

were  strong 
In  battle,  and  the  conquest  had  been 

ours,  .  . 
I  speak  not  from  myself,  but  as  the 

Powers, 
Whose  voice  on  earth  I  am,  impel  the 

truth, .  . 
The  conquest  had  been  ours;  but  treason 

lurk'd  20 

In  Aztlan,  treason  and  foul  sacrilege  ; 
And  therefore  were  her  children  in  the 

hour 
Of  need  abandon' d  ;  therefore  were  her 

youth 
Cut   down,   her  altars   therefore   oxer- 
thrown. 
The  White  King,  whom  ye  saw  upon  the 

Stone 
Of  Sacrifice,  and  whom  ye  held  in  bonds, 
Stood  in  the  foremost  tight  and  slew 

your  Lord. 
Not  by  a  God,  O  Aztecas,  enlarged 
Broke  he  his  bondage !  by  a  mortal  hand, 
An    impious,     sacrilegious,     traitorous 

hand,  30 

Your  city  was  becrayd,  j-our  King  wjis 

slain, 
Your   shrines    polluted.     The   insulted 

Power, 
He  who  is  terrible,  beheld  the  deed. 
And  now  he  calls  for  vengeance. 

Stern  he  spake, 
And  from  Mexitli's  altar  bade  the  Priest 
Bring  forth  the  sacred  water.     In  his 

hand 
He  took  the  vase,  and  held  it  up,  and 

cried. 


THE   DEATH   OF   COATEL 


686 


1:  Accurst  bo  he  who  did  this  deed  !   Ac- 

ij  curst 

i|!  The   fatlicr    who    begat    hiui,    and    the 
Ij  breast 

I  j  At  which  ho  fed  !   Death  be  Ills  portion 

i  now,  40 

Eternal  infamy  his  lot  on  earth, 

His  doom  eternal  horrors  !  Let  his  name 

l'n)m  sire   to  son,    be  in   the  people's 

mouth, 
Through  every  generation  !   Let  a  curse 
Of  deep  and  pious  and  elfectual  hato 
K'T  ever  follow  the  detested  name  ; 
1  every  curse  inllict  upon  his  soul 
-uib  of  mortal  anguish. 

Then  he  gave 
The  vase.  •  .  Drink  one  by  one  !    the 

iiuioccnt 
Boldly  ;    on  them   the  water  hath  no 
power ;  50 

But    let   the   guilty   tremble  !     it   shall 

dow 
A  draught  of  agony  and  death  to  him, 
A  stream  of  fiery  poison. 

Coatel  ! 
What  were  thy  horrors  when  the  fatal 

vase 
Pass'd  to  thy  trial,  .  .  when  Tezozomoc 
Fix'd  his  keen  eye  on  thee!  A  deathiness 
(  aue  over  her, . .  her  blood  ran  back,  .  . 

her  joints 
Shook  like  the  palsy,  and  the  dreadful 

cup 
Dropt  from   her  conscious  hold.     The 

Priest  exclaim' d. 

The  hand  of  God  !  the  avenger  manifest ! 

Drag  her  to  the  altar  !  .  .  At  that  sound 

of  death  6i 

The  life  forsook  her  limbs,  and  down  she 

fell, 
Senseless.      They    dragg'd    her    to    the 

Stone  of  Blood, 
All  senseless  as  she  lay  ;  .  .  in  that  dread 

hour 
Nature  was  kind. 

Tezozomoc  then  cried, 
J3ring  forth  the  kindred  of  this  wretch 

accurst, 
I     it  none  pollute  the  earth  !    An  aged 
\_  Priest 

Came  forth  and  answered,  There  is  none 

but  J, 
The  father  of  the  dead. 


To  death  with  him  I 
Exclaim'd  Tezozomoc  ;    to  death  with 

him;  j^ 

And  purify  tho  nation  !  .  .  But  the  King 
Permitted  not  that  crime. .  .  Chief  of  tho 

Priests, 
If  ho  bo  guilty,  let  tho  guilty  bleed, 
JSaid  he  ;    but  never,  while  1  live  and 

reign, 
The  innocent  shall  eufier.     lloar  him 

speak  ! 

Hear  me  !   tho  old  man  replied-   Tliat 
fatal  day 
I  never  saw  my  child.      At  morn  bhe  left 
Tho  city,  seekmg  llowers  to  dre^a  tho 

shrine 
Of  Coatlantona  ;    and  that  at  evo 
1  stood  among  tho  Pabas  in  the  gate,  80 
Blessing  our  soldiers,  as  they  issued  out, 
Let  them  who  saw  bear  witness.  .  .  Two 

eame  forth. 
And  testified  Aculhua  spake  the  words 
Of  truth. 

Full  well  I  know,  tho  old 
man  pursued. 
My  daughter  loved   the  Strangers,   .   . 

that  her  heart 
Was  not  with  Aztlan  ;    but  not  I  tho 

cause  ! 
Ye  all  remember   how   the  Maid   wa.s 

given,  .  . 
She  being,  in  truth,  of  all  our  Maids  tho 

flower,  .  . 
In  spousals  to  Lineoya,  him  who  fled 
From  sacrifice.     It  was  a  misery         90 
For  me  to  see  my  only  child  eondemu'd 
In  early  widowhood  to  waste  her  youth. 
My  only  and  my  beautifulle.st  girl  ! 
Chief  of   tho   Priests,   you   order' d  ;     I 

obeyed. 
Not  mine  the  fault,  if  when  Lineoya  fled. 
And  fought  among  t|ie  enemies,  her  heart 
Was  with  her  husband. 

He  is  innocent ! 
He    shall    not    die  !      Yuhidthiton    ex- 
claim'd. 
Nay,  King  Yuhidthiton  !  Aculhua  cried, 
I     merit     death.     My     country     over- 
thrown, too 
.My  daugijtcr  .' lain,  alike  demand  on  luc 
That     juhtiee.     When     her     ycaru     of 
mini.itry 


u:{ 


586 


MADOC   IN   AZTLAN 


Vow'd  to  the  temple  had  expired,  my 

love, 
My  selfish  love,  still  suffer' d  her  to  give 
Her  youth  to  me,  by  fihal  piety 
la  widowhood  detain' d.     That   selfish 

crime 
Heavily,  .  .  heavily,  .  .  do  I  expiate  ! 
But  I  am  old  ;   and  she  was  all  to  me. 
O  King  Yuhidthiton,  I  ask  for  death  ; 
In  mercy,  let  me  die  !   cruel  it  were    no 
To  bid  me  waste  away  alone  in  age, 
By  the  slow  pain  of  grief.  .  .  Give  me  the 

knife 
Which  pierced  my  daughters  bosom  ! 

The  old  man 
Moved  to  the  altar ;    none  opposed  his 

way  ; 
With  a  firm  hand  he  buried  in  his  heart 
The  reeking  flint,  and  fell  upon  his  child. 


XXI.    THE   SPORTS 

A  TRAXSITOEY  gloom  that  sight  of  death 
Impressed  upon  the  assembled  multi- 
tude ; 
But  soon  the  brute  and  unreflecting  crew 
Turn'd    to    their    sports.     iSome    bare 

their  olive  limbs, 
And  in  the  race  contend  ;    with  ho^jes 

and  fears 
>\'hich  rouse   to  rage,   some   urge   the 

mimic  war. 
Here  one  upon  his  ample  shoulders  bears 
A  comrade's  weight,  upon  whose  head 

a  third 
Stands  poised,  like  Mercury  in  act  to  fly. 
Two    others    balance    here    on    their 

Bhoulders  lo 

A  bifork'd  beam,  while  on  its  height  a 

third 
To  nimble  cadence  shifts  his  glancing 

feet, 
And  shakes  a  plume  aloft,  and  wheels 

around 
A  wreath  of  bells  with  modulating  sway. 
Here  round  a  lofty  mast    the    dancers 

move 
Quick,  to  quick  music  ;    from  its  top 

affix' d, 
Each  holds  a  coloured  cord,  and  as  they 

weave 


The   complex   crossings    of    the    mazy 

dance, 
The  chequer' d  network  twists  around 

the  tree 
Its  intertexture  of  harmonious  hues.  20 

But    now  a  shout   went    forth,  the 

Flyers  mount, 
And  from  all  meaner  sports  the  multi- 
tude 
Flock  to  their  favourite  pastime.     In 

the  ground, 
Branchless   and    bark'd,    the   trunk   of 

some  tall  phie 
Is  planted  :    near  its  summit  a  square 

frame  ; 
Four  cords  pass  through  the  perforated 

square. 
And  fifty  times  and  twice  around  the 

tree, 
A  mystic  number,  are  entwined  above. 
Four    Aztecas,    equipp'd    with    wings, 

ascend, 
And  round  them  bind  the  ropes  ;   anon 

they  wave  30 

Their  pinions,  and  upborn  on  spreading 

plumes  - 

Launch  on  the  au',  and  wheel  in  circling 

flight, 
The   lengthening   cords    untwisting    as 

they  fly. 
A  fifth  above,  upon  the  perilous  point 
Dances,  and  shakes  a  flag  ;    and  on  the 

frame, 
Others  the  while  maintain  their  giddy 

stand, 
Till    now,    with    many    a    round,    the 

wheeling  cords 
Draw   near   then-   utmost   length,    and 

toward  the  ground 
The  aerial  circles  speed  ;  then  down  the 

ropes 
They  spring,  and  on  their  way  from  line 

to  line  40 

Pass,    while    the    shouting    multitude 

endure 
A  shuddering  admhation. 

On  such  sports, 
Their  feelings  center' d  in  the  joy  of  sight, 
The   multitude   stood  gazing,    when   a 

man, 
Breathless,  and  with  broad  eyes,  came 

runnini£  on. 


THE   SP0RT8 


587 


His  pale  lips  trembliug,  and  his  bloodless 

check 
Like  one  who  meets  a  lion  in  hi«  path. 
The   tire !     the   tire !    the   temple !    ho 

exclaim' d  ; 
Mexitli ! .  .  They,  aatonish'd  at  his  words, 
Hasten    toward    the    wonder,    .    .    and 

behold  !  50 

The  inner  fane  is  sheeted  white  with  tire. 
Dumb   with   atf right  they  stood  ;     the 

enquiring  King 
Look' d  to  Tezozomoc :  the  Priest  replied, 
I  go  !    the  Gods  protect   me  ;   .   .   and 

therewith 
He  entered  boldly  in  the  house  of  flame. 
But  instant  bounding  with  inebriate  joy 
Ho  issues  forth.  .  .  The  God  !   the  God  ! 

he  cries. 


Joy 


joy 


the  God 


the 


visible 
Ye  all 


hand  of  Heaven  ! 
Repressing  then  his  transport, 

know 
How  that  in  Aztlan  Madoc's  impious 

hand  60 

Destroyed  Mexitli' s  image  ;  .  .  it  is  here. 
Unbroken,  and  the  same  !  .  .  Toward  the 

gate 
They  press ;    they  sec  the  Giant  Idol 

there, 
Tho  serpent  girding  him,  his  neck  with 

hearts 
Beaded,  and  in  his  hand  the  club, . .  even 

such 
As  oft  m  Aztlan,  on  his  azure  throne, 
I  They  had  adored  the  God,  they  see  him 

now. 
Unbroken  and  the  same  !  .  .  Again  the 

Priest 
Enter' d  ;   again  a  second  joy  inspired 
jTo  frenzy  all  around  ;  .  .  for  forth  he 

came,  70 

Shouting  with  new  delight,  .  .  for  in  his 

hand 
I  The  banner  of  the  nation  he  upheld, 
(That  banner  to  their  fathers  sent  from 

Heaven, 
By  them  abandon' d  to  the  contjueror. 

He  motion'd  silence,  and  the  crowd 

were  still. 
People  of  Aztlan  !    he  began,  when  tirst 
Your   fathers    from 

went  forth. 


In  search  of  bettor  boaU,  thi«  baunor 
came 

From  Heaven.  The  Famine  ami  tl»o 
I'estilence 

Had  been  among  them  ;  in  tlieir  hearta 
the  spring  80 

Of  courage  was  dried  up:  witli  mid- 
night tires 

Radiate,  by  midnight  thunders  heralded. 

This  banner  eaine  from  Heaven  ;  and 
with  it  came 

Health,  valour,  victory.    Azteeaa!  again 

The  Cod  restores  the  blessing.  To  tho 
(;od 

Move  now  in  solemn  danco  of  grateful 

joy; 

Exalt  for  him  the  song. 

They  form'd  the  dance. 
They  rais'd  the  hymn,  and  sung  Mexitli' s 

praise, 
(jllory  to  thee,  the  (Jreat,  the  Terrible. 
Mexitli,  guardian  God  !  .  .  From  wlience 

art  thou,  90 

O  Son  of  Mystery  ?    From  whence  art 

thou, 
Whose  sire  thy  Mother  knew  not  ".'   She 

at  eve 
Walk'd  in  the  temple  court,  atul  saw 

from  Heaven 
A  phime  descend,  as  bright  and  beauti- 
ful. 
As  if  some  spirit  had  embodied  there 
The  rainbow  hues,  or  dipt  it  in  1  ho  light 
Of  setting  suns.     To  her  it  floated  «lown  ; 
She  placed  it  in  her  bosom,  to  Ix^doek 
The  altar  of  the  (Jod  ;    she  sought  it 

there  ; 
Amazed  she  found  it  not,  amazed  she 

felt  100 

Another  life  infused.  .  .  From  whence  art 

thou, 
O  son  of  Mystery  .'    From  wheiue  art 

thou. 
Whose  sire  thy  Mother  knew  not  t 

(Jrief  was  here. 
Wonder  and  grief,  for  life  waa  in  her 

womb. 
And  her  stern  children  with  revengeful 

eyes 
Behelil  their  Mother's  shuine.     She  bhw 

their  frowns, 
their    native    laud  1  She  knew  their  ]AvIh  of  blood.     WUcrw 
i  shall  she  look 


588 


MADOC    IN  AZTLAN 


For  succour,  when  her  sons  conspire  her 

death  ? 
Where    hope    for    comfort,    when    her 

daughter  whets 
The  impious  knife  of  murder  ?  .  .  From 

her  womb  no 

Tlie  voice  of  comfort  came,  the  timely 

aid  : 
Ah-eady   at   her   breast   the   blow   was 

aim'd, 
When  forth  Mexitli  leapt,  and  in  his  hand 
The  angry  spear,  to  punish  and  to  save. 
Glory  to  thee,  the  Great,  the  Terrible, 
Mexitli,  guardian  God  ! 

Arise  and  save, 
Mexitli,  save  thy  people  !  Dreadful  one, 
Arise,  redeem  thy  city,  and  revenge  ! 
An  impious,  an  impenetrable  foe, 
Hath  Ijlacken'd  thine  own  altars,  with 

the  blood  120 

Of  thine  own  priests  ;  hath  dash'd  thine 

Image  down. 
In  vain  did  valour's  naksd  breast  op- 
pose 
Their  mighty  arms ;   in  vain  the  feeble 

sword 
On  their  impenetrable  mail  was  driven. 
Not  against  thee.  Avenger,  shall  those 

arms 
Avail,  nor  that  impenetrable  mail 
Resist  the  tiery  arrows  of  thy  wrath. 
Arise,  go  forth  in  anger,  and  destroy  ! 


XXII.    THE   DEATH   OF 
LINCOYA 

AzTLAN,  meantime,  presents  a  hideous 

scene 
Of  slaughter.     The  hot  sunbeam,  in  her 

streets, 
Parch' d  the  blood  pools  ;  the  slain  were 

heap'd  in  hills  ; 
The   victors,    stretch'd   in   every   little 

shade, 
\\'ith  unhelm'd  heads,  reclining  on  their 

shields, 
iSlept  the  deep  sleep  of  weariness.     Ere 

long. 
To  needful  labour  rising,  from  the  gates 
They  drag  the  dead  ;    and  with  united 

toil, 


They  dig  upon  the  plain  the  general  ! 

grave. 
The  grave  of  thousands,  deep  and  wide 

and  long.  10 

Ten  such  they  delved,  and  o'er  the  multi- 
tudes 
Who  level!' d  with  the  plain  the  deep-dug  i 

pits,  : 

Ten  monumental  hills  they  heap'd  ou; 

high. 
Next  horror  heightening  joy,  they  over- 
threw 
The  skull-built  towers,  the  tiles  of  human 

heads. 
And  earth  to  earth  consign'd  them.     To 

the  flames 
They  cast  the  idols,  and  upon  the  wind 
Scatter' d  their  ashes  ;   then  the  temples 

fell. 
Whose    black    and    putrid    walls    were 

scaled  with  blood, 
And  not  one  stone  of  those  accursed 

piles  20 

Was  on  another  left. 

Victorious  thus 
In  Aztlan,  it  behoved  the  Cymry  now 
There  to  collect  their  strength,  and  there 

await. 
Or  thence  with  centered  numbers  urge, 

the  war. 
For  this  was  Ririd  missioned  to  the  ships. 
For  this  Lincoya  from  the  hills  invites 
Erillyab  and  her  tribe.     There  did  not 

breathe, 
On  this  wide  world,  a  happier  man  that 

day 
Than  young  Lincoya,  when  from  their 

retreat 
He  bade  his  countrymen  come  repossess 
The  land  of  their  forefathers  ;   proud  at 

heart  31 

To  think  how  great  a  part  himself  had 

borne 
In  their  revenge,  and  that  beloved  one, 
The  gentle  saviour  of  the  Prince,  whom 

well 
He  knew  his  own  dear  love,  and  for  the 

deed 
Still  dearer  loved  the  dearest.     Round 

the  youth, 
\Vomen  and  children,  theiuiirm  and  old, 
Gather  to  hear  his  tale  ;    and  as  they 

stood 


1 

I 


Kk- 


THE    DKATH    OF    LINCOYA  539 


With    eyes    of    steady    wonder,    out- 

stivtcliM  necks. 
And  open  lipn  of  listeninn;  eacjerness,  40 
Fast  playM  the  tide  of  triunii)h  in  his 

veins. 
Fluah'd  his  brown  cheek,  and   kindled 

his  dark  eye. 

And    now,    reposing    from    his    toil 

awhile, 

Lincoya,  on  a  crag  above  tlie  straits. 
Sate  untlerneath  a  tree,  wliose  twinkling 

leaves 

Sung  to  the  gale  at  noon.     Ayayaca 
Sato  by  him  in  the  shade  :   the  old  man 

had  loved 
The  youth  beside  him  from  his  boyhood 

up. 
And  still  would  call  him  boy.     They  sat« 

and  watch' d  49 

The  laden  bisons  winding  down  the  way. 
The  multitude  who  now  with  joy  forsook 
Their  desolated  dwellings ;  and  their  talk 
Was  of  the  days  of  sorrow,  when  they 

groan' d 
Beneath  the  intolerable  yoke,  till,  sent 
By  the  Great  Spirit  o'er  the  pathless 

deep. 
Prince   Madoc   the   Deliverer  came   to 

save. 
As  thus  they  communed,  came  a  woman 

up. 
Seeking     Lincoya ;      'twas     Aculhua's 

slave, 
Tlie  nurse  of  Coatel.     Her  wretched  eye. 
Her  pale  and  livid  countenance  foretold 
Some  tale  of  misery,  and  his  life-blood 

ebb'd  61 

In  ominous  fear.     But  when  he  heard 

her  words 
Of    death,    he    .seized    the    lance,    and 

raised  his  arm 
To  strike  the  blow  of  comfort. 

The  old  man 
Caught  his  uplifted  hand.  .  .  O'er-hasty 

boy. 
Quoth  he,  regain  her  yet,  if  she  was 

dear  ! 
Seek  thy  beloved  in  the  Land  of  Souls, 
And  beg  her  from  the  Gods.     The  Gods 

will  hear. 
And  in  just  recompense  of  love  so  true 
Restore  their  charge. 


70 


The  miserablo  youth 
Tum'd  at  his  words  u  hositminK  «-v«'. 
I   knew  a  prisoner,  .   .  so  the  o|*(  man 

pursurd. 
Or  hoping  to  beguile  the  youth'H  despair 
With   tales  that    suit<'<l   the  despair  of 

youth. 
Or  creilulous  hims«»lf  of  wliat  he  toUl.  ,  . 
I  knew  a  prisoner  once  who  wclconu'd 

death 
With  merriment  and  songs  and  joy  of 

heart. 
Because,  he  said,  the  friends  whom  he 

loved  best 
Were  gone  before  him  to  the  Land  of 

Souls  ; 
Nor  would  they  to  resume  their  mortal 

state,  80 

Even   when   the   Keeper  of   the   Land 

allow'd, 
Forsake    its    pleasures ;     therefore    he 

rejoiced 
To  die  and  join  them  there.   I  tiuestion'il 
i  him. 

How  of  these  hidden  things  unknowable 
So  certainly  he  spake.  The  man  replied. 
One  of  our  nation  lost  the  maid  he  loved. 
Nor  would  he  bear  his  sorrow,  .  .  Ijeing 

one 
Into   who.se   heart  fear  never  found   a 

way,  .  .  88 

But  to  the  Country  of  the  Dead  pursued 
Her  spirit.     Many  toils  he  underwent, 
And  many  dangers  gallantly  surpass'd. 
Till  to  the  Country  of  the  Dead  he  came. 
(iently    the    Guardian     of    the     Land 

received 
The  living   suppliant  ;     listen'd   to   his 

prayer. 
And  gave  him   back  the  Spirit   of  the 

Maid. 
But  from  that  happy  country,  from  the 

songs 
Of  joyance,  from  the  splendour-spark- 
ling dance. 
Unwillingly  compoll'd.the  Maiden's  Soul 
Ix^athed  to  return  :    and  he  was  wamM 

to  guard 
The  subtle  captive  well  and  warily.  «oo 
Till  in  her  mortal  tenement  relo<lgp<l. 
Earthly  delights  miu'ht  win  her  to  re- 
main 
A  sojourner  on  earth.     Such  lessoning 


590 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN 


The  Ruler  of  the  Souls  departed  gave  ; 
And  mindful  of  his  charge  the  adven- 
turer brought 
His  subtle  captive  home.     There  under- 
neath 
The  shelter  of  a  hut,  his  friends  had 

watch' d 
The  Maiden's  corpse,  secured  it  from  the 

sun, 
And  fann'd  away  the  insect  swarms  of 

heaven.  109 

A  busy  hand  marr'd  all  the  enterprize  ! 
Curious  to  see  the  Spirit,  he  unloosed 
The  knotted  bag  which  held  her,  and 

she  fled. 
Lincoya,  thou  art  brave  ;    where  man 

has  gone 
Thou  wouldst  not  fear  to  follow  .- 

Silently 
Lincoya   listen' d,    and    with    unmoved 

eyes ; 
At  length  he  answer' d.  Is  tlie  journey 

long  ? 
The  old  man  replied,  A  way  of  many 

moons. 
I  know  a  shorter  path  !    exclaim' d  the 

youth  ; 
And    up    he    sprung,   and    from    the 

precipice 
Darted  :    a  moment,  .  .  and  Ayayaca 

heard  120 

His  body  fall  upon  the  rocks  below. 


XXIII.  CARADOC  AND  SENENA 

Maid  of  the  golden  locks,  far  other  lot 
May  gentle  Heaven  assign  thy  happier 

love, 
Blue-eyed  Senena  !  .  .  She,  though  not 

as  yet 
Had  she  put  off  her  boy-habiliments. 
Had  told  Goervyl  all  the  history 
Of  her  sad  flight,  and  easy  pardon  gain'd 
From  that  sweet  heart,  for  guile  which 

meant  no  ill. 
And  secrecy,  in  shame  too  long  main- 
"^        tain'd. 
With  her  dear  Lady  now,  at  this  still 

hour 
Of   evening  is  the  seeming  page  gone 

forth,  10 


Beside  Caermadoc  mere.     They  loiter' 

on, 
Along  the  windings  of  its  grassy  shore, 
In    such    free    interchange    of    inward] 

thought 
As  the  calm  hour  invited  ;   or  at  times, 
Willingly  silent,  listening  to  the  bird 
Whose  one  repeated  melancholy  note. 
By  oft  repeating  melancholy  made, 
Solicited  the  ear  ;    or  gladlier  now 
Hearkening    that    cheerful    one,    who 

knoweth  all 
The  songs  of  all  the  winged  choristers,  20 
And    in    one    sequence    of    melodious 

sounds 
Pours  all  their  music.     But  a  wilder 

strain 
At    fits  came    o'er   the    water ;     rising 

now. 
Now   with   a   dying  fall,   in   sink  and 

swell 
More  exquisitely  sweet  than  ever  art 
Of    man    evoked    from    instrument    of 

touch. 
Or  beat,  or  breath.     It  was  the  evening 

gale. 
Which  passing  o'er  the  harp  of  Caradoc, 
Swept  all  its  chords  at  once,  and  blended 

all 
Their  music  into  one  continuous  flow.  30 
The  solitary  Bard  beside  his  harp 
Leant  underneath  a  tree,  whose  spread- 
ing boughs, 
With  broken  shade  that  shifted  to  the 

breeze, 
Play'd  on  the  waving  waters.      Over- 
head 
There   was   the  leafy  murmur,   at   his 

foot 
The  lake's  perpetual  ripple  ;    and  from 

far. 
Borne    on    the    modulating    gale,    was 

heard 
The  roaring  of  the  mountain  cataract.  .  . 
A   blind   man    would    have   loved    the 

lovely  spot. 

Here  was  Senena  by  her  Lady  led,  40 
Trembling,    but   not    reluctant.     They 

drew  nigh. 
Their  steps  unheard  upon  the  elastic 

moss, 
Till  playfully  Goervyl,  with  quick  touch, 


CARADOC   AND   SENEXA 


►01 


Ran    o'er    tlio    hnrp-strinpjs.     At    the 

Ruddcn  sound 
He  rose.  .  .  Hath  then  thv  hand,  quoth 

she.  O  Bard. 
Forgot  itscunniuii.  that  tho  wind  sljouhl 

bo 


The  sonjr  wna  framed  :  for  in  the  faro  nf 

da}' 
She   broke   thorn.    .    .    Hut    hrr  nnmrt  ? 

Cioorvyl  ask'd  ; 
Quoth  ho.  Tho  poot  lovod  hrr  Plill  too 

well. 


Thine  haq^er  ?  .  .  Come  !   one  strain  for  J  To  couplf  it  with  shame. 


Britain's  sake 
And  let  the  theme  be  Woman  !  .  .  He 

repHed, 
But  if  the  strain  otYend.  O  Lady  fair. 
Blame  tliou  tho  theme,  not  mo  I  .  .  Then 

to  tho  harp  50 

He  sung.  .  .  Throe  things  a  wise  man  will 

not  trust. 
The  Wind,   the  Sunshine  of   an  April 

day, 
And  Woman's  plighted  faith.     I  have 

behold 
Tho    Weathercock    upon    the    steeple- 
point 
Steady  from  morn  till  eve  ;   and  I  have 

seen 
The  bees  go  forth  upon  an  April  mom. 
Secure    the   sunshine    will    not    end   in 

showers  ; 
But  when  was  Woman  true  ? 

False  Bard  !  thereat, 
With  smile  of  playful  anger,   she  ex- 

claim'd. 
False    Bard !     and    slanderous    song ! 

Were  such  thy  thoughts  60 

Of  woman,  when  thy  youthful  lays  were 

heard 
In  Heilyn's  hall  ?  .  .  But  at  that  name 

his  heart 
Leapt,  and  his  cheek  with  sudden  fliisli  I 

was  fired  ; 
In  Heilyn's  hall,  quoth  ho.  I  loarn'd  tho 
'  song. 

There  was  a  Maid,  who  dwelt  among  tho 

hills 
Of  Arvon,  and  to  one  of  humbler  birth 
Had  pledged  her  troth  :  .  .  nor  rashly, 

nor  beguiled,  .  . 
They  had  been  playmates  in  their  in- 
fancy. 
And  she  in  all  his  thoughts  had  borne 

a  part. 
And  all  his  joys.     Tho  ^foon  and  all  tho 

Stars  70 

Witness'd  their  mutual  vows  ;    and  for 

her  sake 


O  fato  unjust 

Of  womankind  !   she  cried  ;   our  virtues 
bloom. 

Like  violets,  in  shado  and  solitudo. 

While  evil  oyos  hunt  all  our  failings  out. 

For    evil    tongues   to    bruit    abroad    in 
jest,  79 

And  song  of  obloquy  !  .  .  I  knew  a  Maid. 

And  she  too  dwolt  in  Arvon.  and  she  toe 

Loved  one  of  lowly  birth,  who  ill  repaid 

Her  spotle.s.s  faith  ;   for  ho  to  ill  reports. 

And  tales  of    falsehood    cunningly  de- 
vised, 

I^nt  a  light  ear,  and  to  his  rival  left 

The  loathing  Maid.     The  wedding-day 
arrived. 

The  harpers  and  tho  gleemen,  far  and 
near. 

Came  to  the  wedding-feast  ;    the  wed- 
ding-guests 

Were  come,  the  altar  drost.  the  bride- 
maids  met ; 

Tho  father,  and  the  bridegroom,  and  the 
priest  90 

Wait  for  the  bride.     But  she  the  while 
did  off 

Her  bridal  robes,  and  dipt  her  golden 
lock.s. 

And  put  on  boy's  attire,  through  woo<l 
and  wild 

To  seek  her  own  true  love;   and  over 
sea. 

Forsaking    all    for    him,    she    follnwPil 
him,  .  . 

Nor  hoping  nor  deserving  fate  so  fair  ; 

And  at  his  side  she  stood,  and  heard  him 
wrong 

Her  faith  with   slanderous  tales;    and 
his  dull  eye. 

As  it  had  loarnt  his  heart's  forgetfulnoRH, 

Knows  not  tho  trembling  one,  who  even 
now  100 

Yearns  to  forgive  him  all  ! 

Hn  tum'd.  he  knew 

The  bluo-eyo<l  ^faid.  who  ffll  upon  hii 
breast. 


592 


MADOC   IN   AZTLAN 


XXIV.    THE   EMBASSY 

Hark  !   from  the  towers  of  Aztlan  how 

the  shouts 
Of  clamorous  joy  re-ring  !  the  rocks  and 

hills 
Take  up  the  joyful  sound,  and  o'er  the 

lake 
Roll   their  slow  echoes.   .   .   Thou  art 

beautiful ! 
Queen  of  the  Valley  !  thou  art  beautiful, 
Thy  walls,  like  silver,   sparkle  to  the 

sun  ; 
Melodious  wave  thy  groves,  thy  garden- 
sweets 
Enrich  the  pleasant  air,  upon  the  lake 
Lie  the  long  shadows  of  thy  towers,  and 

high 
In  heaven  thy  temple-pyramids  arise,  lo 
Upon  whose  summit  now,  far  visible 
Against  the  clear  blue  sky,  the  Cross  of 

Christ 
Proclaims  unto  the  nations  round  the 

news 
Of  thy  redemption.     Thou  art  beautiful, 
Aztlan  !   0  City  of  the  Cymbric  Prince  ! 
Long  mayest  thou  flourish  in  thy  beauty, 

long 
Prosper    beneath    the    righteous    con- 
queror. 
Who  conquers  to  redeem  !    Long  years 

of  peace 
And  happiness  await  thy  Lord  and  thee, 
Queen  of  the  Valley  ! 

Hither  joyfully  20 
The  Hoamen  came  to  repossess  the  land 
Of  their  forefathers.  Joyfully  the  youth 
Came  shouting,  with  acclaim  of  grateful 

praise. 
Their  gi-eat  Deliverer's  name  ;    the  old, 

in  talk 
Of  other  days,  which  mingled  with  their 

joy 

Memory  of  many  a  hard  calamity. 
And  thoughts  of  time  and  change,  and 

human  life 
How  changeful  and  how  brief.     Prince 

Madoc  met 
Erillyab  at  the  gate.  .  .  Sister  and  Queen, 
Said  he,  here  let  us  hold  united  reign,  30 
O'er  our  united  people  ;   by  one  faith, 


One  interest  bound,  and  closer  to  bet 
link'd 

By  laws  and  language  and  domestic  ties, 

Till  both  become  one  race,  for  ever  more 

Indissolubly  knit. 

0  friend,  she  cried. 

The  last  of  all  my  family  am  I ; 

Yet  sure,  though  last,  the  happiest,  and 
by  Heaven 

Favour' d  abundantly  above  them  all. 

Dear  Friend,  and  brother  dear  !  enough 
for  me 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  thy  shield  to 
dwell,  40 

And  see  my  people,  by  thy  fostering 
care. 

Made  worthy  of  their  fortune.  Graciously 

Hath  the  Beloved  One  appointed  all. 

Educing  good  from  ill,   himself  being 
good. 

Then  to  the  royal  palace  of  the  Kings 

Of  Aztlan,  Madoc  led  Erillyab, 

There  where  her  sires  had  held  their 
ruder  reign. 

To  pass  the  happy  remnant  of  her  years, 

Honour' d  and  loved  by  all. 

Now  had  the  Prince 

Provided  for  defence,  disposing  all      50 

As  though  a  ready  enemy  approach' d. 

But  from  Patamba  yet  no  army  moved  ; 

Four  Heralds  only,  by  the  King  dis- 
patch'd. 

Drew  nigh  the  town.     The  Hoamen  as 
they  came, 

Knew  the  green  mantle  of  their  privilege, 

The  symbols  which  they  bore,  an  arrow- 
point 

Depress' d,  a  shield,  a  net,  which,  from 
the  arm 

Suspended,     held     their     food.     They 
through  the  gate 

Pass    with    permitted    entrance,    and 
demand 

To  see  the   Ocean   Prince.     The   Con- 
queror 60 

Received    them,    and    the    elder    thus 
began  : 

Thus  to  the  White  King,  King  Yuhid- 
thiton 

His  bidding  sends ;    such  greeting  as 
from  foe 

Foe  may  receive,  where  individual  hate 

Is  none,  but  honour  and  assured  esteem. 


THE    EMBASSY 


593 


And  what  were  friendship  did  tlic  Clods 

Ijennit, 
The  King  of  Aztliin  hpiuIs.     ( )h  droaiii 

not  thou 
That   Aztlan   is  siibduni  ;     nor  in    ilie 

pride 
Of  coniiuest  tempt  thy  fortune  !   Unpre- 
pared 
For  battle,  at  an  hour  of  festival,        70 
Her  children  were  surprised  ;    and  thou 

canst  tell 
How  perilously  they  maintain'd  the  long 
And    doubtful    strife.      From    yonder 

temple-mount 
Look  round  the  plain,  and  count  her 

towns,  and  mark 
Her  countless  villages,  whose  habitants 
All  are  in  arms  against  thee  !   Thickest 

thou 
To  root  them  from  the  land  ?  Or  wouldst 

thou  live. 
Harassed  by  night  and  day  with  endless 

war. 
War  at  thy  gates  ;   and  to  thy  children 

leave 
That  curse  for  their  inheritance  ?  .  .  Tlie 

land  80 

Is  all  before  thee :    Go  in  peace,  and 

choose 
Thy  dwelling-place,   North,  South,   or 

East,  or  West ; 
Or  jnount  again  thy  houses  of  the  sea 
And  search  the  waters.     Whatsoe'er  thy 

wants 
Demand,  will  Aztlan  willingly  supply. 
Prepared  with  friendly  succour,  to  assist 
Thy    soon     departure.     Thus    Yuliid- 

t  hit  on. 
Remembering  his  old  friendship,  coun- 
sels thee ;  88 
Thus,  as  the  King  of  Aztlan,  for  himself 
And  people,  he  commands.  If  obstinate. 
If  blind  to  your  own  welfare,  ye  persist. 
Woe   to   ye,   wretches !    to  the  armed 

man, 
Who  in  the  fight  must  perish  ;    to  the 

wife. 
Who  vainly  on  her  husband's  aid  will 

call; 
Woe  to  the  babe  that  hangs  upon  the 

breast. 
For  Aztlan  comes  in  anger,  and  her  Gods 
Spare  none. 


The  Conqueror  calmly  answrrM 

him,  .  . 
By  force  we  won  yom  city.  Aztoca  ; 
Hy  force  we  will  maintain  it  :  .  .  to'  tlu' 
;     '     King 
I  Kcpoiit  my  saying.  .  .  To  thirt  goodly 

land  100 

Your  fathers  came  for  an  abiding  place. 
Strangers  like  us.   but    not   like  us,  in 

peace. 
They     concjuerM     and     destroyed.     A 

tyrant  race. 
Bloody  and  faithU's.s  to  the  hills  they 

drove 
The  unolTcnding  children  of  the  vale. 
And.  day  by  day,  in  cruel  .sacritice 
Consumed   them.     God    hath   .sent   the 

Avengers  here  ! 
Powerful    to    save    we    come,    and    to 

destroy. 
When  Mercy  on  Destruction  calls  for  aid. 
(tO  tell  j'our  nation  that  we  know  their 

force,  no 

That    they    know    ours!      that     their 

Patamba  soon 
Shall  fall  like  Aztlan  ;    and  what  other 

towns 
They  seek  in  flight,  shall  like  Patamba 

fall: 
Till  broken  in  their  strength  and  spirit- 
crush' d 
They  bow  the  knee,  or  leave  the  land 

to  us. 
Its  worthier  Lords. 

If  this  be  thy  reply. 
Son  of  the  Ocean  !  said  the  messenpor, 
I    bid    thee,   in    the   King  of    Aztlan's 

name 
>[ortal  defiance.     In  the  tield  of  blood. 
Before    our    multitudes    shall    trampl«» 

down  >»o 

Tliy  mad  and  miserable  countrymen. 
'V^i'liidthiton  invites  thee  to  the  strife 
Of  eijual  danger.     So  may  I"'  avenge 
Coanocotzin.  or  like  him  in  death 
Discharge  his  duty. 

Tell  Yuhidthiton, 
Madoc    replied,    that    in    the    Hold    of 

blood 
I  never  shunnM  a  foe.     But  say  thou  to 

him, 
T  will  not  seek  him  there.  ai:ain>«t  hi« 

life 


594 


MADOC   IN   AZTLAN 


I 


To   raise   the   hand   which   hath   been 

joined  with  his 
In  peace.  .  .  With  that  the  Heralds  went 

their  way  ;  130 

Nor  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left  they  turn. 
But  to  Patamba  straight  they  journey 

back. 


XXV.    THE   LAKE  FIGHT 

The  mariners,  meantime,  at  Ririd's  will, 
Unreeve  the  rigging,  and  the  masts  they 

strike  ; 
And  now  ashore  they  haul  the  lighten' d 

hulks, 
Tear  up  the  deck,  the  severed  planks 

bear  off. 
Disjoin   the   well-scarfed   timbers,   and 

the  keel 
Loosen  asunder  :   then  to  the  lake-side 
Bear  the  materials,   where  the  Ocean 

Lord 
Himself    directs    their    work.     Twelve 

vessels  there, 
Fitted  alike  to  catch  the  wind,  or  sweep 
With  oars  the  moveless  surface,  they 

prepare ;  10 

Lay  down  the  keel,  the  stem-post  rear, 

and  fix 
The     strong-curved     timbers.     Others 

from  the  wood 
Bring  the  tall  pines,  and  from  their  his- 
sing trunks 
Force,  by  the  aid  of  fire,  the  needful 

gum; 
Beneath    the   close-caulk' d   planks    its 

odorous  stream 
They  pour  ;    then,  last,  the  round-pro- 
jecting prows 
With  iron  arm,  and  launch,  in  uproar 

loud 
Of  joy,  anticipating  victory. 
The  galleys  long  and  sharp.    The  masts 

are  rear'd. 
The  sails  are  bent,  and  lo  !    the  ready 

barks  20 

Lie  on  the  lake. 

It  chanced,  the  Hoamen  found 
A  spy  of  Aztlan,  and  before  the  Prince 
They  led  him.     But  when  Madoc  bade 
'him  tell, 


As  his  life-ransom,   what  his  nation's 

force. 
And    what    their    plans ;     the    savage 

answer' d  him. 
With  dark  and  sullen  eye  and  smile  of 

wrath, 
If  aught  the  knowledge  of  my  country's 

force 
Could  profit  thee,  be  sure,  ere  I  would  let 
My  tongue  play  traitor,  thou  shouldst 

limb  from  limb 
Hew    me,    and    make    each    separate 

member  feel  30 

A  separate  agony  of  death.  0  Prince  ! 
But  I  will  tell  ye  of  my  nation's  force, 
That  ye  may  know  and  tremble  at  your 

doom  ; 
That  fear  may  half  subdue  ye  to  the 

sword 
Of  vengeance.  .  .  Can  ye  count  the  stars 

of  Heaven  ? 
The  waves  which  ruffle  o'er  the  lake  ? 

the  leaves 
Swept  from  the  autumnal  forest  ?    Can 

ye  look 
Upon  the  eternal  snows  of  yonder  height 
And  number  each  particular  flake  that 

form'd 
The  mountain-mass  ?  .  .  so  numberless 

they  come,  40 

Whoe'er  can  wield  the  sword,  or  hurl  the 

lance. 
Or  aim  the  arrow ;  from  the  growing  boy, 
Ambitious  of  the  battle,  to  the  old  man. 
Who  to  revenge  his  country  and  his 

Gods 
Hastens,  and  then  to  die.     By  land  they 

come  ; 
And  years  must  pass  away  ere  on  their 

path 
The  grass  again  will  grow  :    they  come 

by  lake ; 
And  ye  shall  see  the  shoals  of  their  canoes 
Darken  the  waters.     Strangers  !    when 

our  Gods 
Have  conquer' d,  when  ye  lie  upon  the 

Stone  50 

Of  Sacrifice  extended  one  by  one, 
Half  of  our  armies  cannot  taste  your 

flesh. 
Though  given  in  equal  shares,  and  every 

share 
Minced  like  a  nestling's  food  ! 


THE    LAKE    EKiHT 


595 


^fadoo  rppliod, 
Azteca,  we  arc  few;    but   throuiih  the 

woods 
The  Lion  walks  alone.  Tlie  lo^^sor  fowls 
Flock  multitudinous  in  heaven,  and  lly 
Before  the  eagle's  cominp;.  We  are  few  ; 
And  yet  thy  nation  hatli  experienced  »h 
Enough  for  conquest.  Tell  thy  country- 
men, 60 
Wc  can  maintain  the  city  which  we 
won. 

So  saying  he  tum'd  away,  rejoiced  at 
heart 

To  know  himself  alike  by  lake  or  land 

Prepared  to  meet  their  power. 

The  fateful  day 

Draws  on  :    by  night  the  Aztecas  em- 
bark. 

At  day-break  from  Patamba  they  set 
foVth. 

From  every  creek  and  inlet  of  the  lake. 

All  moving  towards  Aztlan  ;  safely  thus 

Weening  to  reach  the  plain  before  her 
walls. 

And  fresh  for  battle.     Shine  thou  forth, 
0  Sun  !  70 

Shine  fairly  forth  upon  a  scene  so  fair  ! 

Their    thousand    boats,    and    the    ten 
thousand  oars 

From  whose  broad  bowls  the  waters  fall 
and  flash, 

And  twice  ten  thousand  feather'd  helms, 
and  shields. 

Glittering  with  gold  and  scarlet  plumery. 

Onward  they  come  with  song  and  swel- 
ling horn  : 

While,  louder  than  all  voice  and  instru- 
ment. 

The  dash  of  their  ten  thousand  oars, 
from  shore 

To  shore  and  hill  to  hill,  re-echoing  rolls. 

In  undistinguishable  peals  of  sound     80 

And  endless  echo.    On  the  other  side 
J  Advance  the  British  barks  ;    the  fresh- 
ening breeze 

Fills  the  broad  .sail,  around  the  rushing 
keel 

The  waters  sing,  \^le  proudly  they  sail 
on 

Lords  of  the  water.     Shine  thou  forth, 
O  Sun! 

Shine  forth  upon  their  hour  of  victory  ! 


Onward  the  Cymry  Bpoe<i.    Thf»  A/.- 

teoas. 
Though  wondering  nf  that  unoxpcetM 

sight. 
Bravely  made  on  to  juoot  thoni,  wi/cl 

their  l)Ows. 
And    shower'd,     lik«'    rain,     tjpon     the 

pavaised  barks.  90 

The  rattUng  shafts.     Strong  blows  the 

auspicious  gale  ; 
Madoc,   the   Lord  of   Ocean,   lead.s  the 

way  ; 
He  holds  the  helm  ;    the  galley  where 

he  guitlos 
Flies  on,  and  full  upon  the  first  canoe 
Drives    shattering ;     midway    its    long 

length  it  struck. 
And   o'er   the   wreck    with    unimpe<le<l 

force 
Da.she3  among  the  fleet.     The  astonish'd 

men 
Gaze  in  inactive  terror.     They  behold 
Their    splinter'd    vessels    floating    all 

around. 
Their  warriors  strugclintr  in   the  lake, 

with  arms  100 

Experienced  in  the  battle  vainly  now. 
Dismay* d   they   drop   their   bows,    and 

cast  away 
Their   unavailing  spears,   and    take   to 

flight. 
Before  the  Masters  of  the  Elements. 
Who  rode  the  waters,  and  who  made  the 

winds 
W^ing    them    to    vengeance !     Forward 

now  they  bend. 
And    backward    then,    with    strenuous 

strain  of  arm. 
Press   the   broad   paddle.   .    .    Hope  of 

victory 
I  Was  none,  nor  of  defence.'nor  of  revenge. 
To  .sweeten  death.     Toward  the  shore 

they  speed.  "o 

Toward  the  shore  they  lift  their  longing 

eyes :  .  . 
O  fools,  to  meet  on  their  own  element 
I  The  Sons  of  Ocean  !  .  .  Could  they  but 

aland 
Set  foot,  the  strife  were  ecjual.  or  to  di<» 
Ivess  dreadful.      But,  as  if  with  wingA  of 

wind. 
On  fly  the  British  barks  !   .  .  the  favour- 
ing breeze 


596 


MADOC   IN  AZTLAN 


.  far,  far  behind  their 
roaring  keels 
Lies  the  long  lino  of  foam  ;    the  helm 

directs 
Their  force  ;     they   move  as   with   the 

limbs  of  life. 
Obedient  to  the  will  that  governs  them. 
Where'er  they  pass,  the  crashing  shock 

is  heard,  121 

The  dash  of  broken  waters,  and  the  cry 
Of  sinking  multitudes.     Here  one  plies 

fast 
The  practised  limbs  of  youth,  but  o'er 

his  head 
The  galley  drives  ;   one  follows  a  canoe 
With  skill  availing  only  to  prolong 
Suffering  ;    another,  as  with  wiser  aim 
He  swims  across,  to  meet  his  coming 

friends, 
Stunn'd  by  the  hasty  and  miheeding  oar. 
Sinks    senseless    to    the    depths.     Lo  ! 

yonder  boat  130 

Graspt  by  the  thronging  strugglers  ;   its 

light  length 
Yields  to  the  overbearing  weight,  and  all 
Share   the    same    rum.     Here    another 

shows 
Crueller  contest,  where  the  crew  hack  off 
The  hands  that  hang  for  life  upon  its 

side, 
Lest  all  together  perish  ;    then  in  vain 
The  voice  of  friend  or  kinsman  prays  for 

mercy, 
Imperious     self     controuls     all     other 

thoughts ; 
And  still  they  deal  around  unnatural 

wounds, 
When  the  strong  bark  of  Britain  over  all 
Sails  in  the  path  of  death.  .  .  God  of  the 

Lake,  141 

Tlaloc  !  and  thou.  0  Aiauh.  green-robed 

Queen  ! 
How  many  a  wretch,  in  dying  agonies, 
Invoked  ye  in  the  misery  of  that  day  ! 
Long  after,  on  the  tainted  lake,  the  dead 
Welter' d ;      there,    perch' d    upon    his 

floating  prey, 
The  vulture  fed  in  daylight ;    and  the 

wolves. 
Assembled  at  their  banquet  romid  its 

banks. 
Disturb' d  the  midnight  with  their  howl 

of  joy. 


XXVI.    THE   CLOSK   OF  THE 
CENTURY 

There  vs'as  mourning  in  Patamba  ;   the 

north  wind 
Blew  o'er  the  lake,  and  drifted  to  the 

shore 
The  floating  wreck  and  bodies  of  the 

dead. 
Then  on  the  shore  the  mother  might  be 

seen, 
Seeking  her  child  ;    the  father  to  the 

tomb, 
With  limbs  too  weak  for  that  unhappy 

weight, 
Bearing  the  bloated  body  of  his  son  ; 
The  wife,  who,  in  expectant  agony, 
Wateh'd  the  black  carcass  on  the  coming 

wave. 

On  every  brow  terror  was  legible,    10 
Anguish  in  every  eye.     There  was  not 

one 
Who  in  the  general  ruin  did  not  share 
Peculiar  grief,  and  in  his  country's  loss 
Lament  some  dear  one  dead.     Along  the 

lake 
The  frequent  funeral-piles,  for  many  a 

day. 
With  the  noon-light  their  melancholy 

flames 
Dimly  commingled  ;  while  the  mourners 

stood, 
Watching  the  pile,  to  feed  the  Ungering 

fire, 
As  slowly  it  consumed  the  watery  corpse. 

Thou  didst  not  fear,  young  Tlalala  ! 
thy  soul,  20 

Unconquer'd  and  unconquerable,  rose 
Superior    to    its    fortune.     When    the 

Chiefs 
Hung  theu'  dejected  heads,  as  men  sub- 
dued 
In  spirit,  then  didst  thou,  Yuhidthiton, 
Calm  in  the  hour  of  evil,  still  maintain 
Thy  even  courage.     They  from  man  to 

man 
Go,  with  the  mourners  mourning^,and 

by  grief 
Exciting  rage,  till,  at  the  promised  fight, 


THE   CLOSE    OF   THE   CENTURY 


)ih 


The  hope  of  vengeauce,  a  ferocious  joy 

Flash'd  ill  the  eyes  which  glisteii'd  still 

with  tears  30 

Of  tender  memory.     To  the  brave  they 

spake 
Of  Aztlan's  strength,  .  .  for  Aztlan  still 

was  strong  :  .  . 
The  late  defeat,  .  .  not  there  by  manly 

might, 
By  honourable  valour,  by  the  force 
Of   arms   subdued,    shame   aggravated 

loss  ; 
The  White  Men  from  the  waters  came, 

perchance 
ISons  of  the  Ocean,  by  their  parent  (Jods 
Aided,  and  conciucrors  not  by  human 

skill. 
^Vhen  man  met  man,  when  in  the  field 

of  tight 
The  soldier  on  tirm  earth  should  plant 

his  foot,  40 

Then  would  the  trial  be,  the  struggle 

then. 
The  glory,  the  revenge. 

Tezozomoc, 
Alike  unbroken  by  defeat,  endured 
The  evil  day  ;   but  in  his  sullen  mind 
Work'd  thoughts  of  other  vengeance. 

He  the  King 
iSummon'd  aj^art  from  all,  with  Tlalala, 
And  thus  advised  them  :  We  have  vainly 

tried 
The  war ;    these  mighty  Strangers  will 

not  yield 
To  mortal  strength  ;    yet  shall  they  be 

cut  otf 
So  ye  will  heed  my  counsel,  and  to  force 
Add  wisdom's  aid.     Put  on  a  friendly 

front  :  51 

Send  to  their  Prince  the  messenger  of 

peace  ; 
He  will  believe  our  words  :    he  will  for- 
give 
The  past ;  .  .  the  offender  may.    80  days 

and  months. 
Yea,  years,  if  needful,  will  we  wear  a  face 
Of  friendliness,  till  some  fit  hour  arrive, 
When  we  may  fire  their  dwellings  in  the 

night, 
Or  mingle  j)oison  in  their  eu))s  of  mirth. 
The  warrior,  from  whose  force  the  Lion 

flies. 
Falls  by  the  Serpent's  tooth. 


Thou  Bi)cake«t  well.     60 
Tlalala  auswer'd  ;    but  my  spirit  ill 
Can  brook  revenge  dday'd. 

The  Priest  then  turuM 
His  suuill  and  glittering  eye  toward  the 

King  ; 
But  on  the  Monarch's  mild  and  manly 

brow 
A    meaning    sate,    which    made    that 

crafty  eye 
Bend,    (juickly   abash'd.     While   y«t    1 

was  a  child. 
Replied  the  King  o[  Aztlan,  on  mv  heart 
My  father  laid  two  precepts.     Boy,  be 

brave  ! 
So,  in  the  midnight  battle,  shalt  thou 

meet. 
Fearless,  the  sudden  foe.     Boy,  let  thy 

lips  70 

Be  clean  from  falsehood  !  in  the  mid- 
day sun, 
So  never  shalt  thou  need  from  mortal 

man 
To  turn  thy  guilty  face.     Tezozomoc, 
Holy  I  keep  the  lessons  of  my  sire. 

But  if  the  enemy,  with  their  dreadful 

arms. 
Again,  said  Tlalala,  .  .  If  again  the  Oods 
Will  our  defeat,  Yuhidthiton  replied, 
Vain  is  it  for  the  feeble  power  of  man 
To  strive  against    their  will.      I  augur 

not 
Of  ill,  young  Tiger  !    but  if  ill  lx?tide.  80 
The  land  is  all  before  us.     I>et  me  hear 
Of  perfidy  and  serix-'iit- wiles  no  more  I 
In  the  noon-day  war,  and  in  the  face  of 

Heaven, 
I  meet  my  foes.     Let  Aztlan  follow  me  ; 
And  if  one  man  of  all  her  multitudes 
Shall    better  play  the  warrior  in   that 

hour. 
Be  his  the  sceptre  !    But  if  the  iicoplc 

fear 
The  perilous  strife,  and  own  thembclvea 

subdued. 
Let  us  depart  !   The  universal  Sun 
Confines  not   to  one   land   his   {partial 

beams ;  9® 

Nor  is  man  rooted,  like  a  tree,  whoaoK'cd 
The  winds  on  some  ungcnial  soil  lui\e 

ca^t . 
I  There  where  he  cannot  prosiK-r. 


598 


MADOC   IN   AZTLAN 


I 


The  dark  Priest 
Conceal' d  revengeful  anger,  and  replied, 
Let  the  King's  will  be  done  !  An  aweful 

day- 
Draws  on ;    the  Circle  of  the  Years  is 

full; 
We  tremble  for  the  event.     The  times 

are  strange ; 
There   are  portentous  changes  in   the 

world  ; 
Perchance  its  end  is  come. 

Be  it  thy  care, 
Priest  of  the  Gods,  to  see  the  needful 

rites  loo 

Duly  perform' d,  Yuhidthiton  replied. 
On  the  third  day,  if  yonder  Lord  of  Light 
Begin  the  Circle  of  the  Years  anew, 
Again  we  march  to  war. 

One  day  is  past ; 
Another  day  comes  on.  At  earliest  dawn 
Then    was    there    heard    through    all 

Patamba's  streets 
The  warning  voice  .  .  Woe  !    woe  !    the 

Sun  hath  reach' d 
The  limits  of  his  course ;    he  hath  f  ul- 

till'd 
The  appointed  cycle  ! .  .  Fast,  and  weep, 

and  pray, .  . 
Four  Suns  have  perish' d,  .  .  fast,  and 

weep,  and  pray,  no 

Lest  the  fifth  perish  also.     On  the  first 
The  floods  arose ;    the   waters  of  the 

heavens. 
Bursting  their  everlasting  boimdaries. 
Whelm' d  in  one  deluge  earth  and  sea 

and  sky, 
And    quench' d    its    orb    of    fire.     The 

second  Smi 
Then  had  its  birth,  and  ran  its  round  of 

years ; 
Till  having  reach' d  its  date,  it  fell  from 

heaven. 
And  crush' d  the  race  of  men.     Another 

life 
The  Gods  assign' d  to  Nature  ;  the  third 

Sun 
Form'  d   the  celestial  circle ;     then  its 

flames  120 

Burst  forth,  and  overspread  earth,  sea, 

and  sky, 
Deluging  the  wide  universe  with  fire, 
Till  all  things  were  consumed,  and  its 

own  flames 


Fed  on  itself,  and  spent  themselves,  and 

all 
Was  vacancy  and  darkness.     Yet  again 
The  W^orld  had  being,  and  another  Sun 
Roll'd  round  the  path  of  Heaven.   That 

perish' d  too  : 
The    mighty  Whirlwinds   rose,  and  far 

away 
Scatter' d  its  dying  flames.     The  fifth 

was  born  ; 
The  fifth  to-day  completes  its  destined 

course,  130 

Perchance  to  rise  no  more.     0  Aztlan, 

fast 
And  pray  !    the  Cycle  of  the  Years  is 

full! 

Thus     through     Patamba    did     the 

ominous  voice 
Exhort  the  people.     Fervent  vows  all 

day 
Were  made,  with  loud  lament ;  in  every 

fane. 
In  every  dwelling-place  of  man,  were 

prayers. 
The  supplications  of  the  alfrighted  heart, 
Earnestly   offered   up   with   tears   and 

groans. 
So  i^ass'd  the  forenoon  ;  and  when  now 

the  Sun 
Sloped  from   his   southern   height   the 

downward  way  140 

Of  Heaven,  again  the  ominous  warner 

cried, 
Woo  !    woe  !    the  Cycle  of  the  Years  is 

full! 
Quench  every  fire  !    Extinguish  every 

light! 
And  every  fire  was  quench' d,  and  every 

light 
Extinguish'd  at  the  voice. 

Meantime  the  Priests 
Began   the  rites.     They  gash'd   them- 
selves, and  plunged 
Into  the  sacred  pond  of  Ezapan, 
Till  the  clear  water,  on  whose  bed  of 

sand 
The   sunbeams   sparkled   late,    opaque 

with  blood. 
On  its  black  surface  mirror' d  all  things 

round.  150 

{ The   children   of    the   temple,    in   long 
1  search, 


THE   CLOSE    OF   THE    C'ENTUHY 


599 


Had  gather"  d  for   the  servico  of   this 

day 
All  venomous  things  thai  liy,  or  wintl 

their  path 
With  siuuoua  trail,  or  crawl  on  reptile 

feet. 
These  in  one  cauldron,  ocr  the  sacred 

tire 
They  scorch,  till  of  the  loathsome  living 

tribes. 
Who,  writhing  in  their  burning  agonies, 
Fix  on  each  other  ill-directed  wounds. 
Ashes  alone  are  left.     In  infants'  blood 
They  mix  the  infernal  unction,  and  the 

Priests  i6o 

Anoint  themselves  therewith. 

Lo  !  from  the  fSouth 
The  Orb  of  Glory  his  regardless  way 
Holds    on.     Again    Patamba's    streets 

receive 
The  ominous  voice,  .  .  Woe  !   woe  !   the 

8uu  pursues 
His  journey  to  the  limits  of  his  course  ! 
Let   every   man    in    darkness    veil    his 

wife  ; 
Veil   every   maiden's  face ;     let   every 

child 
Be  hid  in  darkness,  there  to  weep  and 

pray, 
That  they  may  sec  again  the  birth  of 

light  ! 
They  heard,  and  every  husband  veil'd 

his  wife  170 

In  darkness ;    every  maiden's  face  was 

veil'd  ; 
The  children  were  in  darkness  led  to 

pray. 
That  they  might  see  the  birth  of  light 

once  more. 

Westward    the    Sim    proceeds;     the 

tall  tree  casts 
A  longer  shade  ;    the  night-eyed  insect 

tribes 
Wake  to  their  portion  of  the  circling 

hours  ; 
The  water-fowl,  retiring  to  the  shore, 
tjweep  in  long  files  the  surface  of  the 

lake. 
Then    from    Patamba    to    the    sacred 

mount 
The   Priests   mt   forth 

songs  of  joy, 


but   not    with 
180 


Nor  cheerful  inalrumtuU  they  gu,  nor 

train 
Of  festive  followerH;   silent  and  alone. 
Leading    one    victim    to    his    dreadful 

death. 
They    to    the    mountain-summit    wend 

their  way. 

On  the  south  shore,  and  level  with  the 

lake, 
Patamba  stood  ;    westward   were  seen 

the  walls 
Of  Azthm  rising  on  a  gentle  8lo|)e  ; 
Southward  the  plain  extended  far  and 

wide  ; 
To    the    east    the    mountain- boundary 

began. 
And  there  the  sacred  mountain  rear'd  its 

head ;  190 

Above    the    neighbouring    heights,    its 

lofty  peak 
Was  visible  far  oil.     In  the  vale  lielow. 
Along  the  level  borders  of  the  lake. 
The   assembled    Aztecas,    with    wistful 

eye, 
Gaze  on   the  sacred  summit,   hoping 

there 
Soon  to  behold  the  tire  of  sacrifice 
Arise,  sure  omen  of  continued  light. 
The  Pabas  to  the  sacred  jwak  begin 
Their  way,  and  as  they  go,  with  ancient 

songs 
Hymn  the  departed  Sun. 

O  Light  of  Life  ioo 
Vet  once  again  arise  I   yet  once  again 
Commence  thy  course  of  glory  !     Time 

hath  seen 
Four  generations  of  mankind  destroy'd, 
W^hen  the  four  Suns  expired  ;  oh,  let  not 

thou. 
Human  thyself  of  yore,  the  human  race 
Languish  and  die  in  darkness  I 

The  fourth  Sun 
Had  }>erish'd  ;  for  the  mighty  Whirl- 
winds rose, 
And  swept  it,  with  the  dust  of  the  shat- 
ter'd  world. 
Into  the  great  abv.s^.  The  etrnjal  Ooda 
Built  a  new  World,  ninl  to  a  Hero  race 
Assign'd   it   for   their  gootlly   dwelluig- 

place :  an 

And    shedding    on    the    boucs    of    the 

destroy  d 


600 


IVIADOC   IN  AZTLAN 


A  quickening  dew,  from  them,  as  from 

a  seed, 
Made  a  new  race  of  human-kind  spring 

up, 
The    menials    of    the    Heroes    born    of 

Heaven. 
But  in  the  firmament  no  orb  of  day 
Perform' d    its     course ;      Nature     was 

blind  ;    the  fount 
Of  light  had  ceased  to  flow  ;    the  eye  of 

Heaven 
Was  quench' d  in  darkness.     In  the  sad 

obscure, 
The    earth-possessors    to    their    parent 

Gods  220 

Pray'd  for  another  Sun,  their  bidding 

heard, 
And  in  obedience  raised  a  flaming  pile. 
Hopeful  they  circled  it,  when  from  above 
The  voice  of  the  Invisible  proclaim' d, 
That  he  who  bravely  plunged  amid  the 

fire 
Should  live  again  in  heaven,  and  there 

shine  forth 
The   Sun   of   the   young    World.     The 

Hero  race 
Grew    pale,    and    from    the    fiery    trial 

shrunk. 
Thou,  Nahuaztin,  thou,  0  mortal  born, 
Heardest !    thy  heart  was  strong,   the 

flames  received  230 

Their  victim,  and  the  humbled  Heroes 

saw 
The  orient  sky,  with  smiles  of  rosy  303% 
Welcome  the  coming  of  the  new-born 

God. 
(J  human  once,  now  let  not  human-kind 
Languish,  and  die  in  darkness  ! 

In  the  East 
Then  didst  thou  pause  to  see  the  Hero 

race 
Perish.     In  vain,   with  impious  arms, 

they  strove 
Against  thy  will ;   in  vain  against  thine 

orb 
They  shot  their  shafts;    the  arrows  of 

their  pride 
Fell  on  themselves  ;    they  perish' d,  to 

thy  praise.  240 

So  perish  still  thine  impious  enemies, 
O    Lord    of    Day  !      But    to    the    race 

devout, 
Who  olfer  up  their  morning  sacrifice, 


Honouring    thy    godhead,     and    with 

morning  hymns. 
And  with  the  joy  of  music  and  of  dance, 
Welcome  thy  glad  uprise,  .  .  to  them, 

0  Sun, 
Still  let  the  fountain-streams  of  splendour 

flow. 
Still    smile    on   them    propitious,  thou 

whose  smile 
Is  light   and  life  and  joyance  !     Once 

again,  249 

Parent  of  Being,  Prince  of  Glory,  rise. 
Begin  thy  course  of  beauty  once  again  ! 

Such  was  their  ancient  song,  as  up  the 

height 
Slowly   they    wound    their    way.     The 

multitude 
Beneath  repeat  the  strain  ;   with  fearful 

eyes 
They  w^atch  the  spreading  glories  of  the 

west ! 
And  when  at  length  the  hastening  orb 

hath  sunk 
Below  the  plain,  such  sinking  at  the 

heart 
They  feel,  as  he  who  hopeless  of  return 
From  his  dear  home  departs.     Still  on 

the  light. 
The  last  green  light  that  lingers  in  the 

west,  260 

Their  looks  are  fasten' d,  till  the  clouds 

of  night 
Roll  on,  and  close  in  darkness  the  whole 

heaven. 
Then  ceased  their  songs ;   then  o'er  the 

crowded  vale 
No  voice  of  man  was  heard.    Silent  and 

still 
They  stood,  all  turn'd  toward  the  east, 

in  hope 
There  on  the  holy  mountain  to  behold 
The  sacred  fire,   and  know  that  once 

again 
The   Sun    begins    his  stated  round  of 

years. 

The  Moon  arose  ;  she  shone  upon  the 

lake. 
Which  lay  one  smooth  expanse  of  silver 

light  !  270 

She  shone  upon  the  hills  and  rocks,  and 

cast 


t*' 


lis" 


-5- 


0 

U 


THE    CLOSE    OF   THE   CENTURY 


001 


Upou  their  hollows  aud  their  hidden 

glens 
A  blacker  depth  of  ahade.     Who  then 

look'd  round, 
Beholding  all  that  mighty  multitude. 
Felt  yet  bc\  cror  awe,  .  .  so  aolemnly  still 
The  thronging  thousands  stood.     The 

breeze  was  heard 
That  rustled  iu  the  reeds ;    the  little 

wave, 
That  rippled  to  the  shore  and  left  no 

foam, 
Sent  its  low  murmurs  far. 

Meantime  the  Priests 
Have    Btreteh'd    their    victim    on    the 

mountain-top ;  280 

A  miserable  man,  his  breast  is  bare. 
Bare  for  the  death  that  waits  him  ;   but 

no  hand 
May  there  inHict  the  blow  of  mercy. 

Piled 
On  his  bare  breast,  the  cedar  boughs  are 

laid ; 
On    his    bare    breast,    dry    sedge    and 

odorous  gums 
Laid  ready  to  receive  the  sacred  spark, 
Aud    blaze,   to    herald    the    ascending 

►Sun, 
Upon    his    living    altar.     Round    the 

wretch 
The  inhuman  ministers  of  rites  accurst 
ytand,  and  expect  the  signal  when  to 

strike  290 

The  seed  of  tire.     Their  Chief,  Tezozo- 

moc. 
Apart  from  all,  upon  the  pinnacle 
Of  that  high  mountain,  eastward  turns 

his  eyes  ; 
For   now    the    hour    draws   nigh,    and 

speedily 
He  looks  to  see  the  first  faint  dawn  of 

day 
Break  through  the  orient  sky. 

Impatiently 
The  multitude  await  the  happy  sign. 
Long   hath   the   midnight   pass'd,   and 

every  hour. 
Yea,  every  moment,  to  their  torturing 

fears 
JSeem'd    leugthen'd     out,     insufferably 

long  300 

JSileut   they    stood,    and    breathless   in 

suspense. 


I  The    breeze    had   fallen :     no   Btiniug 
I  breath  of  wind 

Rustled    the    reeds.     Oppreaaive,    nio- 
'  t  ion  less. 

It  was  a  labour  and  u  pain  to  breathe 
'  The  close,  hot,  heavy  air. . .  Hark  !  from 
I  the  wood.s 

I  The  howl  of  their  wild  tenants !    and 

the  birds,  .  . 
The  day. birds,  in  blind  darkness  llut- 

t  ering, 
Tearful    to    rest,    uttcrhig    portentous 

cries  ! 
Anon,   the   sound   of   distant    thunders 

came  : 
They  j)eal   beneath   their  feet.      Enrtli 

shakes  and  yawns,  .  .  310 

And  lo  I    upon  the  sacred  mountain's 

top. 
The   light    .    .    the   mighty   fiame !     A 

cataract 
Of  Hre  bursts  upward  from  the  moun- 
tain head,  .  . 
High,  .  .  high,  .  .  it  shoots  !    the  licjuid 

hre  boils  out ; 
It  streams  in  torrents  down  !    Tczo^o- 

moc 
Beholds  the  judgement  :    wretched,  .  . 

wretched  man. 
On  the  upmost  pinnacle  he  stands,  and 

sees 
The  lava  floods  beneath  him  :    and  lux 

hour 
Is  come.     The  fiery  shower,  deseencUng, 

heaps 
Red  ashes  round  ;    they  fall  like  drifted 
!  snows,  3^ 

And   bury  and  consume  the  accursed 

Priest. 

The  TemiKJst  is  abroad.     Fierce  from 
the  North 
A  wind  upteai-8  the  lake,  whose  lowest 

depths 
Rock,  while  convulsions  shake  the  solid 

earth. 
Where  w  Patamba  /    where  the  multi- 
tudes 
Who  throng'fl   her  level   hIiohs  .'    The 
mighty  Lake 
I. Hath   bulbil   its  bound;^.   and   vou   «i<l«' 
I  valley  roai-s, 

I  A  troubled  sea,  before  the  rolling  »torm. 


602 


MADOC  IN   AZTLAN 


XXVII.    THE   MIGRATION   OF 
THE   AZTECAS 

The  storm  hath  ceased ;    but  still  the 

lava-tides 
Roll  down  the  mountain-side  in  streams 

of  fire  ; 
Down  to  the  lake  they  roll,  and  yet  roll 

on, 
All  burning,  through  the  waters.  Heaven 

above 
Glows  round  the  burning  mount,  and 

fiery  clouds 
kScour  through  the  black  and  starless 

firmament. 
Far  off,  the  Eagle,  in  her  mountain-nest, 
Lies  watching  in  alarm,  with  steady  eye, 
The  midnight  radiance. 

But  the  storm  hath  ceased  ; 
The  earth  is  still ;  .  .  and  lo  !   while  yet 

the  dawn  lo 

Is  struggling  through  the  eastern  cloud, 

the  barks 
Of  Madoc  on  the  lake  ! 

What  man  is  he 
On  yonder  crag,  all  dripping  from  the 

flood 
Who  hath  escaped  its  force  ?    He  lies 

along, 
Now  near  exhaust  with  self-preserving 

toil. 
And  still  his  eye  dwells  on  the  spreading 

waves, 
Where  late  the   multitudes  of  Aztlan 

stood, 
Collected  in  their  strength.     It  is  the 

King 
Of  Aztlan,  who,  extended  on  the  rock, 
Looks  vainly  for  his  people.     He  be- 
holds 20 
The  barks  of  Madoc  plying  to  preserve 
The  strugglers  ;  .  .  but  how  few  !    upon 

the  crags 
Which  verge  the  northern  shore,  upon 

the  heights 
Eastward,  how  few  have  refuged !   Then 

the  King 
Almost  repented  him  of  life  preserved,  " 
And   wished   the   v/aves   had   whelmed 

him,  or  the  sword 
Fallen  on  him,  cio  this  ill,  this  wretched- 
ness, 


This  desolation.     Spirit-troubled  thus,' 
He  call'd  to  mind  how,  from  the  first,  hia 

heart  29 

Inclined  to  peace,  and  how  reluctantly. 
Obedient  to  the  Pabas  and  their  Gods, 
Had    he    to    this    unhappy    war    been 

driven. 
All  now  was  ended  :  it  remain' d  to  yield, 
To  obey  the  inevitable  will  of  Heaven, 
From  Aztlan   to  depart.     As  thus  he 

mused, 
A  Bird,  upon  a  bough  which  overhung 
The   rock,   as   though   in   echo   to   his 

thought, 
Cried  out,  .  .  Depart !    depart !    for  so 

the  note, 
Articulately  in  his  native  tongue. 
Spake  to  the  Azteca.     The  King  look'd 

up ;  40 

The  hour,  the  horrors  round  him,  had 

impress' d 
Feelings  and  fears  well  fitted  to  receive 
All  superstition  ;    and  the  voice  which  j 

cried. 
Depart  !   depart  !   seem'd  like  the  voice 

of  fate. 
He  thought, ^perhaps  Coanocotzin's  soul, 
Descending  from  his  blissful  halls  in  the 

hour 
Of  evil  thus  to  comfort  and  advise. 
Hover' d  above  him. 

Lo  !  toward  the  rock, 
02,ring  with  feeble  arms  his  difficult  way, 
A  warrior  struggles ;    he  hath  reach' d 

the  rock,  50 

Hath  graspt  it,   but  his  strength,  ex- 
hausted, fails 
To  lift  him  from  the  depth.     The  King 

descends 
Timely  in  aid  ;   he  holds  the  feeble  one 
By  his  long  locks,  and  on  the  safety-place 
Lands    him.     He,    panting,    from    his 

clotted  hair 
Shook  the  thick  waters,  from  his  fore- 
head wiped 
The  blinding  drops  ;    on  his  preserver's 

face 
Then  look'd,  and  knew  the  King.    Then 

Tlalala 
Fell  on  his  neck,  and  groau'd.  They  laid 

them  down 
In  silence,  for  their  hearts  were  full  of 

woe.  60 


11:- 

F. 
A: 

l- 

I: 
I. 

mou 


to? 


HecKC 

agi 

fil 
TkeGo 

M»: 

Yiitii 

Ihevi 

'k 

ThaK 

1   ^ 
He"k< 


n 
ffho 

\ 


THE   xMlGRATlON   OF   THE   AZTECAS  GU3 


The  sun  came  forth,  it  shono  upon  the 

rock  ; 
They    felt    the    kindly    beams;     their 

strengthen'd  blootl 
Flow'd  with  a  freer  action.     They  arose. 
And   look'd  around,   if  aught  of   hope 

might  meet 
Their  prosiK'ct.     On  the  lake  the  galleys 

plied 

Their  toil  successfully,  ever  to  the  shore 
Bearing    their    rescued    charge:      the 

eastern  heights. 
Right  ward   and   leftward   of   the   ticry 

mount. 
Were    throng" d    with   fugitives,    whose 

growing  crowds 
Speckled  the  ascent.     Then  Tlalala  took 

hope,  70 

And  his  young  heart,   reviving,   re-as- 
sumed 
Its    wonted    vigour.     Let    us    to    the 

heights, 

He  cried  ;  .  .  all  is  not  lost,  Yuhidthiton  ! 
When  they  behold  thy  countenance,  the 

sight 
Will  cheer  them  in  their  woe,  and  they 

will  bless 
The  Gods  of  Aztlan. 

To  the  heights  they  went  ; 
And  when  the  remnant  of  the  people  saw 
I  Yuhidthiton    preserved,    such    comfort 

then 
They  felt,  as  utter  wretchedness  can 

feel, 
I  That   only  gives  grief   utterance,   only 

speaks  80 

In  groans  and  recollections  of  the  past. 
He  look'd  around ;    a  multitude   was 

there,  .  . 
/But    where    the    strength    of    Aztlan  ? 

where  her  hosts  '! 
Her  marshall'd  myriads  where,  whom 

yester  Sun 
Had   seen    in   arms   array' d,   in   spirit 

high. 
Mighty  in  youth  and  courage  ?  .  .  What 

were  these. 
This  remnant  of  the  people  ?    Women 

most. 
Who   from    Patamba    when    the   shock 

began 
Kan  with  their  infants;    widuw'd  now, 

yet  each 


Among    tho   few    who   from    tho   lake 

escaped,  90 

\N  andoring  with  eager  eyes  and  wretched 

hoi)e. 
The  King  beheld  and  groan'd  ;    agaiiiht 

a  tree 
Ho  leant,  and  bowd  his  head,  subdued 

of  soul. 

Meantime,    amid    the    crowd,    doth 

Tlalala 
Seek  for  his  wife  and  boy.     In  vain  In; 

Beeks 
lianquel    there ;     in    vain    for    her    ho 

asks; 
A  troubled  look,  a  melancholy  eve, 
A  silent  motion  of  the  hojK'less  Lead, 
These  answer  him.     But  Tlalala  rcprest 
His   anguish,   and   he  call'd   upon   tho 

King  ;  .  .  100 

Yuhidthiton !     thou    seest    thy    i)eople 

left; 
Their  fate  must  be  determined  ;    they 

arc  here 
Houseless  and  wanting  food. 

The  King  look'd  up,  .  . 
It  is  determined,  Tlalala  !    the  (Jods 
Have    crush' d    us.       Who    can    stand 

against  their  wrath  ? 

Have  we  not  life  and  strength  ':    tho 

Tiger  cried. 
Disperse    these    women    to    the    towns 

which  stand 
Beyond    the   ruinous    waters ;     against 

them 
The  White  Men  will  not  war.     Ourselves 

are  few. 
Too  few  to  root  the  invaders  from  our 

land,  xio 

Or  meet  them  with  the  1io|k.'  of  ((inal 

fight ; 
Yet  may  we  shelter  in  the  woods,  and 

share 
The  Lion's  liberty  ;  and  man  by  man 
Destroy  them,  till  they  shall  not  dare  to 

walk 
Beyond   their  city   walls,   to  how   their 

lield.M, 
Or  bring  tho  harvest  in.      \\  »•  nmy  steal 

forth 
1m  tin-  dark  niidni*dtt.  <^o  and  binit  and 

kill. 


604 


MADOC   IN   AZTLAN 


Till  all  their  dreams  Bhall  be  of  fire  and 

death, 
Their  sleep  be  fear  and  misery. 

Then  the  King 
Stretch' d  forth  his  hand,  and  pointed 

to  the  lake  120 

Where  Madoc's  galleys  still  to  those  who 

clung 
To  the  tree-tops  for  life,  or  faintly  still 
Were  floating  on  the  waters,  gave  their 

aid.  .  . 

0  think  not,  Tlalala,  that  ever  more 
Will  I  against  those  noble  enemies 
Raise    my    right    hand     in    war,    lest 

righteous  Heaven 
Should  blast    the    impious    hand    and 

thankless  heart  ! 
The  Gods  are  leagued  with  them;    the 

Elements 
Banded    against    us !     For   our   over- 
throw 
Were  yonder  mountain-springs  of  tire 

ordain' d  ;  130 

For  our  destruction  the  earth-thunders 

loosed, 
x\nd  the  everlasting  boundaries  of  the 

lake 
Gave  way,  that  these  destroying  floods 

might  roll 
Ovev  the  brave  of  Aztlan  !  .  .  We  must 

leave 
The  country  which  our  fathers  won  in 

arms  : 
We  must  depart. 

The  word  yet  vibrated 
Fresh  on  their  hearing,  when  the  Bird, 

above, 
Flapping  his  heavy  wings,  repeats  the 

sound, 
Dei>art !  depart !  .  .  Ye  hear  !  the  King 

exclaim  d  ; 
It  is  an  omen  sent  to  me  from  Heaven  ; 

1  heard  it  late  in  solitude,  the  voice  141 
Of  fate.  .  .  It  is  Coanocotzin's  soul. 
Who  counsels  our  departure.  .  .  And  the 

Bird 
Still  flew  around,  and  in  his  wheeling 

flight 
Pronounced   the  articulate  note.     The 

people  heard 
III  faith,  and  Tlalala  made  no  reply  ; 
But  dark  his  brow,  and  gloomy  was  his 

frown. 


Then  spake  the  King,  and  called  a 

messenger, 
And  bade  him  speed  to  Aztlan.  .  .  Seek 

the  Lord 
Of  Ocean  ;   tell  him  that  Yuhidthiton 
Yields  to  the  will  of  Heaven,  and  leaves, 

the  land  151 

His  fathers  won  in  war.    Only  one  boon. 
In  memory  of  our  former  friendship, 

ask, 
The  Ashes  of  my  Fathers,  .  .  if  indeed 
The  conqueror  have  not  cast  them  to 

the  winds. 

The  herald  went  his  way  circuitoui^. 

Along  the  mountains,  .  .  for  the  flooded 
vale 

Barr'd  the  near  passage  :  but  before  his 
his  feet 

Could    traverse    half    their    track,    the 
fugitives  159 

Beheld  canoes  from  Aztlan,  to  the  foot 

Of  that  protecting  eminence,  whereon 

They  had  their  stand,  draw  nigh.     The 
doubtful  sight 

Disturb' d   them,    lest   perchance    with 
hostile  strength 

They  came  upon  their  weakness.  Wrong- 
ful fear,  .  . 

For  now  Cadwallon,  from  his  bark  un- 
arm'd. 

Set  foot  ashore,  and  for  Yuhidthiton 

Enquired,  if  yet  he  lived  ?    The  King 
receives 

His  former  friend.  .  .  From  Madoc  come 
I  here, 

The  Briton  said  :   Raiment  and  food  he 
sends, 

And    peace ;     so    shall    this    visitation 
prove  170 

A  blessing,  if  it  knit  the  bonds  of  peace. 

And  make  us  as  one  people. 

Tlalala  ! 

Hearest  thou  him  ?    Yuhidthiton  ex- 
claim'd. 

Do  thou  thy  pleasure,  King !    the  Tiger 
cried  : 

My  path  is  plain. . .  Thereat  Yuhidthiton, 

Answering,   replied,   Thus  humbled   as 
thou  seest, 

Beneath  the  vii^itation  of  the  Gods, 

We  bow  before  their  will  !   To  them  we 
yield  ; 


\^^: 


fit 


THE    MIGRATION    OF    INK    AZTK(  AS 


i'iii't 


1(1  you,  their  favourites,  wo  resign  tlio 

land 
3ur    fathers    con(|iier"cl.     Xovor    moro 

may  Vnio  180 

[n  your  days  or  your  children's  to  the 

end 
Of  time  afflict  it  thus  ! 

He  said,  and  cxll'd 
The  Heralds  of  his  pleasure.  .  .  Oo  ye 

forth 
Throughout    the   land :   North,   South, 

and  East,  and  West, 
Proclaim  the  ruin.     Say  to  all  who  bear 
The    name    of    Azteca,    Heaven    hath 

destroyed 
Our  nation  :    Say,  the  voice  of  Heaven 

was  heard,  .  . 
Heard  ye  it  not  ? .  .  bidding  us  leave  the 

land. 
Who  shakes  us  from  her  bosom.     Ye 

will  find. 
Women,  old  men,  and  babes  ;  the  many, 

weak  190 

Of  body  and  of  spirit  ill  prepared, 
With   painful    toil,    through    long   and 

dangerous  ways 
To  seek  another  country.     Say  to  them, 
The  White  Men  will  not  lift  the  arm  of 

power 
Against    the   feeble ;     here    they    may 

remain 
In  peace,  and  to  the  grave  in  peace  go 

down. 
But   they   who   would  not   have  their 

children  lose 
The  name  their  fathers  bore,  will  join 

our  march. 
Ere  ye  set  forth,  behold  the  destined 

way.  199 

He  bade  a  pile  be  raised  upon  the  top 
Of  that  high  eminence,  to  all  the  winds 
Exposed.     They   raised   the   pile,   and 

left  it  free 
To  all  the  winds  of  Heaven  ;  Yuhidthiton 
Alone  approach' d  it,  and  applied  the 

torch. 
The  day  was  calm,  and  o'er  the  flaming 

pile 
The  wavy  smoke  hung  lingering,  like 

a  mist 
That  in  the  morning  tracks  the  valley- 
stream. 


Swell  over  swell  it  ro.so,  erect  rI>ov«\ 
On    all   sides   spreading'   like   a   niatrly 

palm. 
So  moveless  were  the  windn.     Tpward 

it  roll'd,  aio 

Still  upward,  when  a  stream  of  »jp|)cr  air 
Cross'd  it.  and  l)ent  its  top.  and  drovo  it 

on. 
Straight    over  Aztlan.     Am   nrclniniint^ 

shout 
Welcomed  the  will  of  Heaven  ;    for  lo, 

the  smoke 
Fast  travelling  on,  while  not  a  breath 

of  air 
Is   felt    below.     Ye  sec   the   appointed 

course  ; 
Exclaim'd  the  King.    Proclaim  it  where 

ye  go! 
On   the   third   morning   we   l>egin   our 

march. 

Soon  o'er  the  lake  a  winged  galley 

sped. 
Wafting  the  Ocean  Prince.     He  l>ore, 

preserved  220 

When  Aztlan's  bloody  temples  were  cast 

down. 
The    Ashes    of    the    Dead.     The    Kini: 

received 
The  relics,  and  his  heart  was  full  ;   hi^ 

eye 
Dwelt  on  his  father's  urn.     At  length 

he  said. 
One  more  request,  0  Madoc  !  .  .  If  the 

lake 
Should  ever  to  its  ancient  bounds  return. 
Shrined   in   the   highest    of    Tataraba's 

towers 
Coanocotzin    rests.  .  .    But    wherefore 

this  ? 
Thou  wilt  respect  the  Ashes  of  the  King. 

Then   Madoc  said,   Abide  not    hen\ 

O  King.  ajo 

Thus  oj)en  to  the  changeful  elements  ; 
But  till  the  day  of  your  departure  come. 
Sojourn  with  me.  '.  .  Madoc.  that  mu><t 

not  be  ! 
Yuhidthiton  replied.     Shall  1  iH-hold  ^ 
A    stranger    dwelling    in    my    fathrr'n 

house  ? 
Shall  I  become  a  guest,  where  I  wm 

wont 


606 


MADOC   IN   AZTLAN 


To  give  the  guest  his  welcome  ?  .  .  He 

pursued, 
After  short  pause  of  speech,  .  .  For  our 

old  men, 
And  helpless  babes  and  women  ;  for  all 

those 
Whom  wisely  fear  and  feebleness  deter 
To     tempt     strange     paths,     through 

swamp  and  wilderness  241 

And  hostile  tribes,  for  these  Yuhidthiton 
Intreats  thy  favour.     Underneath  thy 

sway, 
They  may  remember  me  without  regret. 
Yet  not  without  affection.  .  .  They  shall 

be 
My  people,  Madoc  answer' d.  .  .  And  the 

rites 
Of    holiness    transmitted    from    their 

sires,  .  . 
Pursued  the  Ring,  .  .  will  these  be  suf- 
fer'd  them  ?  .  . 
Blood    must    not    flow,    the    Christian 

Prince  replied ; 
No  Priest  must  dwell  among  us ;    that 

hath  been  250 

The  cause  of  all  this  misery  ! .  .  Enough, 
Yuhidthiton  replied  ;   I  ask  no  more. 
It  is  not  for  the  conquer' d  to  impose 
Their  law  upon  the  conqueror. 

Then  he  turn'd, 
And  lifted  up  his  voice,  and  call'd  upon 
The  people  :  .  .  All  whom  fear  or  feeble- 
ness 
Withhold  from  following  my  adven- 
turous path. 
Prince  Madoc  will  receive.     No  blood 

must  flow. 
No    Paba   dwell    among    them.     Take 

upon  ye, 
Ye  who  are  weak  of  body  or  of  heart, 
The  Strangers'  easy  yoke  :  beneath  their 

sway  261 

Ye  may  remember  me  without  regret. 
Soon   take  your  choice,   and  speedily 

depart, 
Lest  ye  impede  the  adventurers.  .  .  As 

he  spake. 
Tears  flow'd,  and  groans  were  heard. 

The  line  was  drawn. 
Which      whoso      would      accept      the 

Strangers'  yoke 
Should  pass.     A  multitude  o'erpast  the 

line ; 


But  all  the  youth  of  Aztlan  crowded 

round 
Yuhidthiton,  their  own  beloved  King. 

So  two  days  long,  with  unremittin; 

toil,  27 

The  barks  of  Britain  to  the  adventurer 
Bore  due  supply  ;  and  to  new  habitant 
The   city   of    the    Cymry   spread    he 

gates  ; 
And  in  the  vale  around,  and  on  th 

heights,  ; 

Their    numerous    tents    were    pitch'dr 

Meantime  the  tale  ! 

Of  ruin  went  abroad,  and  how  the  God 
Had  driven  her  sons  from  Aztlan.     Tt; 

the  King, 
Companions  of  his  venturous  enterprizc' 
The  bold  repair' d ;    the  timid  and  thi, 

weak,  ' 

All  whom,  averse  from  perilous  wan' 

derings,  28(' 

A  gentler  nature  had  disposed  to  peace  | 
Beneath   the  Strangers'   easy  rule  re-j 

main'd.  ! 

Now    the    third    morning    came.     At: 

break  of  day  i 

The  mountain  echoes  to  the  busy  sound; 
Of     multitudes.     Before     the    moving  i 

tribe 
The  Pabas  bear,  enclosed  from  public 

sight,  1 

Mexitli ;  and  the  Ashes  of  the  Kings  j 
Follow  the  Chair  of  God.  Yuhidthiton  i 
Then  leads  the  marshall'd  ranks,  and  byi 

his  side,  289' 

Silent  and  thoughtfully,  went  Tlalala. 

At  the  north  gate  of  Aztlan,  Malinal, 

Borne  in  a  litter,  waited  their  approach  ; 

And  now  alighting,  as  the  train  drew  i 
nigh,  ^  I 

Propt  by  a  friendly  arm,  with  feeble  step 

Advanced  to  meet  the  King.     Yuhid- 
thiton, ' 

With  eye  severe  and  darkening  coun- 
tenance. 

Met  his  advance.     I  did  not  think,  quoth 
he, 

Thou  wouldst  have  ventured  this  !  and 
liefer  far 

Should  I  have  borne  away  with  me  the 
thought 


THE   MIGRATION   OF   THE   AZTEcAS 


liu: 


I'vdftjThat  Malinal  hncl  sluinn'd  his  brother's 

sight.  300 

Because  their  common  I)lnoil  yet  raised 

in  him 
ittin^A  sense  of  his  own  shame  !  .  .  Comest 

thou  to  sliow 
iirer^Those  wounds,  tlie  marks  of  thine  uti- 

natunil  war 
lie^gainst  tiiy  country'  ?    (^r  to  boast  the 

meed 
h^Of  tliy  dishonour,   tliat  thou   tarriest 

here. 

Sharing  the  bounty  of  the  Conqueror, 
While,  with  the  remnant  of  his  country- 
men, 
leaving   the    Gods  of    Aztlan  and    the 

name, 
Thy  brother  and  tliy  King  goes  forth  to 

seek  309 

His  fortune  ! 

Calm  and  low  the  youth  replied, 
111  dost  thou  judge  of  me,  Yuhidthiton  ! 
And  rashly  doth  my  brother  wrong  the 

heart 
He  better  should  have  known  !  Howbeit, 

I  come 
Prepared  for  grief.     These  honourable 

wounds 
Were    gain'd    when,    singly,    at    Caer- 

madoc,  I 
Opposed  the  ruffian  Hoamen  :  and  even 

now, 
Thus  feeble  as  thou  seest  me,  come  I 

thence. 
For  this  farewell.     Brother,  .  .  Yuhid- 
thiton. .  . 
By  the  true  love  which  thou  didst  bear 

ray  youth, 
Which  ever,  with  a  love  as  true,  my 

heart  320 

Hath  answer' d,  .  .  by  the  memory  of 

that  hour 
When  at  our  mother's  funeral  pile  we 

stood. 
Go   not   away   in    wrath,    but   call   to 

mind 
What  thou  hast  ever  known  me  !    Side 

by  side 
We  fought  against  the  Strangers,  side  by 

side 
We  fell  ;  together  in  the  council-hall 
We  counsell'd   peace,   together   in   the 

field 


Of  tiie  assembly  pledged  tho  word  of 
pence. 

When    plots   of    secret   slaughter   wcrt^ 
devised,  ^^ 

I  raised  my  voice  alone,  alone  I  kept 

My  plighted  faith,  alone  I  propheaied 

The  judgement  of  just  Heavei»  ;  for  thin 
1  bore 

Reproach    and    shanu'    and     wrongful 
banishment. 

In  the  action  self-approve<l,  and  justi- 
fied 

By  this  unhappy  issue. 

As  he  spake, 

Did   natural   feeling  strive   within   tho 
King, 

And  thoughts  of  other  days,  and  bro- 
therly love. 

And  inward  consciousness  that  had  he 
too 

Stood    forth,    obedient    to    his    In-tter 
mind. 

Nor  weakly  yielded  to  the  wily  priests. 

Wilfully  blind,  perchance  even  now  in 
peace  341 

The  kingdom  of   his  fathers   had   pre- 
served 

Her  name  and  empire.  .  .  Malinal,  ho 
cried. 

Thy  brother's  heart  is  sore  :    in  better 
times 

I  may  with  kindlier  thoughts  remember 
thee 

And    honour    thy    true    virtue.     Now, 
farewell ! 

So  saying,  to  his  heart   he  held  tho 

youth. 
Then    tum'd    away.     But    then    cried 

Tlalala, 
Farewell,  Yuhidthiton  !   the  Tiger  crie<l ; 
For  I    too   will  not    leave    my    native 

land,  .  .  350 

Thou  who  wert  King  of  Aztlan  !  Go  thy 

way  ; 
And    be   it   prosperoun.     Through    the 

gate  thou  seest 
Yon  tree  that  overhangs  my  father's 

house ; 
My   father    lies    beneath    it.      C*ll    to 

mind 
Sometinn-s  that  tree;    for  <«f  if^  foot  in 

peace 


608 


MADOC   IN   AZTLAN 


Shall  Tlalala  be  laid,  who  will  not  live 
Survivor  of  his  country. 

Thus  he  said, 
And  through  the  gate,  regardless  of  the 

King, 
Turn'd  to  his  native  door.    Yuhidthiton 
Follow'd,  and  Madoc  ;  but  in  vain  their 

words  360 

Essay' d   to    move   the   Tiger's   steady 

heart ; 
When  from  the  door  a  tottering  boy 

cam©  forth 
And  clung  around  his  knees  with  joyful 

cries, 
And  called  him  father.     At  the  joyful 

sound 
Out  ran  Ilanquel ;    and  the  astonish' d 

man 
Beheld  his  wife  and  boy,  whom  sure  he 

deem'd 
Whelm' d  in  the  flood ;    but  them  the 

British  barks, 
Returning  homeward  from  their  merci- 
ful quest, 
Found  floating  on  the  waters.  .  .  For  a 

while. 
Abandon' d  by  all  desperate  thoughts,  he 

stood :  370 

Soon  he  collected,  and  to  Madoc  turn'd, 
And  said,  0  Prince,  this  woman  and 

her  boy 
I  leave  to   thee.     As  thou   hast  ever 

found 
Tn  me  a  fearless  unrelenting  foe. 
Fighting  with  ceaseless  zeal  his  coun- 
try's cause, 


Respect  them  !  .  .  Nay,  Ilanquel !   hast 

thou  yet 
To  learn  with  what  unshakeable  resolve 
My  soul  maintains  its  purposes  ?  I  leave 

thee 
To  a  brave  foe's  protection.  .  .  Lay  me, 

Madoc, 
Here,  in  my  father  s  grave. 

With  that  he  took  1 
His  mantle  off,   and   veil'd  Ilanquel's  ' 

face  ;  .  .  381  | 

Woman,  thou  may'st  not  look  upon  the 

Sun, 
Who  sets  to  rise  no  more  !  .  .  That  done, 

he  placed 
His  javelin  hilt  against  the  ground  ;  the 

point 
He  fitted  to  his  heart ;    and,  holding 

firm 
The  shaft,  fell  forward,  still  with  steady 

hand 
Guiding  the  death-blow  on. 

So  in  the  land 
Madoc   was   left   sole   Lord ;    and    far 

away  1 

Yuhidthiton  led  forth  the  Aztecas, 
To    spread    in    other    lands    Mexitli's 

name,  390 

And  rear  a  mightier  empire,  and    set 

up 
Again  their  foul  idolatry  ;   till  Heaven, 
Making  blind  Zeal  and  bloody  Avarice 
Its  ministers  of  vengeance,  sent  among 

them 
The     heroic     Spaniard's     unrelenting 

sword. 


B.' 


BALLADS   AND   METRICAL  TALES 


fl^l    MARY,  THE  MAID  OF  THE  IXN 

[First  published  in  The  Oracle,  afterwards 
in  Poems,  1797.] 

The  circuinstancevS  related  in  the  fol- 
lowing Ballad  were  told  nie  when  a  school- 
boy, as  having  happened  in  the  north  of 
England.  Either  Fumes  or  Kirkstall  Abbey 
(I  forget  which)  was  named  as  the  scene. 
The  original  story,  however,  is  in  Dr.  Plot's 
HLHory  of  Staffordshire,  p.  291. 

The  metre  is  Mr.  Lewis's  invention  ;  and 
metre  is  one  of  the  few  things  concerning 
which  popularity  may  be  admitted  as  a 
proof  of  merit.'  The  ballad  has  become 
popular  owing  to  the  metre  and  the  story  ; 
and  it  has  been  made  the  subject  of  a  fine 
picture  by  Mr.  Barker. 

1 

Who    is   yonder   poor   Maniac,    whose 
wildly-fix'd  eyes 
Seem  a  heart  overcharged  to  express  ? 
She  weeps  not,  yet  often  and  deeply  she 

sighs  ; 
She  never  complains,   but   her  silence 
implies 
The  composure  of  settled  distress. 


No  pity  she  looks  for,  no  alms  doth  she 
seek  ; 
Nor  for  raiment  nor  food  doth  she 
care  : 
Through  her  tatters  the  winds  of  the 

winter  blow  bleak 
On    that     wither' d    breast,     and    her 
weather-worn  clieek 
Hath  the  hue  of  a  mortal  despair.  lo 


Yet  cheerful  and  happy,  nor  distant  the 
day, 
Poor  Mary  the  Maniac  hath  been  ; 
The  Traveller  remembers  who  joumey'd 

this  way 
No  damsel  so  lovely,  no  damsel  so  gay, 
As  Mary,  the  Maid  of  the  Inn. 


Her  cheerful   address   fill'd   the   gue.sti 

with  delight 
As    she    welcomed    them    in    with    r 

smile ; 
Her  heart   was  a  stranger   to  childish 

affright, 
And  Mary  would  walk  by  the  Abbey  at 

night 
When   the   wind   whi.stlcd   down   the 

dark  aisle.  jo 


She    loved,    and    young    Richard    had 
settled  the  day, 
And   she   hoped    to    be    happy   for 
life  : 
But  Richard  was  idle  and  worthlca'*,  and 

they 
Who  knew  him  would  pity  poor  Mary, 
and  say 
That  she  was  too  good  for  his  wife. 

G 

'Twas  in  autumn,  and  stormy  and  dark 
was  the  night, 
And    fast    were    the    windows    and 
door ; 
Two  guests  sat  enjoying  the  fire  that 

burnt  bright. 
And  smoking  in  silence  with  tran(iuil 
delight 
They  li.sten'd  to  hear  the  wind  roar.  30 


'  'Tis  pleasant,'  cried  one, '  seated  by  the 

fire-side, 
To  hear  the  wind  whistle  without.' 
'  What   a   night   for  the  Abbey  ! '    hi« 

comrade  replied, 
'  Metliinks  a  man's  courage  would  now 
be  well  tried 
Who  should  wander  the  ruins  about. 


610 


BALLADS   AND   METRICAL   TALES 


8 
*  I    myself,    like    a    scliool-boj%    should 
tremble  to  hear 
The  hoarse  ivy  shake  over  my  head  ; 
And  could  fancy  I  saw,  half  persuaded 

by  fear, 
Some  ugly  old  Abbot's  grim  spirit  ap- 
pear. 
For    this    wind    might    awaken    the 
dead  ! '  40 


'  ril  wager  a  dinner,'  the  other  one  cried, 

'  That  Mary  would  venture  there  now.' 

'  Then  wager  and  lose  !  '  with  a  sneer 

he  replied, 
'  I'll  warrant  she'd  fancy  a  ghost  by  her 
side, 
And  faint  if  she  saw  a  white  cow.' 

10 
'  Will  Mary  this  charge  on  her  courage 
allow  ? ' 
His    companion    exclaim' d    with    a 
smile  ; 
'  I  shall  win,  .  .  f or  I  know  she  will  ven- 
ture there  now, 
And  earn  a  new  bonnet  by  bringing  a 
bough 
From   the  elder   that  grows  in   the 
aisle.'  so 

11 
With  fearless  good-humour  did  Mary 
comply. 
And  her  way  to  the  Abbey  she  bent ; 
The  night  was  dark,  and  the  wind  was 

high, 
And  as  hollowly  howling  it  swept  through 
the  sky. 
She  shiver' d  with  cold  as  she  went. 

12 
O'er  the  path  so  well  known  still  pro- 
ceeded the  Maid 
Where  the  Abbey  rose  dim  on  the 
sight ; 
Through  the  gateway  she  enter' d,  she 

felt  not  afraid, 
Yet  the  ruins  were  lonely  and  wild,  and 
their  shade 
Seem'd  to  deepen  the  gloom  of  the 
night.  60 


13  I 

All  around  her  was  silent,  save  when  the  Ij 
rude  blast  I 

Howl'd  dismally  round  the  old  pile  ; 
Over  weed-cover' d  fragments  she  fear- 
lessly pass'd. 
And  arrived  at  the  innermost  ruin  at 
last 
Where  the  elder- tree  grew  in  the  aisle. 


14 


tqJjiiem 
I     on 


Well    pleased    did    she    reach    it,    and 
quickly  drew  near, 
And  hastily  gather' d  the  bough  ; 
When  the  sound  of  a  voice  seem'd 

rise  on  her  ear. 
She  paused,  and  she  listen' d  intently,  i 
fear, 
And  her  heart  panted  painfully  now. 

15 

The  wind  blew,  the  hoarse  ivy  shook 

over  her  head,  71 

She  listen' d  .  .  nought  else  could  she 

hear  ; 

The  wind  fell ;    her  heart  sunk  in  her 

bosom  with  dread, 
For  she  heard  in  the  ruins  distinctly  the 
tread 
Of  footsteps  approaching  her  near. 

16 

Behind  a  wide  column  half  breathless 
with  fear 
She  crept  to  conceal  herself  there : 
That  instant  the  moon  o'er  a  dark  cloud 

shone  clear, 

And   she   saw    in    the    moonlight   two 

ruffians  appear,  i' 

And  between  them  a  corpse  did  they  -j 

bear.  80  j 

17 

Tlien  Mary  could  feel  her  heart-blood 
curdle  cold  ; 
Again  the  rough  wind  hurried  by,  .  . 
It  blew   oflf  the  hat  of  the  one,   and 

behold 
Even  close  to  the  feet  of  poor  Mary  it 
roll'd,  .  . 
She  felt,  and  expected  to  die. 


"is 


Beet 

K 

M 


feo 
U 
had 


MARY,  THE    MAID    UF    THE    INN 


Oil 


18 
Curse  the  hat  ! '  he  exchiims  :    '  Nay, 

come  on  till  wo  hide 

The  dead  body,'  his  conuade  replies. 

he  beholds  them  in  safety  pass  on  by 

her  side,  [supplied, 

he   seizes   the   hat,    fear   her   courage 

And  fast  through  the  Abbey  she  flies. 

19 
he  ran  with  wild  speed,  she  rush'd  in 
at  the  door,  91 

She  gazed  in  her  terror  around, 
'hen  her  limbs  could  support  their  faint 

burthen  no  more, 
ind  exhausted  and  breathless  she  sank 
on  the  tloor, 
Unable  to  utter  a  sound. 

20 
Ire  yet  her  pale  lips  could  the  story 

impart, 
For  a  moment  the  hat  met  her  view ; . . 
ler  eyes  from  that  object  convulsively 

start, 
or  .  .  what  a  cold  horror  then  thrilled 

through  her  heart 
When  the  name  of  her  Richard  she 


knew  ! 


21 


Vhere  the  old  Abbey  stands,  on  the 
common  hard  by, 
His  gibbet  is  now  to  be  seen  ; 
lis  irons  you  still  from  the  road  may 

espy; 

"Hhe  traveller  beholds  them,  and  thinks 
with  a  sigh 
Of  poor  Mary,  the  Maid  of  the  Inn. 

Bristol  179G. 


DONICA 

[Published  in  Poews,  1707.    The  Ballad 

founded  on  stories  '  to  be  found  in  the 

lOtes    to    The    Hierarchies   of   the    Blessed 

Ingels,  a  poem  by  Thomas  Heywood,  .  . 

SlOH  on  a  rock  whose  castle  shade 

Darken'd  the  lake  below, 
|[n  ancient  strength  majestic  stood 
i    The  towers  of  Arlinkow. 


The  fisher  in  the  lake  liclow 

Durst  never  cast  hiu  nut, 
Nor  ever  swallow  in  ii«  wavetf 

Her  pasaing  wing  would  wot. 

The  cattle  from  its  ominous  banks 
In  wild  alarm  would  run,  10 

Though  parch'd   with  thirst,  ami  faint 
beneath 
The  summer's  scorching  sun. 

For  sometimes  when  no  passing  brcezo 
The  long  lank  sedges  waved. 

All  white  with  foam  and  heaving  high 
Its  dtxifening  billows  rpved. 

And  when  the  tempest  from  its  ba.so 
The  rooted  pine  would  shake, 

The  powerless  storm  unrutlling  swept 
Across  the  calm  dead  lake.  20 

And  ever  then  when  death  drew  near 

The  house  of  Arlinkow, 
Its  dark  unfathom'd  waters  sent 

iStrange  music  from  below. 

The  Lord  of  Arlinkow  was  old. 

One  only  child  had  he, 
Donica  was  the  Maiden's  name. 

As  fair  as  fair  might  be. 

A  bloom  as  bright  as  opening  morn 
Suffused  her  clear  white  cheek  ;        30 

The  music  of  her  voice  was  mild, 
Her  full  dark  eyes  were  meek. 

Far  was  her  beauty  known,  for  none 
80  fair  could  Finland  boast  ; 

Her  parents  loved  the  Maiden  much, 
Young  Eberhard  loved  her  most. 

Together  did  they  hope  to  tread 

The  pleasant  path  of  life. 
For  now  the  day  drew  near  to  make 

Donica  Eberhard's  wife.  4'^ 

The  eve  was  fair  and  mild  the  air. 

Along  the  lake  they  utray  ; 
The  eastern  hill  reflected  bright 

The  tints  of  fading  day. 

And  brightly  o'er  the  water  Btream'd 

The  li<|uid  radiance  wide  ; 
Donica's  little  rl<»n  ran  on 

And  gambolM  at  her  siile. 


612 


BALLADS   AND   METRICAL  TALES 


Youth,  health,  and  love  bloom' d  on  her 
cheek, 

Her  full  dark  eyes  express  50 

In  many  a  glance  to  Eberhard 

Her  soul's  meek  tenderness. 

Nor  sound  was  heard,  nor  passing  gale 
Sigh'd  through  the  long  lank  sedge  ; 

The  air  was  hush'd,  no  little  wave 
Dimpled  the  water's  edge  : 

When  suddenly  the  lake  sent  forth 

Its  music  from  beneath, 
And  slowly  o'er  the  waters  sail'd 

The  solemn  sounds  of  death.  60 

As  those  deep  sounds  of  death  arose, 

Donica's  cheek  grew  pale, 
And  in  the  arms  of  Eberhard 

The  lifeless  Maiden  fell. 

Loudly  the  Youth  in  terror  shriek' d, 

And  loud  he  call'd  for  aid, 
And  with  a  wild  and  eager  look 

Gazed  on  the  lifeless  Maid. 

But  soon  again  did  better  thoughts 
In  Eberhard  arise,  70 

And  he  with  trembling  hope  beheld 
The  Maiden  raise  her  eyes. 

And  on  his  arm  reclined  she  moved 

With  feeble  pace  and  slow, 
And    soon     with     strength    recover' d 
reach' d 

The  towers  of  Arlinkow. 

Yet  never  to  Donica's  cheeks 

Return' d  their  lively  hue  ; 
Her  cheeks  were  deathy  white  and  wan, 

Her  lips  a  livid  blue  ;  80 

Her  eyes  so  bright  and  black  of  yore 
Were  now  more  black  and  bright. 

And  beam'd  strange  lustre  in  her  face 
So  deadly  wan  and  white. 

The  dog  that  gambol' d  by  her  side, 
And  loved  with  her  to  stray, 

Now  at  his  alter'd  mistress  howl'd, 
And  fled  in  fear  away. 

Yet  did  the  faithful  Eberhard 

Not  love  the  Maid  the  less  ;  90 

He  gazed  with  sorrow,  but  he  gazed 
With  deeper  tenderness. 


And  when  he  found  her  health  unharm'c 

He  would  not  brook  delay. 
But  press' d  the  not  unwilling  Maid 

To  fix  the  bridal  day. 

And  when  at  length  it  came,  with  joy 

He  hail'd  the  bridal  day. 
And  onward  to  the  house  of  God 

They  went  their  willing  way.  io< 

But  when  they  at  the  altar  stood. 

And  heard  the  sacred  rite. 
The  hallow' d  tapers  dimly  stream' d 

A  pale  sulphureous  light. 

And  when  the  Youth  with  holy  warmth 

Her  hand  in  his  did  hold. 
Sudden  he  felt  Donica's  hand 

Grow  deadly  damp  and  cold. 

But  loudly  then  he  shriek' d,  for  lo  ! 

A  Spirit  met  hie  view,  110 

And  Eberhard  in  the  angel  form 

His  own  Donica  knew. 

That  instant  from  her  earthly  frame 

A  Daemon  howling  fled, 
And  at  the  side  of  Eberhard 

The  livid  corpse  fell  dead. 

Bristol,  1796. 


RUDIGER 

[Published   in  Poems,   1797.     The  story 
has  been  adapted  from  Thomas  Heywood.] 

Bright  on  the  mountain's  heathy  slope 
The  day's  last  splendours  shine. 

And  rich  with  many  a  radiant  hue 
Gleam  gaily  on  the  Rhine. 

And  many  a  one  from  Waldhurst's  walls 

Along  the  river  stroll' d. 
As  ruffling  o'er  the  pleasant  stream 

The  evening  gales  came  cold. 

So  as  they  stray' d  a  swan  they  saw 
Sail  stately  up  and  strong,  10 

And  by  a  silver  chain  he  drew 
A  little  boat  along. 

Whose  streamer  to  the  gentle  breeze 
Long  floating  flutter' d  light ; 

Beneath  whose  crimson  canopy 
There  lay  reclined  a  knight. 


m 

Iktt: 
■  Imliiiiii; 


Hi 
Sooa' 

I'iei 

M' 
IttEo 

m 


RUDIGER 


613 


.  itli  arching  crest  and  swelling  breast 
On  sail'd  the  stately  swan, 
n»l  lightly  up  the  parting  tide 

iL-  little  boat  came  on.  20 

. in  1  onward  to  the  shore  tiic}'  drew, 
W'liere  havint;  left  the  knight. 

lif  Uttle  boat  adown  the  stream 
Irll  soon  beyond  the  sight. 

\  as  never  a  knight  in  Waldhurst's  walls 
Tould  with  this  stranger  vie, 

\'as  never  a  youth  at  aught  esteem'd 
\\  hen  Rudiger  was  by. 

\'as  never  a  maid  in  Waldhurst's  walls 
Might  match  with  Margaret;  30 

Icr  cheek  was  fair,  her  eyes  were  dark, 
ilcr  silken  locks  like  jet. 

\.nd  many  a  rich  and  noble  youth 

Had  sought  to  win  the  fair, 
nil  never  a  rich  and  noble  youth 

I  )uld  rival  Rudiger. 

\t  every  tilt  and  tourney  he 

Still  bore  away  the  prize  ; 
bur  knightly  feats  superior  still. 

And  knightly  courtesies.  40 

His  gallant  feats,  his  looks,  his  love, 

Soon  won  the  willing  fair  ; 
And  soon  did  Margaret  become 

The  wile  of  Rudiger. 

Like  morning  dreams  of  happiness 
Fast  roll'd  the  months  away  ; 

Vov  he  was  kuid  and  she  was  kind, 
And  who  so  blest  as  tli^y  V 

^''  t  Rudiger  would  sometimes  sit 

Absorb'd  in  silent  thought,  50 

Au'i    his    dark    downward    eye    would 
seem 
With  anxious  meaning  fraught : 

!  But  soon  he  raised  his  looks  again, 
!     And  smiled  his  cares  away, 
;  And  mid  the  hall  of  gaiety 
Was  none  like  him  so  gay. 

And  onward  roll'd  the  waning  months. 

The  hour  ai)pointed  came. 
And  Margaret  her  Rudiger 

Hail'd  with  a  father's  name.  60 


But  silently  did  Rudiger 

The  little  infant  sec  ; 
And  darkly  on  the  babo  he  gazed, 

A  gloomy  man  was  he. 

And  when  to  bles.s  the  little  babo 

The  holy  i'^ither  came. 
To  cleanse  the  stains  of  sin  away 

In  Christ's  redeeming  name, 

Then  did  the  cheek  of  Rudiger 

Assume  a  dcath-pale  hue,  70 

And  on  his  clammy  forehead  stood 
The  cold  convulsive  dew  ; 

And  faltering  in  his  speech  he  bade 

The  Priest  the  rites  delay, 
Till  he  could,  to  right  heaUh  restored, 
j      Enjoy  the  festive  day. 

I  When  o'er  the  many-tinted  sky 
j      He  saw  the  day  decline, 
I  He  called  upon  his  Mar;,'aret 

To  walk  beside  the  Rhine  ;  80 

'  And  we  will  take  the  little  babe. 
For  soft  the  breeze  that  blows. 

And  the  mild  murmurs  of  the  stream 
Will  lull  him  to  repose.' 

And  so  together  forth  they  went. 
The  evenhig  breeze  was  mild, 

And  Rudiger  upon  his  arm 
Pillow' d  the  little  child. 

Many  gay  companies  that  eve 

Along  the  river  roam,  90 

But  wlien  the  nii.st  began  to  rise. 
They  all  betook  them  home. 

Yet  Rudiger  continued  still 

Along  the  banks  to  roam. 
Nor  aught  could  Margaret  prevail 

To  turn  his  footsteps  home. 

'  Oh  turn  thee,  turn  thee.  Rudiger  ! 

The  rising  mists  behold, 
The  evening  wind  is  damp  and  uhill. 

The  little  baljc  is  cold  I '  «<» 

'  Now  hush  thee.  IuihIi  ihw,  Margarvt, 
The  mists  will  do  no  Imrm. 

And  from  the  wind  the  little  babo 
Is  .Hhelter'd  on  my  ana.' 


614 


BALLADS   AND   METRICAL  TALES 


'  Oh  turn  thee,  turn  thee,  Rudiger  ! 

"Why  onward  wilt  thou  roam  ? 
The  moon  is  up,  the  night  is  cold, 

And  we  are  far  from  home.' 

He  answer' d  not ;  for  now  he  saw 
A  Swan  come  sailing  strong,  no 

And  by  a  silver  chain  he  drew 
A  little  boat  along. 

To  shore  they  came,  and  to  the  boat 
Fast  leapt  he  with  the  child, 

And  in  leapt  Margaret .  .  breathless  now, 
And  pale  with  fear,  and  wild. 

With  arching  crest  and  swelling  breast 

On  saird  the  stately  Swan, 
And  lightly  down  the  rapid  tide 

The  little  boat  went  on.  120 

The  full  orb'd  moon,  that  beam' d  around 
Pale  splendour  through  the  night, 

Cast  through  the  crimson  canopy 
A  dim  discolour' d  light. 

And  swiftly  down  the  hurrying  stream 

In  silence  still  the}'  sail. 
And  the  long  streamer  fluttering  iast 

Flapp'd  to  the  heavy  gale. 

And  he  was  mute  in  sullen  thought, 
And  she  was  mute  with  fear,  130 

Nor  sound  but  of  the  parting  tide 
Broke  on  the  listening  ear. 

The  little  babe  began  to  cry  ; 

Then  Margaret  raised  her  head, 
And  with  a  quick  and  hollow  voice, 

'  Give  me  the  child  ! '  she  said. 

'  Now  hush  thee,  hush  thee,  Margaret, 
Nor  my  poor  heart  distress  ! 

I  do  but  pay  perforce  the  price 

Of  former  happiness.  140 

'  And  hush  thee  too,  my  little  babe  ! 

Thy  cries  so  feeble  cease  ; 
Lie  still,  lie  still  ;  .  .  a  little  while 

And  thou  shalt  be  at  peace.' 

So  as  he  spake  to  land  they  drew. 
And  swift  he  stept  on  shore. 

And  him  behind  did  Margaret 
Close  follow  evermore. 

It  was  a  place  all  desolate. 

Nor  house  nor  tree  was  there  ;        150 
But  there  a  rocky  mountain  rose, 

Barren,  and  bleak,  and  bare. 


And  at  its  base  a  cavern  yawn'd. 

No  eye  its  depth  might  view. 
For  in  the  moon-beam  shining  round 

That  darkness  darker  grew. 

Cold  horror  crept  through  Margaret's 
blood. 

Her  heart  it  paused  with  fear. 
When  Rudiger  approach' d  the  cave, 

And  cried,  '  Lo,  I  am  here  !  '  '6c 

A  deep  sepulchral  sound  the  cave 

Return"  d,  '  Lo,  I  am  here  ! ' 
And  black  from  out  the  cavern  gloom 

Two  giant  arms  appear. 

And  Rudiger  approach' d,  and  held 
The  little  infant  nigh  ;  [then'i 

Then  Margaret  shriek' d,  and  gather'd' 
New  powers  from  agony.  : 

And  round  the  baby  fast  and  close  j 

Her  trembling  arms  she  folds,  170 1 

And  with  a  strong  convulsive  grasp  1 

The  little  infant  holds.  I 

'  Now  help  me,  Jesus  ! '  loud  she  cries,  l 

And  loud  on  God  she  calls  ; 
Then  from  the  grasp  of  Rudiger 

The  little  infant  falls. 

The  mother  holds  her  precious  babe  ; 

But  the  black  arms  clasp' d  him  round. 
And  dragged  the  v.retched  Rudiger 

Adown  the  dark  profound.  180 ; 

Bristol,  1796. 


JASPAR 

[First  published  in  The  Morning  Post, 
Mav  3,  1798;  afterwards  in  Poems,  vol.  ii, 
1799.] 

Jaspar  was  poor,  and  vice  and  want 
Had  made  his  heart  like  stone  ; 

And  Jaspar  look'd  with  envious  eyes 
On  riches  not  his  own. 

On  plunder  bent  abroad  he  went 

Toward  the  close  of  day. 
And  loiter' d  on  the  lonely  road 

Impatient  for  his  prey. 

No  traveller  came  .  .  he  loiter' d  long. 

And  often  look'd  around. 
And  paused  and  listen'd  eagerly 

To  catch  some  coming  sound. 


JASPAK 


615 


}lv  -u.   him  down  beside  the  stream 

That  crost  the  lonely  way, 
>'i  fair  a  scene  might  well  have  charm'd 
I      All  evil  thoughts  away  : 

He  sate  beneath  a  willow  tree 
Which  cast  a  trembling  shade  ; 

The  gentle  river  full  in  front 

A  little  island  miuie  ;  20 

Where  pleasantly  the  moon-beam  shone 

Upon  the  poplar  trees. 
Whose  shallow  on  the  stream  below 

Play'd  slowly  to  the  breeze. 

He  listen' d  .  .  and  he  heard  the  wind 
That  waved  the  willow  tree  ; 

He  heard  the  waters  How  along, 
And  murmur  quietly. 

He  listen'd  for  the  traveller's  tread, 
The  nightingale  sung  sweet ;  .  .        30 

He  started  up,  for  now  he  heard 
The  sound  of  coming  feet ; 

He  started  up  and  graspt  a  stake, 

And  waited  for  his  prey  ; 
There  came  a  lonely  traveller, 

And  Jaspar  crost  his  way. 

But  Jaspar's  threats  and  curses  fail'd 

The  traveller  to  appal, 
Ho  would  not  lightly  yield  the  purse 

Which  held  his  little  all.  40 

Awhile  he  struggled,  but  he  strove 
With  Jaspar  s  strength  in  vain  ; 

Beneath  his  blows  he  fell  and  groan' d. 
And  never  spake  again. 

Jaspar  raised  up  the  murder'd  man, 
And  plunged  him  in  the  flood, 

And  in  the  running  water  then 
He  cleansed  his  hands  from  blood. 

The  waters  closed  around  the  corpse. 
And  cleansed  his  hands  from  gore,  50 

The  willow  waved,  the  stream  flow'd  on, 
And  murmur' d  as  before. 

There  was  no  human  eye  had  seen 
The  blood  the  murderer  spilt, 

And  Jaspar" s  conscience  never  felt 
The  avenging  goad  of  guilt. 

j  And  soon  the  rulTian  had  consumed 
The  gold  ho  gain'd  so  ill. 
And  3'ears  of  secret  guilt  pasa'd  on, 
And  he  was  needy  still.  60 


One  eve  beside  the  alehouse  Gre 

lie  sate  as  it  befell, 
When  in  there  came  a  lal)ouring  man 

Whom  Jaspar  knew  full  well. 

Ho  sate  him  down  by  Jaspar'H  side, 

A  melancholy  man. 
For  spite  of  honest  toil,  the  world 

Went  hard  with  Jonathan. 

His  toil  a  little  earnM,  and  ho 

With  littJe  was  content  ;  70 

But  sickness  on  his  wife  had  fallen, 
And  all  was  well-nigh  si^nt. 

Long  with  his  wife  and  little  ones 
He  shared  the  scanty  meal. 

And  saw  their  looks  of  wretchedness, 
And  felt  what  wretches  feel. 

Their  Landlord,  a  hard  man,  that  day, 

Had  seized  the  little  left. 
And  now  the  sulYerer  found  himself 

Of  every  thing  bereft.  80 

He  leant  his  head  upon  his  liand. 

His  elbow  on  his  knee. 
And  so  by  Jaspar's  side  ho  sate, 

And  not  a  word  said  he. 

'  Nay,  .  .  why  so  downcast  ? '  Jaspar 
cried, 
'  Come  .  .  cheer  up,  Jonathan  ! 
Drmk,  neighbour,  drmk  !    'twill  warm 
thy  heart  .  . 
Come  !  come  !   take  courage,  man  !  * 

He  took  the  cup  that  Jaspar  gave. 
And  down  ho  drain'd  it  (juick  ;        90 

'  I  have  a  wife,'  said  Jonathan, 
'  And  she  is  deadly  sick. 

'  She  has  no  bed  to  lie  upon. 

I  saw  them  take  her  bed  .  . 
And  I  have  children  .  .  would  to  (Jod 

That  they  and  I  were  dead  f 

'  Our  Landlord  he  goes  homo  to-night. 

And  ho  will  sleep  in  |M'aeo  .  . 
I  would  that  I  were  in  my  grave, 

For  there  all  troubles  ceajjc.  100 

'  In  vain  I  prayd  him  to  forbear. 
Though  wealth  enough  haa  ho  ! 

God  be  to  him  a^  merciletw 
Aa  he  hoa  been  to  mo  ! ' 


616 


BALLADS  AND   METRICAL   TALES 


When  Jaspar  saw  the  poor  man's  soul 

On  all  his  ills  intent, 
He  plied  him  with  the  heartening  cup, 

And  with  him  forth  he  went. 

'  This  Landlord  on  his  homeward  road 
'Twere  easy  now  to  meet.  no 

The  road  is  lonesome,  Jonathan  ! 


And 


vengeance,  man  !   is  sweet. 


He  listen' d  to  the  tempter's  voice, 
The  thought  it  made  him  start ;  .  . 

His  head  was  hot,  and  wretchedness 
Had  harden' d  now  his  heart. 

Along  the  lonely  road  they  went 

And  waited  for  their  prey, 
They  sate  them  down  beside  the  stream 

That  crost  the  lonely  way.  120 

They  sate  them  down  beaide  the  stream 
And  never  a  word  they  said, 

They  sate  and  listen' d  silently 
To  hear  the  traveller's  tread. 

The  night  was  calm,  the  night  was  dark, 

No  star  was  in  the  sky, 
The  M'ind  it  waved  the  willow  boughs, 

The  stream  flow'd  quietly. 

The  night  was  calm,  the  air  was  still, 
Sweet  sung  the  nightingale  ;  130 

The  soul  of  Jonathan  was  soothed, 
His  heart  began  to  fail. 

*  'Tis  weary  waiting  here,'  he  cried, 

'  And  now  the  hour  is  late,  .  . 
Methinks  he  will  not  come  to-night, 
No  longer  let  us  wait.' 

*  Have  patience,  man  !  '  the  ruffian  said, 

*  A  little  we  may  wait ; 
But  longer  shall  his  wife  expect 

Her  husband  at  the  gate.'  140 

Then  Jonathan  grew  sick  at  heart ; 

'  My  conscience  yet  is  clear  ! 
Jaspar  .  .  it  is  not  yet  too  late  .  . 

I  will  not  linger  here.' 

*  How   now  ! '    cried   Jaspar,    '  why,    I 

thought 
Thy  conscience  was  asleep  ; 
No  more  such  qualms,  the  night  is  dark. 
The  river  here  is  deep.' 

*  What  matters  that,'  said  Jonathan, 

Whose  blood  began  to  freeze,  150 

*  When  there  is  One  above  whose  eye 

The  deeds  of  darkness  sees  ? ' 


'  We  are  safe  enough,'  said  Jaspar  then 
'  If  that  be  all  thy  fear  !  j 

Nor  eye  above,  nor  eye  below. 
Can  pierce  the  darkness  here.' 

That  instant  as  the  murderer  spake 

There  came  a  sudden  light ; 
Strong  as  the  mid-day  sun  it  shone, 

Though  all  around  was  night ;        160 

It  hung  upon  the  willow  tree, 

It  hung  upon  the  flood. 
It  gave  to  view  the  poplar  isle, 

And  all  the  scene  of  blood. 

The  traveller  who  journeys  there. 

He  surely  hath  espied 
A  madman  who  has  made  his  home 

Upon  the  river's  side. 

His  cheek  is  pale,  his  eye  is  wild, 

His  look  bespeaks  despair  ;  170 

For  Jaspar  since  that  hour  has  made 
His  home  unshelter'd  there. 

And  fearful  are  his  dreams  at  night. 

And  dread  to  him  the  day  ; 
He  thinks  upon  his  untold  crime. 

And  never  dares  to  pray. 

The  summer  suns,  the  winter  storms, 

O'er  him  unheeded  roll. 
For  heavy  is  the  weight  of  blood 

Upon  the  maniac's  soul.  180 

Bath,  1798. 

ST.  PATRICK'S  PURGATORY 

[The  last  twenty-four  stanzas  were 
published  in  The  Morning  Post,  May  8, 1798.] 

This  Ballad  was  published  (1801)  in  the 
Tales  of  Wonder,  by  Mr.  Lewis,  who  found  it 
among  the  wefts  and  stra3's  of  the  Press. 
He  never  knew  that  it  was  mine  ;  but  after 
his  death  I  bestowed  some  pains  in  recom- 
posing  it,  because  he  had  thought  it  worth 
preserving. 

It  is  founded  upon  the  abridged  extract 
which  INI.  le  Grand  has  given  in  his  Fabliaux 
of  a  Metrical  legend,  by  Marie  de  France. 

1 

'  Entee,  Sir  Knight,'  the  warden  cried, 
'  And  trust  in  Heaven  whate'er  betide, 

Since  you  have  reach' d  this  bourn  ; 
But  fust  receive  refreshment  due, 
'Twill  then  be  time  to  welcome  you 

If  ever  you  return.' 


ST.   PATKICK'S   PUKc;ATOKV 


(il 


Chree  sops  were  brought  of  bread  aud 

wine  ; 
Veil  might  8ir  Owen  then  divine 

The  mystic  warninij;  given. 
Chat  he  against  our  gliostly  Foo  lo 

dust  soon  to  mortal  combat  go, 

And  put  his  trust  in  Heaven. 

3 

5ir  Owen  pass'd  the  convent  gate, 
Che  Warden  him  conducted  straight 

To  where  a  cottin  lay  : 
Che  Monks  around  in  silence  stand, 
g^h  with  a  funeral  torch  in  hand 

Whose  light  bedimm'd  the  day. 

4 

Few  Pilgrims  ever  reach  this  bourn,' 
They  said,  '  but  fewer  still  return  ;      20 

Yet,  let  what  will  ensue, 
3ur  duties  are  prescribed  and  clear  ; 
Put  off  all  mortal  weakness  here, 

This  coffin  is  for  you. 

5 
Lie  there,  while  we  witli  pious  breath 
Raise  over  you  the  dirge  of  death, 

This  comfort  we  can  give  ; 
Belike  no  living  hands  may  pay 
This  office  to  your  lifeless  clay. 
Receive  it  while  you  live  ! '  30 

6 

Sir  Owen  in  a  shroud  was  drest, 
rhey  placed  a  cross  upon  his  breast. 

And  down  he  laid  his  head  ; 
Around  him  stood  the  funeral  train, 
And  sung  with  slow  and  solemn  strain 

The  Service  of  the  Dead. 


Then  to  the  entrance  of  the  Cave 
Iliey  led  the  Christian  warrior  brave  ; 

Some  fear  he  well  might  feel. 
For  none  of  all  the  Monks  could  tell    40 
The  terrors  of  that  mystic  cell, 

Its  secrets  none  reveal. 

8 
Now  enter  here,'  the  Warden  cried. 
And  God,  Sir  Owen,  be  your  guide  ! 
Your  name  shall  live  in  story  : 
For  of  the  few  wlio  reach  this  shore, 
Still  fewer  venture  to  explore 
St.  Patrick's  Purgatory.' 


0 


Adown  the  Cavern's  long  dehtrnt. 
Feeling  his  way.  Sir  Owni  wrnt,  50 

With  cautious  feet  and  slow  ; 
Tnarni'd,  for  neither  sword  nor  MfXMir, 
Nor  shield  of  proof  avaii'd  him  hero 

Against  our  ghostly  Foe. 

10 
The  ground  was  moist  l>eneath  his  tread. 
Large  drops  fell  heavy  on  his  head, 

Tlu>  air  was  damp  and  chill. 
And  sudden  shudtlerings  o'er  him  came, 
And  he  could  feel  through  all  his  frame 

An  icy  sharpness  thrill.  60 

II 
Now  steeper  grew  the  dark  descent ; 
In  fervent  prayer  the  Pilgrim  went, 

'Twas  silence  all  around, 
Save  his  own  echo  from  the  cell, 
And  the  large  drops  that  frequent  fell 

With  dull  and  heavy  sound. 

12 
But  colder  now  he  felt  the  cell. 
Those  heavy  drops  no  longer  fell. 

Thin  grew  the  piercing  air  ; 
And  now  uj)on  his  aching  sight,  70 

There  dawn'd  far  off  a  feeble  light, 

In  hope  he  hasten'd  there. 

13 

Emerging  now  once  more  to  day 
A  frozen  waste  before  him  lay, 

A  desert  wild  and  wide. 
Where  ice-rocks  in  a  sunless  sky, 
On  ice-rocks  piled,  and  mountains  high. 

Were  heap'd  on  every  side. 
11 
Impending  as  about  to  fall 
They  seem'd,  and  had  that  sight  been 
all,  80 

Enough  that  sight  had  been 
To  make  the  stoutest  courage  quail  ; 
For  what  could  courage  there  avail 

Against  what  then  waa  seen  ? 
15 
Ho  saw,  as  on  in  faith  he  |)a«t, 
Where  many  a  frozen  wretch  wan  fant 

Within  the  ice-clef t«  i)ent. 
Yet  living  still,  and  doom'd  to  Ijcnr 
In  absolute  and  dumb  despair 

Their  endless  iiunishmeut.  9» 

3 


618 


BALLADS  AND  METRICAL  TALES 


16 
A  Voice  then  spake  within  his  ear, 
And  fill'd  his  inmost  soul  with  fear, 

'  0  mortal  Man,'  it  said, 
'  Adventurers  like  thyself  were  these  ! ' 
He  seem'd  to  feel  his  life-blood  freeze, 

And  yet  subdued  his  di'ead. 

17 
'  O  mortal  Man,'  the  Voice  pursued, 
'  Be  wise  in  time  !  for  thine  own  good 

Alone  I  counsel  thee  ; 
Take  pity  on  thyself,  retrace  loo 

Thy  steps,  and  fly  this  dolorous  place 

While  yet  thy  feet  are  free. 

18 
'  I  warn  thee  once  !   I  warn  thee  twice  ! 
Behold  !    that  mass  of  mountain-ice 

Is  trembling  o'er  thy  head  ! 
One  warning  is  allow' d  thee  more  ; 
0  mortal  Man,  that  warning  o'er, 

And  thou  art  worse  than  dead  !  ' 

19 
Not  without  fear.  Sir  Owen  still 
Held  on  with  strength  of  righteous  will, 

In  faith  and  fervent  prayer  ;  in 

When  at  the  word,  '  I  warn  thee  thrice ! ' 
Down  came  the  mass  of  mountain  ice, 

And  overwhelm" d  him  there. 

20 
Crush' d  though,  it  seem'd,  in  every  bone, 
And  sense  for  suffering  left  alone, 

A  living  hope  remain' d  ; 
In  whom  he  had  believed,  he  knew. 
And  thence  the  holy  courage  grew 

That  still  his  soul  sustain'd.  120 

21 

For  he,  as  he  beheld  it  fall, 

Fail'd  not  in  faith  on  Christ  to  call, 

'  Lord,  Thou  canst  save  !  '  he  cried  ; 
O  heavenly  help  vouchsafed  in  need, 
When  perfect  faith  is  found  indeed  ; 

The  rocks  of  ice  divide. 

22 

Like  dust  before  the  storm- wind's  sway 
The  shiver'd  fragments  roU'd  away. 

And  left  the  passage  free  ; 
New  strength  he  feels,  all  pain  is  gone, 
New  life  8ir  Owen  breathes,  and  on    131 

He  goes  rejoicingly. 


28 


I  Yet  other  trials  he  must  meet,  ( 

I  For  soon  a  close  and  piercing  heat  ' 

Relax' d  each  loosen' d  limb  ; 
The  sweat  stream' d  out  from  every  part, 
i  In  short  quick  beatings  toil'd  his  heart, 
'      His  throbbing  eyes  grew  dim. 

I  "^ 

I  Along  the  wide  and  wasted  land 

'  A  stream  of  fire  through  banks  of  sand   ' 

Its  molten  billows  spread  ;  41 

Thin  vapours  tremulously  light 
Hung  quivering  o'er  the  glowing  white, ; 

j      The  air  he  breathed  was  red. 

I  25 

A  Paradise  beyond  was  seen. 
Of  shady  groves  and  gardens  green, 

Fair  flowers  and  fruitful  trees. 
And  flowing  fountains  cool  and  clear, 
Whose  gurgling  music  reach' d  his  ear 

Borne  on  the  burning  breeze.  150 

26 
How  should  he  pass  that  molten  flood  ? 
Wliile  gazing  wistfully  he  stood, 

A  Fiend,  as  in  a  dream, 
'  Thusl'  answer' d  the  uuutter'd  thought, 
Stretch' d    forth    a    mighty    arm,    and 
caught 
And  cast  him  in  the  stream. 

27 

Sir  Owen  groan' d,  for  then  he  felt 
His  eyeballs  burn,  his  marrow  melt, 

His  brain  like  liquid  lead. 
And  from  his  heart  the  boiling  blood  160 
Its  agonizing  course  pursued 

Through  limbs  like  iron  red. 


Yet,  giving  way  to  no  despair. 
But  mindful  of  the  aid  of  prayer, 

'  Lord,  Thou  canst  save  !  '  he  said  ; 
And  then  a  breath  from  Eden  came, 
With  life  and  healing  through  his  frame 

The  blissful  influence  spread. 

29 
No  Fiends  may  now  his  way  oppose, 
The  gates  of  Paradise  unclose,  170 

Free  entrance  there  is  given  ; 
And  songs  of  triumjDh  meet  his  ear, 
Enrapt,  Sir  Owen  seems  to  hear 

The  harmonies  of  Heaven. 


Cffle 


^1 


I 


ST.  PATRICK'S   PUKUATUK-V 


oil) 


30 

Come,    Pilgrim !     tako    thy    foretasto 

meet, 
hull  who  liast  trod  with  fearless  feet 

St.  Patrick's  Purgatory, 
MI  alter  death  these  seats  divine, 
ru.iid  eternal,  shall  be  thine, 

And  thine  eternal  glory.'  i8o 

31 
iet)riat€  with  the  deep  delight, 
>iin  i;rew  the  Pilgrim's  swimming  sight. 

His  senses  died  away  ; 
.nd  when  to  life  he  woke,  before 
'he  Cavern-mouth  he  saw  once  more 

The  light  of  earthly  day. 

U'c\<tburi/,  1798. 


THE  CROSS  ROADS 

[Published  in  Poems,  vol.  ii,  1799.] 
Thi'  tragedy  related  in  tliis  Ballad  hap- 
iMii^J  about  the  year  1760,  in  the  parish  of 
edininster,  near  Bristol.  One  who  was 
resent  at  the  funeral  told  me  the  story  and 
le  circumstances  of  the  interment,  as  1  have 
.>r>iiied  tliem. 

1 
'here  was  an  old  man  breaking  stones 

To  mend  the  turnpike  way  ; 
[e  sate  him  down  beside  a  brook, 
ind  out  his  bread  and  cheese  he  took, 
For  now  it  was  mid-day. 
o 

,Ie  leant  his  back  against  a  post. 

His  foot  the  brook  ran  by  ; 
md  there  were  water-cresses  growing, 
ind  pleasant  was  the  water's  flowing, 

For  he  was  hot  and  dry.  lo 


V  soldier  with  hia  knapsack  on 
(':\mG  travelling  o'er  the  down  ; 
li''  sun  was  strong  and  he  was  tired 
villi  lie  of  the  old  man  enquired, 
'  How  far  to  Bristol  town  ?  ' 


lilf  an  hour's  walk  for  a  young  man, 
liy  lanes  and  fields  and  stiles  ; 

'>u\  you  the  foot-path  do  not  know, 

Wid  if  along  the  road  you  go 
\Vhy  then  'tis  three  good  miles.'      20 


The  soldier  took  his  knapijuck  oif. 

For  he  was  hot  and  dry  ; 
And  out  his  bread  and  chocw  he  took. 
And  ho  sat  down  beside  the  brook 

To  dine  in  company. 

'  Old  friend  !    in  faith,'  the  soldier  Bayn, 

'  1  envy  you  almost ; 
My  shoulders  have  been  sorely  preet. 
And  1  should  like  to  sit,  and  rest 

My  back  against  that  post.  30 

7 
'  In  such  a  sweltering  day  as  this 
A  knapsack  is  the  devil 
And  if  on  t'other  side  1  sat. 
It  would  not  only  spoil  our  chat, 
But  make  me  seem  uncivil.* 


The  old  man  laugh'd  and  movi<I  .  .  '  [ 
wish 

It  were  a  great-arm'd  chair  I 
But  this  may  help  a  man  at  need  ;  .  . 
And  yet  it  was  a  cursed  deed 

That  ever  brought  it  there.  40 

9 
'  There's  a  poor  girl  lies  buried  here, 

Beneath  this  very  place. 
The  earth  upon  her  corpse  is  prcst, 
This  post  was  driven  into  her  brcaat, 

And  a  stone  is  on  her  face.' 

10 

The  soldier  had  but  just  leant  back, 

And  now  he  half  rose  up. 
'  There's  sure  no  harm  in  dining  here, 
My  friend  /    and  yet.  to  be  sincere, 

I  should  not  like  to  sup.'  y> 

11 
'  Ood  rest  her  !   she  is  still  enou;;h 

Who  sleeps  beneath  my  feet  !  ' 
The  old  man  cried.      *  No  iiarm  I  trow 
She  ever  did  herself,  though  now 

She  lies  where  four  roads  meet. 
12 
'  I  have  pas.s'd  by  about  that  hour 

When  men  are  not  most  brave  ; 
It  did  not  make  my  courage  fail. 
And  I  have  heard  the  nightingale 

Sing  sweetly  on  her  grave.  6«» 


620 


BALLADS   AND   METRICAL   TALES 


13 

'  I  have  pass'd  by  about  that  hour 

When  ghosta  their  freedom  have  ; 
But  here  I  saw  no  ghastly  sight, 
And  quietly  the  glow-worm's  light 
Was  shining  on  her  grave. 

14 

'  There 's  one  who  like  a  Christian  lies 

Beneath  the  church-tree's  shade  ; 
I'd  rather  go  a  long  mile  round 
Than  pass  at  evening  through  the  ground 
Wherein  that  man  is  laid.  70 

15 

'  A  decent  burial  that  man  had, 

The  bell  was  heard  to  toll, 
When  he  was  laid  in  holy  ground, 
But  for  all  the  wealth  in  Bristol  town 

I  would  not  be  with  his  soul ! 

16 
'  Did'st  see  a  house  below  the  hill 
Which  the  winds  and  the  rains  de- 
stroy ? 
In  that  farm-house  did  that  man  dwell, 
And  I  remember  it  full  well 

When  I  was  a  growing  boy.  80 

17 

*  But  she  was  a  poor  parish  girl 
Who  came  up  from  the  west : 

From  service  hard  she  ran  away, 

And  at  that  house  in  evil  day 
Was  taken  in  to  rest. 

18  . 
'  A  man  of  a  bad  name  was  he, 

An  evil  life  he  led  ; 
Passion  made  his  dark  face  turn  white. 
And  his  grey  eyes  were  large  and  light, 

And  in  anger  they  grew  red.  90 

19 

'  The  man  was  bad,  the  mother  worse. 

Bad  fruit  of  evil  stem  ; 
'Twould  make  your  hair  to  stand  on  end 
If  I  should  tell  to  you,  my  friend, 

The  things  that  were  told  of  them  ! 

20 

'  Did'st  see  an  out-house  standing  by  ? 

The  walls  alone  remain  ; 
It  was  a  stable  then,  but  now 
Its  mossy  roof  has  fallen  through 

All  rotted  by  the  rain.  100 


IE! 


Tfct; 


21  11 

'  This   poor   girl   she   had   served   with  (; 
them 

.Some  half-a-year  or  more, 
When  she  was  found  hung  up  one  day, 
Stiff  as  a  corpse  and  cold  as  clay, 

Behind  that  stable  door. 

22 

'  It  is  a  wild  and  lonesome  place. 

No  hut  or  house  is  near  ; 
Should  one  meet  a  murderer  there  alone, 
'Twere  vain  to  scream,  and  the  dying, 
groan 

Would  never  reach  mortal  ear.         no 

23 

'  And  there  were  strange  reports  about ;  •/  ISsun 

But  still  the  coroner  found  ;     ii; 

That  she  by  her  own  hand  had  died,     !l  lie  J' 

And  should  buried  be  by  the  way-side,  'licni 

And  not  in  Christian  ground.  ;i 

"  -I      t^ 

'  This  was  the  very  place  he  chose,         j  y^^ 

Just  where  these  four  roads  meet ; 
And  I  was  one  among  the  throng 
That  hither  follow' d  them  along, 

I  shall  never  the  sight  forget ! 

25 
'  They  carried  her  upon  a  board 

In  the  clothes  in  which  she  died  ; 
I  saw  the  cap  blown  off  her  head, 
Her  face  was  of  a  dark  dark  red, 

Her  eyes  were  starting  wide  : 


'I 


26 
could   not   have 


been 


think    they 
closed, 
80  widely  did  they  strain. 
O  Lord,  it  was  a  ghastly  sight. 
And  it  often  made  me  wake  at  night, 
AVhen  I  saw  it  in  dreams  a^ain.       130 


'  They  laid  her  where  these  four  roads 
meet 

Here  in  this  very  place. 
The  earth  upon  her  corpse  was  prest, 
This  post  was  driven  into  her  breast. 

And  a  stone  is  on  her  face.' 


li 
Eat 


Westbunj,  17U8. 


THE    PIOUS    PAINTER 


021 


THE  PIOUS  PAINTER 

[First  published   in   The   Morning  Post, 

'  •rnber    2,    1798;     iifterwurds    in    The 

il  Anthology,    1799,    und    in    Metrical 

.  1805.] 

r!u>  leorend  of  the  Pious  P;iint<T  is  rolatoil 

1    ilu'   I'ia   Hilaria   of  (Jazaeus  ;     \n\l   tlie 

'imis  Poet  has  oiuitted  tl»e  second  part  of 

ln>  >tory,  though  it  rest^s  upon  quite  ;is  good 

Mtliority  ;\s  the  first.     It  is  to  be  fovuid  in 

h.'  F<tbliaux  of  Le  (.irand. 

THE  FIRST  PART 

1 

-^iiFRE  once  was  a  painter  in  Catholic 
day.s. 
Like  Joii  who  eschewed  all  evil ; 
>till  on  his  Madonnas  the  curious  may 

gaze 
.\'ith  applause  and  with  pleasure,  but 
chiefly  his  praise 
And  delight  was  in  painting  the  Devil. 


Choy    were   Angels,    compared    to    the 
Devils  he  drew, 
Wlio    besieged    poor    St.    Anthony's 
cell  ; 

>uch  burning  hot  eyes,  such  a  furnace- 
like hue  ! 

Vnil  round  them  a  suli^hurous  colouring 
he  threw 
That   their   breath   .seera'd   of   brim- 
stone to  smell.  10 


An  1  now  had  the  artist  a  picture  begun, 

vas  over  the  Virgin's  church-door  ; 

~'ood  on  the  Dragon  embracing  her 

Son  ; 

-Many  Devils  already  the  artist  had  done, 

l>ut  this  must  out-do  all  before. 


Tho   Old   Dragon's  imps  as   they   fled 
through  the  air, 
At  seeing  it  paused  on  the  wing  ; 


Every  chil.l    at   l)(«lu)ldiiig  it   tromhled 
with  dread. 
And    screamM    as    iir    furii'd    away 
(juick. 
Not  an  old  woman  saw  it,  but,  rniNing 

her  head. 
Dropt   a   bead,    made   a   cpomm   on    her 
wrinkles,  and  ^(\'u\. 
Lord  keep  me  from  ugly  Old  Nick  ! 


What  the  Painter  so  earnestly  thought 
on  by  day. 
He   .sometimes    would    dream    of    by 
night ; 
But  once  he  wa.9  startled  afl  sleeping  he 

lay; 
'Twa.s  no   fancy,    no   dream,   he  could 
plainly  survey 
That  the  Devil  himself  was  in  sight.  30 


'  You  rascally  dauber  ! '    old  Beelzebub 
cries, 
'  Take    heetl    how     you    wrong    mo 
again  ! 
Though  your  caricatures  for  my.scif  I 

despise. 
Make  me  hand.somer  now  in  the  multi- 
tude's eyes. 
Or  see  if  I  threaten  in  vain  ! ' 


Now  the  Painter  was  bold,  and  religions 
beside. 
And  on  faith  he  had  certain  reliance  ; 
So  carefully  he  the  grim  countenanco 

eyed. 
And     thank'd     him    for    sitting    with 
Catholic  pride. 
And  sturdily  bade  him  defianco.       40 


Betimes   in    the    moniing   the   Paintor 

aro.se. 
He  is  ready  a.s  .soon  as  'ti.s  light. 
Every  look,  every  line,  every  feature  h« 

knows. 


For  he  had  the  likeness  so  just  to  a  hair.  1  'Tis  fresh  in  hia  oyo,  to  his  labour  he 
I  That  they  came  as  Apollyon  him.self 
1  had  been  there. 


goes. 
And    he    has    the   old    Wicke.l    n,, 


To  pay  tlieir  respects  to  their  King.  20 


([Uite. 


622 


BALLADS   AND   METRICAL  TALES 


10 
Happy  man  !  he  is  sure  the  resemblance 
can't  fail  ; 
The  tip  of  the  nose  is  like  fire, 
There  's  his  grin  and  his  fangs,  and  his 

dragon-like  mail. 
And    the    very    identical    cm'l    of    his 
tail,  .  .' 
So  that  nothing  is  left  to  desire.      50 

11 

He    looks    and    retouches    again    with 
delight  ; 
'Tis  a  portrait  complete  to  his  mind  ; 
And  exulting  again  and  again  at  the 

sight, 
He  looks  round  for  applause,  and  he  sees 
with  affright 
The  Original  sl:anding  behind. 

12 

*  Fool  !   Idiot  ! '    old  Beelzebub  grinn'd 

as  he  spoke, 

And  stampt  on  the  scaffold  in  ire  ; 

The  Painter  grew  pale,  for  he  knew  it 

no  joke ; 
'Twas  a  terrible  height,  and  the  scaffold- 
ing broke, 
The  Devil  could  wish  it  no  higher.    60 

13 

'  Help  .   .   help  !     Blessed  Mary  ! '     he 

cried  in  alarm, 

As  the  scaffold  sunk  under  his  feet. 

From  the  canvas  the  Virgin  extended 

her  arm, 
She  caught  the  good  Painter,  she  saved 
him  from  harm  ; 
There  were  hundreds  who  saw  in  the 
street. 

14 
The  Old  Dragon  fled  when  the  wonder 
he  spied, 
And    cursed    his   own    fruitless    en- 
deavour ; 
While  the  Painter  call'd  after  his  rage 

to  deride. 
Shook  his  pallett  and  brushes  in  triumph 
and  cried,  69 

'  I'll  paint  thee  more  ugly  than  ever  ! ' 


THE  PIOUS  PAINTER 

THE  SECOND  PART 

[First  published  in  The  Mornitig  Posti 
July  26,  1799.]  '\ 


H" 


The   Painter   so   pious  all  praise  had ' 
acquired 
For  defying  the  malice  of  Hell ; 
The  Monks  the   unerring  resemblance  : 

admired  ; 
Not  a  Lady  lived  near  but  her  portrait 
desired 
From  a  hand  that  succeeded  so  well. 


One  there  was  to  be  painted  the  number 
among 
Of  features  most  fair  to  behold  ;  ji 

The  country  around  of  fair  Marguerite     |-ji 

rung, 
Marguerite   she   was  lovely   and  lively 

and  young,  ,1      , 

Her  husband  was  ugly  and  old.         10  ■  * 

3 

0  Painter,  avoid  her  !    0  Painter,  take 

care,  ;  V 

For  Satan  is  watchful  for  j'ou  !  1      ' 

Take  heed  lest  you  fall  in  the  Wicked  ■  fif'- 

One's  snare, 
The  net  is  made  ready,  0  Painter,  beware      - 
Of  Satan  and  Marguerite  too.  \'\ 

4 

She  seats  herself  now,  now  she  lifts  up 
her  head. 
On  the  artist  she  fixes  her  eyes  ; 
The  colours  are  ready,   the  canvas  is 

spread, 
He  lays  on  the  white,  and  he  lays  on 
the  red. 
And  the  features  of  beauty  arise.    20 


He  is  come  to  her  eyes,  eyes  so  bright 
and  so  blue  ! 
There 's    a    look    which    he    cannot 
express  ;  .  . 
His   colours    are    dull    to    their    quick- 
sparkling  hue ;  [view, 
More  and  more  on  the  lady  he  fixes  his 
On  the  canvas  he  looks  less  and  less. 


THE    PIOUS   PAINTER 


623 


r> 

111  vain  ho  rotouchos.  \\or  oyes  spnrklo 
more. 
And  that  h^ok  wliich  fair  Marguerite 
gave  ! 
M  my  l)evils  the  artist   had   j^aintcyl  of 

yore. 
I'.iit    lie  never  h(u\   tried   n   Hve  Angel 
Ix^fore.  .  . 
St.  Anthony,  help  him  and  save  !    30 


Ho  vielded,  alas  !   for  the  truth  must  be 
told, 
To   the   Woman,    the   Tempter,   and 
Fate. 
It    was   settled    the    Lady   so    fair   to 

behold 
Should  elope  from  her  Husband  so  ugly 
and  old. 
With  the  Painter  so  pious  of  late. 

8 

X'Hv    Satan    exults    in    his    vengeance 
complete. 
To  the  Husband  he  makes  the  scheme 
known  ; 
Niiiht  comes  and  the  lovers  impatiently 

meet ; 
TuLrether  they  fly,  they  are  seized  in  the 
street,  39 

And  in  prison  the  Painter  is  thrown. 

9 
Witli  Repentance,  his  only  companion, 
he  lies. 
And  a  dismal  companion  is  she  ! 
<Mi  a  sudden   he  saw  tlie   Old   Enemy 

rise, 
'  Xow,   you    villainous   dauber  ! '      Sir 
Beelzebub  cries, 
'  You  are  paid  for  your  insults  to  me  ! 

10 
'But  my  tender  heart  you  may  easily 
move. 
If  to  what  I  propose  you  agree  ; 
That  picture,  .  .  be  just !    the  resem- 
blance improve  ; 
Make  a  handsomer  portrait,  your  chains 
I'll  remove. 
And  you  shall  this  instant  be  free.'  50  ' 


11 

Overjoy'd.    the   conditions   m)   PMy    ho 

.    ,    •'^^'^'•^.  fwiid. 

I'll  make  vou  (juite  handsomr  I  '    ho 

He  said,   niui   his  chain   on   the   iVvil 

apjiears  ; 
Released  from  his  jirison.  rol««am'd  from 
his  fears. 
The  Painter  is  snug  in  his  bed. 

12 
At  morn  he  arises.  comj>oseH  his  look. 
And  proceeds  to  his  work  as  l)eforo  ; 
The  people  beheld  him,  the  culprit  they 

took  ; 
Thoy    thought    that     the     I'aiiilrr    his 
prison  had  broke.  59 

And  to  prison  they  led  him  once  more. 

la 

They  open  the  dungeon  ;  .  .  Ix-hold  in 
his  place 
In  the  corner  old  Beelzebub  lay  ; 
He  smirks  and  he  smiles  and  he  leers 

with  a  grace. 
That  the  Painter  might  catch  all   the 
charms  of  his  face. 
Then  vanish'd  in  lightning  away. 

14 

Quoth  the  Painter,  '  I  trust  you'll  sus- 
pect me  no  more. 
Since  you  find  my  assertions  were  true. 
But   I'll    alter    the    picture   above    the 
Church-door.  [before. 

For  he  never  vouchsafed  me  a  sitting 
And  I  must  give  the  Devil  his  due.'  70 

Westbury,  1708. 


ST.  MICHAEL'S  CHAIR 

[First  puhli.shed  in  Thf  }forniii.i  Pott, 
April  27,  17r)l>;  aflorwardn  in  Thf  Annual 
A  ntltolof}}!,  1790,  and  in  Mrtrical  TaUs,  IfW. 

.SoutliPV  quote.s  as  his  aiitliority  for  tin* 
story  H'fiitnkfr's  SupvUmrnt  to  the  Firtt 
and  Sfcond  li<wk  of  J'oluhtU's  Ilutorx^  ol 
Cormcall,  pp.  0,  7-1 

Merrii.v,  merrily  rung  the  IxOls, 
Tiie  l)ells  of  St.  .Mirlmel's  tower. 

When  Richard  IVnIake  and  Rrbecca  hin 
wife 
Arrive<l  at  St.  Michaol'ii  door. 


624 


BALLADS  AND  METRICAL  TALES 


y^ 


Richard  Penlake  was  a  cheerful  man, 
Cheerful  and  frank  and  free, 

But  he  led  a  sad  life  with  Rebecca  his 
wife, 
For  a  terrible  shrew  was  she. 

Richard  Penlake  a  scalding  would  take, 
Till  patience  avail' d  no  longer,         lo 

Then   Richard   Penlake   his   crab-stick 
would  take, 
And  show  her  that  he  was  the  stronger. 

Rebecca  his  wife  had  often  wish'd 
To  sit  in  St.  MichaeFs  chair  ; 

For  she  should  be  the  mistress  then 
If  she  had  once  sat  there. 

It  chanced  that  Richard  Penlake  fell 
sick, 
They  thought  he  would  have  died  ; 
Rebecca  his  wife  made  a  vow  for  his 
life, 
As  she  knelt  by  his  bed-side.  20 

*  Now  hear  my  prayer,  St.  Michael  !  and 

spSre 
My  husband's  life,'  quoth  she  ; 

*  And  to  thine  altar  we  will  go. 

Sis  marks  to  give  to  thee.' 

Richard  Penlake  repeated  the  vow, 
For  woundily  sick  was  he  ; 

*  Save  me,  St.  Michael,  and  we  will  go 

Six  marks  to  give  to  thee.' 

When  Richard  grew  well,  Rebecca  his 
wife 

Teazed  him  by  night  and  by  day  :  30 
'  0  mine  own  dear  !  for  you  I  fear. 

If  we  the  vow  delay.' 

Merrily,  merrily  rung  the  bells. 
The  bells  of  St.  Michael's  tower. 

When  Richard  Penlake    and    Rebecca 
his  wife 
Arrived  at  St.  Michael's  door. 

Six  marks  they  on  the  altar  laid. 
And  Richard  knelt  in  prayer  : 

She  left  him  to  pray,  and  stole  away 
To  sit  in  St.  Michael's  chair.  40 

Up  the  tower  Rebecca  ran, 
Round  and  round  and  round  ; 

'Twas  a  giddy  sight  to  stand  a-top, 
And  look  upon  the  ground. 


'  A  curse  on  the  ringers  for  rocking 

The  tower  ! '    Rebecca  cried, 
As  over  the  church  battlements  |;| 

She  strode  with  a  long  stride.  ijj 

'  A  blessing  on  St.  Michael's  chair  ! '      'I 
She  said  as  she  sat  down  :  50  3 

Merrily,  merrily  rung  the  bells. 
And  out  Rebecca  was  thrown. 

Tidings  to  Richard  Penlake  were  brought 
That  his  good  wife  was  dead  : 

'  Now  shall  we  toll  for  her  poor  soul 
The  great  church  bell  ? '    they  said. 

'  Toll  at  her  burying,'   quoth  Richard 
Penlake, 

'  Toll  at  her  burying,'  quoth  he  ; 
'  But  don't  disturb  the  ringers  now 

In  compliment  to  me.'  60  ji 

Westbury,  1798.  ^j 

KING  HENRY  V  AND  THE  HERmT  ;' 
OF  DREUX 

[First  published  in  The  Morning  Post, 
September  24,  1798 ;  afterwards  in  The 
Anniud  Anthology,  1799.] 

'  While  Henry  V  lay  at  the  siege  of  Dreux, 
an  honest  Hermit,  unknown  to  him,  came 
and  told  him  the  great  evils  he  brought  on 
Christendom  by  his  unjust  ambition,  who 
usurped  the  kingdom  of  France,  against  all 
manner  of  right,  and  contrary  to  the  will  of 
God ;  wherefore  in  his  holy  name  he 
threatened  him  with  a  severe  and  sudden 
punishment  if  he  desisted  not  from  his 
enterprise.  Henry  took  this  exhortation 
either  as  an  idle  whimsey,  or  a  suggestion 
of  the  dauphin's,  and  was  but  the  more 
confirmed  in  his  design.  But  the  blow  soon 
followed  the  threatening  ;  for  within  some 
few  months  after  he  was  smitten  with  a 
strange  and  incurable  disease.' — Mezeray. 

He   pass'd   unquestion'd   through    the 
camp, 

Their  heads  the  soldiers  bent 
In  silent  reverence,  or  begg'd 

A  blessing  as  he  went ; 
And  so  the  Hermit  pass'd  along 

And  reach' d  the  royal  tent. 

King  Henry  sate  in  his  tent  alone. 

The  map  before  him  lay, 
Fresh  conquests  he  was  planning  there 

To  grace  the  future  day.  10 


\W 


Tte« 
'lenry 


Sins 

Ini 
U 


1  ■ 


KING  HENRY  V  AND  THE  HERMIT  OE  DKEUX  026 


l\mii  Henry  lifted  up  his  eyes 

Tho  intriulor  to  beliold  ; 
Witlj  rcvcronce  he  the  hermit  saw, 

For  the  holy  man  was  old, 
[His  look  was  gentle  as  a  Saint's, 
And  yet  Ids  eye  was  boKl. 

*  Repent  thee,  Henry,  of  the  wrongs 

Which  thou  hast  done  this  land  ! 
0  King,  repent  in  time,  for  know 

The  judgement  is  at  liand.  20 

*  I  have  pass'd  forty  years  of  peace 

Beside  the  river  Blaise. 
But  what  a  weight  of  woe  hast  thou 
Laid  on  my  latter  days  ! 

•I  used  to  see  along  the  stream 
The  white  sail  gliding  down, 

That  wafted  food  in  better  times 
To  yonder  peaceful  town. 

*  Henry  !   I  never  now  behold 

The  white  sail  gliding  down  ;  30 

Famine,  Disease,  and  Death,  and  Thou 
Destroy  that  wretched  town. 

*  I  used  to  hear  the  traveller's  voice 

As  here  he  pass'd  along, 
Or  maiden  as  she  loiter'd  home 
Singing  her  even-song. 

*  No  traveller's  voice  may  now  be  heard, 

In  fear  he  liastens  by  ; 
But  I  have  heard  the  village  maid 
In  vain  for  succour  cry.  40 

*  I  used  to  see  the  youths  row  down 

And  watch  the  dripping  oar, 
As  pleasantly  their  viol's  tones 
Came  soften'd  to  the  shore. 

'  King  Henry,  many  a  blacken"  d  corpse 

I  now  see  floating  down  ! 
Thou  man  of  blood  !    repent  in  time. 

And  leave  this  leaguer' d  town.' 

'  I  shall  go  on,'  King  Henry  cried, 
'  And  conquer  this  good  land  ;  50 

Seest  thou  not,  Hermit,  tiiat  the  Lord 
Hath  given  it  to  my  hand  ? ' 

The  Hermit  heard  King  Henry  speak, 
And  angrily  look'd  down  ;  .  . 

His  face  was  gentle,  and  for  tliat 
Jloro  solemn  was  his  frown. 


'  What  if  no  miraolo  from  Heaven 
The  nnirderer's  arm  rontroul. 

Think  you  for  that  the  weight  of  blood 
Lies  lighter  on  his  soul  ?  6c 

'  Thou  conqueror  King,  repent  in  timo 

Or  dread  the  coming  w<x>  ! 
For,  Henry,  thou  luiwt  heard  the  threat 

And  soon  shall  feel  the  blow  ! ' 

King  Henry  forced  a  careless  smile, 
As  the  Hermit  went  iiis  way  ; 

But  Henry  soon  rememl)er'd  Lira 
Upon  his  dying  day. 

Westhuru,  1708. 


CORNELIl^S  AORIPPA 

A  BALLAD  OF  A  YOUNO  MAN  THAI 
WOULD  READ  IJ.NLAWFUL  BOOK.S, 
AND  now  HE  WAS  PUNISHED. 

VERY    PITHY    AND    PKOFITAnLE. 

[First  published  in  The  Morning  Post ; 
afterwards  in  The  Annual  Anthology^  1799, 
and  in  Metrical  Taleg,  ItOT).] 

Cornelius  Aorippa  went  out  one  day, 
His  Study  he  lock'd  ere  he  went  away, 
And  lie  gave  the  key  of  the  door  to  his 

wife. 
And  charged  her  to  keep  it  lock'd  on 

her  life. 

'  And  if  any  one  ask  my  Study  to  see. 
I  charge  j'ou  to  trust  them  not  with  the 

key; 
Whoever   may   lx>g,   and   entreat,    and 

implore. 
On  your  life  let  nobody  enter  that  door.* 

There  lived  a  young  man  in  the  houao, 

who  in  vain 
Access   to   that   Study   had   sought   to 

obtain  ;  «• 

And   he  begg'd  and  pray'd  the  book* 

to  see. 
Till  the  foolish  woman  gave  him  the  key^  ' 

On  the  Study-table  a  l>o«)k  there  lay. 

Which  Agrippa  hims«'|f  had  \n-vn  read- 
ing that  day  ; 

The  letters  were  written  with  blood 
therein,  f««kin ; 

And  the  loaves  were  nmde  of  dead  men  • 


626 


BALLADS   AND   METRICAL   TALES 


] 


And    these    horrible    leaves    of    magic 

between 
Were    the    ugliest    pictures    that    ever 

were  seen, 
The  likeness  of  things  so  foul  to  behold. 
That  what  they  were  is  not   fit  to  be 

told.  20 

The  young  man,  he  began  to  read 

He  knew  not  what,  but  he  would  pro- 
ceed, 

When  there  was  heard  a  sound  at  the 
door. 

Which  as  he  read  on  grew  more  and 
more. 

And    more    and     more    the    knocking 

grew, 
The  young  man  knew  not  what  to  do  : 
But  trembling  in  fear  he  sat  within. 
Till  the  door  was  broke,  and  the  Devil 

came  in. 

Two  hideous  horns  on  his  head  he  had 

got, 
Like  iron  heated  nine  times  red-hot ;  30 
The  breath  of  his  nostrils  was  brimstone 

blue 
And  his  tail  like  a  fiery  serpent  grew. 

*  What  wouldst  thou  with  me  ? '    the 

Wicked  One  cried. 
But  not  a  word  the  young  man  replied  ; 
Every  hair  on  his  head  was  standing 

upright. 
And  his  limbs  like  a  palsy  shook  with 

affright. 

'  What  wouldst  thou  with  me  ? '   cried 

the  Author  of  ill ; 
But  the  wretched  young  man  was  silent 

still ; 
Not  a  word  had  his  lips  the  power  to 

say. 
And  his  marrow  seem'd  to  be  melting 

away.  40 

'  What  wouldst  thou  with  me  ? '    the 

third  time  he  cries, 
And  a  flash  of  lightning  came  from  his 

eyes, 
And  he   lifted   his  griffin  claw  in  the 

air, 
And  the  young  man  had  not  strength 

for  a  prayer. 


His  eyes  red  fire  and  fury  dart 
As  out  he  tore  the  young  man's  heart ;  I 
He  grinn'd  a  horrible  grin  at  his  prey,  1 
And  in  a  clap  of  thunder  vanish' d  away,    i 

THE  MOrxAL 
Henceforth  let  all  young  men  take  heed 
How  in  a  Conjuror's  books  they  read.  50 

Wesibury,  1798. 


ST.  ROMUALD 

[First  published  in  The  Morning  Post, 
February  5,  1799 ;  afterwards  in  The 
Annual  Anthology,  1800,  and  in  Metrical 
Tales,  1805.] 

'  Les  Catalans  ayant  appris  que  S. 
Romuald  vouloit  quitter  leurs  pays,  en 
furent  tres-affliges  ;  ils  delibererent  sur  les 
moyens  de  Ten  empecher,  et  le  seul  qu'ils 
imaginerent  comme  le  plus  sur,  fut  de  le 
tuer,  afin  de  profiter  du  moins  de  ses 
reliques  et  des  guerisons  et  autres  miracles 
qu'elles  opereroient  apres  sa  mort.  La 
devotion  que  les  Catalans  avoient  pour  lui, 
ne  plut  point  de  tout  a  S.  Romuald  ;  il  usa 
de  stratageme  et  leur  echappa.' — *S'^  Foix, 
Essais  Historiques  sur  Paris,  t.  v,  p.  163. 

One  day,  it  matters  not  to  know 

How  many  hundred  years  ago, 

A  Frenchman  stopt  at  an  inn  door  : 

The  Landlord  came  to  welcome  him, 

and  chat 

Of  this  and  that. 

For  he  had  seen  the  Traveller  there 

before. 

'  Doth  holy  Romuald  dwell 

Still  in  his  cell  ? ' 

The  Traveller  ask'd,  '#or  is  the  old  man 

dead  ? ' 

'  No  ;   he  has  left  his  loving  flock, 

and  we  10 

So  great  a  Christian  never  more  shall 

see,' 

The  Landlord  answer' d,  and  he  shook 

his  head. 

'  Ah,  Sir  !   we  knew  his  worth  ! 

If  ever  there  did  live  a  saint  on  earth  ! .  . 


ST.   RO.AIUALD 


627 


Why,  Sir,  he  always  used  to  wear  a  shirt 
For  thirty  clays,  all  seasons,  day  and 

night ; 

(.iood  man,  he  knew  it  was  not  right 

For  Dust  and  Asiies  to  fall  out  with 

Dirt. ! 

And  then  he  only  hung  it  out  in  the  rain, 

And  put  it  on  again.  20 

'  There  has  been  perilous  work 
With  him  and  the  Devil  there  in  yonder 

cell; 

For  Satan  used  to  maul  him  like  aTurk. 

There  they  would  sometimes  tight 

All  through  a  winter's  night, 

From  sun-set  until  morn, 

He  with  a  cross,  the  Devil  with  his  horn  ; 

The  Devil  spitting  tire  with  might  and 

main 
Enough  to  make  St.  Michael  half  afraid  : 
He  splashing  holy  water  till  he  made  30 

His  red  hide  hiss  again, 
And  the  hot  vapour  fill'd  the  smoking 

cell. 
Tliis  was  so  common  that  his  face  became 
All  black  and  yellow  with  the  brim- 
stone flame. 
And  then  he  smelt,  .  .  0  Lord  !   how 
he  did  smell  ! 

Then,  Sir  !   to  see  how  he  would 

mortify 

The  flesh  !     If  any  one  had  dainty  fare. 

Good  man,  he  would  come  there. 

And  look  at  all  the  delicate  things,  and 

cry, 

"  0  Belly,  Belly,  40 

You  would  bo  gormandizing  now,  I  know; 

But  it  shall  not  be  so  !  .  . 

Home  to  your  bread  and  water  .  .  home, 

I  tell  ye  !  "  ' 

*  But,'  quoth  the  Traveller,  *  wherefore 

did  he  leave 

A  flock  that  knew  his  saintly  worth  so 

well  ?  ' 

'  Why,'  said  the  Landlord,   '  Sir,  it  so 

befell 

He  heard  unluckily  of  our  intent 

To  do  him  a  great  honour  :   and  you 

know. 
He  was  not  covetous  of  fame  below. 
And  f^o  by  stealth  one  night  away  he 
went.'  50 


*  What  might  this  honour  bo  ?  '   the 

'J'ravollcr  cried  ; 

*  Why,  Sir.'  thr  Ho.st  ropliwJ. 

'  We  thought  jK^rlmpH  that  ho  might 

one  (lay  leave  uk  ; 

And  then  sholild  strangers  liavr 

The  goo<l  man's  grave. 

A  I08.S  like  that  would  naturally  griovo 

U.S. 

For  he'll  l^e  made  a  Saint  of  to  lie  Huro. 

Therefore  we  thought  it  prudent  to 

securo 

His  relics  while  we  might  ; 

And  so  we  meant  to  strangle  him  one 

night.'  to 

U'csthtiri/,  1708. 


THE  ROSE 

[Tiiblished  in  Poems,  vol.  ii,  1700.  Tlio 
story  on  which  this  pooni  is  ba.si'd  is  to  l>o 
found  in  J'lie  J'oiage  and  TratraiU  of  Sir 
John  Maundeville.] 

N.\Y,  Edith  !    spare  the  Rose  ;  .  .  |>op 

haps  it  lives. 
And  feels  the  noontide  sun,  and  drinkit 

refresh' d 
The  dews  of  night ;    let  not  thy  gentle 

hand 
Tear  its  life-strings  asunder,  and  destroy 
The  sense  of  being  !  .  .  Why  that  infidel 

smile? 
Come,  I  will  bribe  thee  to  be  merciful ; 
And  thou  shalt  have  a  tale  of  other  day». 
For  I  am  skill'd  in  legendar}-  lore. 
So   thou   wilt   let   it   live.     There   wm 

a  time 
Ere  this,  the  freshest,  swectent  Howcr 

that  blooms,  10 

Bedeck' d   the   iK.wers  of  earth.     Thou 

hast  not  heard 
How  first  by  miracle  itn  fragrant  I««vm' 
Spread  to  the  sun  their  blunhing  love* 

line.«w. 

There  dwelt  in  Bothlehom  a  Jewi«l» 
maid. 
And   Zillah  was   her  name,  iwi  paK-'ing 
fair 


628 


BALLADS   AND   METRICAL  TALES 


That  all  Judea  spake  the  virgin's  praise. 
He  who  had  seen  her  eyes'  dark  radiance 
How    it    reveal' d    her   soul,   and   what 

a  soul 
Beam'd  in  the  mild  effulgence,  woe  to 

him  ! 
For  not  in  solitude,  for  not  in  crowds,  20 
Might    he    escape    remembrance,    nor 

avoid 
Her  imaged  form  which  followed  every 

where, 
And  fill'd  the  heart,  and  fix'd  the  absent 

eye. 
Alas   for   him  !    her   bosom   own'd   no 

love 
Save   the    strong    ardour   of    religious 

zeal. 
For  Zillah  on  her  God  had  center' d  all 
Her  spirit's  deep  affections.     So  for  her 
Her    tribes-men    sigh'd    in    vain,    yet 

reverenced 
The    obdurate    virtue    that    destroy' d 

their  hopes. 

One    man    there    was,    a    vain    and 

wretched  man,  30 

Who  saw,  desired,  despaired,  and  hated 

her. 
His  sensual   eye   had   gloated   on   licr 

cheek 
Even  till  the  flush  of  angry  modesty 
Gave   it  new  cliarms,   and   made   him 

gloat  the  more. 
She  loathed  the  man,  for  Hamuel's  eye 

was  bold. 
And    the    strong    workmgs    of    brute 

selfishness 
Had  moulded  his  broad  features ;    and 

she  feared 
The  bitterness  of  wounded  vanity 
That  with  a  fiendish   hue  would   over- 
cast 
His  faint  and  lying  smile.     Nor  vain 

her  fear,  '  40 

For  Hamuel  vow'd  revenge,  and  laid 

a  plot 
Against   her  virgin  fame.     He  spread 

abroad 
Whispers  that  travel  fast,  and  ill  reports 
That  soon  obtain  belief ;    how  Zillah's 

eye. 
When  in  the  temple  heaven-ward  it  was 

raised, 


Did  swim  with  rapturous  zeal,  but  there 

were  those 
Who  had  beheld  the  enthusiast's  melting 

glance 
With  other  feelings  fill'd  :  .  .  that  'twas 

a  task 
Of  easy  sort  to  play  the  saint  by  day 
Before    the    public   eye,    but    that    all 

eyes  50 

Were  closed  at  night ;  .  .  that  Zillah's 

life  was  foul. 
Yea,  forfeit  to  the  law. 

Shame  .  .  shame  to  man, 
That    he    should    trust    so    easily    the 

tongue 
Which  stabs  another's  fame  !     The  ill 

report 
Was  heard,  repeated,  and  believed,  .  . 

and  soon, 
For     Hamuel     by     his     well-schemed 

villainy 
Produced  such  semblances  of  guilt,  .  . 

the  Maid 
Was  to  the  fire  condemn' d. 

Without  the  walls, 
There    was    a    barren    field ;     a    place 

abhorr'd, 
For    it    was    there     where     wretched 

criminals  60 

Receiv'd  their  death  !    and  there  they 

fix'd  the  stake. 
And  piled  the  fuel  romid  which  should 

consume 
The    injured    Maid,    abandon'd,    as    it 

seem'd. 
By    God    and    Man.     The    assembled 

Bethlemites 
Beheld  the  scene,  and  when  they  saw 

the  Maid 
Bound  to  the  stake,  with  what  calm 

holiness 
She    lifted    up    her    patient    looks    to 

Heaven, 
They  doubted  of  her  guilt.     With  other 

thoughts 
Stood    Hamuel    near    the    pile ;     him 

savage  joy 
Led   thitherward,  but  now   within   his 

heart  70 

Unwonted  feelings  stirr'd,  and  the  first 

pangs 
Of  wakening  guilt,  anticipant  of  Hell. 
The  e\'e  of  Zillah  as  it  glanced  around 


THE   ROSE 


»;•>'» 


Fell  on  the  slanderer  once,  and  rested 

there 
A  moment  :    like  a  dagger  did  it  pierce. 
And    struck    into    his    soul    a    cureless 

wound. 
Conscience!    thou  CJod  within  us!    not 

in  the  hour 
of  triumph  dost  thou  spare  the  guilty 

wrctcii, 
Not  in  the  hour  of  infamy  and  death 
I'orsake  the  virtuous  !     They  draw  near 

the  strike.  .  .  80 

They   bring  the   torch  !   .   .   hold,   hold 

your  erring  hands  ! 
Yet  quench  tiie  ri.^ing  liames  !  .  .  they 

rise  !    they  spread  ! 
They  reach  the  suffering  Maid  !   oh  (lod 

protect 
The  innocent  one  ! 

They  rose,  they  spread,  they  raged  ; . . 
The   breath   of   God    went  forth ;     the 

ascending  tire 
IJencath  its  influence  bent,  and  all  its 

flames, 
In    one    long    lightning-flash    concen- 
trating. 
Darted  and  blasted  Hamuel,  .   .   him 

alone. 
Hark  !   .   .   what  a  fearful  scream  the 

multitude 
Tour  forth  !  ,  .  and  yet  more  miracles  ! 

the  stake  90 

T) ranches  and  buds,  and,  spreading  its 

green  leaves. 
Embowers  and  canopies  the  innocent 

:Maid 
\\ho  there  stands  glorified  ;   and  Roses, 

then 
I     First  seen  on  earth  since  Paradise  was 
'  lost, 

j     I'rofusely  blossom  round  her,  white  and 

red 
In  all  their  rich  variety  of  hues ; 
And  fragrance  such  as  our  first  parents 

breathed 
In  Eden  slie  inhales,  vouchsafed  to  her 
A  presage  sure  of  Paradise  regain'd. 

Westburi/,  1798. 


TliF  LoVKHS  UOCK. 

(First  puhlJshiHl  in  The  Mornimj  J'osi. 
April  18,  17!)8;  ufterwanl.s  in  The  A„nuai 
Atithology,  \1\\\).  .Soutliry  (|uolt-H  Manana 
;us  his  authority  for  the  story.  1 

TiiK  Maiden  through  the  favouring  night 
From  Ciranada  took  her  llight. 
She  bade  her  father's  liousc  farewell. 
And  lied  away  with  Manuel. 

No  Moorish  maid  might  hoi)o  to  vio 
With  Laila's  cheek  or  I^ila's  eye. 
No  maiden  loved  with  purer  truth. 
Or  ever  loved  a  lovelier  youth. 

In  fear  they  fled  across  the  plain. 
The  father's  wrath,  the  captive's  chain  ; 
In  hope  to  iSeville  on  they  tlee.  11 

To  peace,  and  love,  and  liberty. 

Chiuma  they  have  left,  and  now, 
Beneath  a  precipice's  brow. 
Where  Guadalhorce  winds  its  way, 
There  in  the  shade  awhile  they  lay  ; 

For  now  the  sun  was  near  its  height. 
And  she  was  weary  with  her  flight  ; 
She  laid  her  head  on  Manuel's  breajit. 
And  pleasant  was  the  maiden's  rest,     ao 

While  thus  the  lovely  Laila  slept, 
A  fearful  watch  young  .Manuel  kept, 
Alas  !   her  Father  and  liis  train 
He  sees  come  speeding  o'er  the  plain. 

The  Maiden  started  from  her  sleep. 
They  sought  for  refuge  up  the  steep. 
To  .scale  the  precipice's  brow 
Their  only  hoix;  of  safety  now. 

But  them  the  angry  Father  sees. 
With  voice  and  arm  he  menaces,  jo 

And  now  the  Moors  approach  the  steep. 
Loud  are  his  curses,  loud  and  dwp. 

Then  Manuel's  heart  grew  wild  u  • ' 
He  loosen'd  stones  and  roll'd  \ 
He  loosen'd  crags,  for  Manuel    • 
For  life,  and  liberty,  and  love. 

The  ascent  was  |K'rilou.M  and  high. 
The  Mooi-s  th«'y  durst  not  venturr'  nigh. 
The  fugitives  »U»A  .safely  therv. 
They  stood  in  safely  and  dc.t|i«ir.       <• 


630 


BALLADS  AND  METRICAL  TALES 


The  Moorish  chief  unmoved  could  see 
His  daughter  bend  her  suppliant  knee; 
He  heard  his  child  for  pardon  plead, 
And  swore  the  offenders  both  should 
bleed. 

He  bade  the  archers  bend  the  bow, 
And  make  the  Christian  fall  below  ; 
He  bade  the  archers  aim  the  dart. 
And  pierce  the  Maid's  apostate  heart. 

The  archers  aim'd  their  arrows  there, 
She  clasp' d  young  Manuel  in  despau-,  50 
'  Death,  Manuel,  shall  set  us  free  ! 
Then  leap  below  and  die  with  me.' 

He  clasij'd  her  close  and  cried  farewell. 
In  one  another's  arms  they  fell ; 
And  falling  o'er  the  rock's  steep  side, 
In  one  another's  arms  they  died. 

And  side  by  side  they  there  are  laid. 
The  Christian  youth  and  Moorish  maid  ; 
But  never  Cross  was  planied  there, 
Because  they  perish' d  for  desj)air.        60 

Yet  every  Moorish  maid  can  tell 
Where  Laila  lies  who  loved  so  well, 
And  every  youth  who  passes  there, 
Says  for  Manuel's  soul  a  prayer. 

Westbury,  1798. 


GARCI  FERRANDEZ 

[Published  in  The  Edinburgh  Annual 
EegUter  for  1809.  The  story  is  to  be  found 
in  the  Coronica  General  de  Espaiia.] 

PART  I 

1 

In  an  evil  day  and  an  hour  of  woe 

Did  Garci  Ferrandez  wed  ! 

He  wedded  the  Lady  Argentine, 

As  ancient  stories  tell. 

He  loved  the  Lady  Argentine, 

Alas  !  for  what  befell ! 


The  Lady  Argentine  hath  fled  ;       ]\ 
In  an  evil  day  and  an  hour  of  woe 
She  hath  left  the  husband  who  loved 
her  well. 
To  go  to  Count  Aymerique's  bed,  i 


Garci  Ferrandez  was  brave  and  young, 

The  oomeliest  of  the  land  ; 

There  was  never  a  knight  of  Leon  in  fight 

Who  could  meet  the  force  of  his 

matchless  might ; 

There  was  never  a  foe  in  the  infidel  band 

Who  against  his  dreadful  sword  could 

stand  ; 

And  yet  Count  Garci' s  strong  right. hand 

W^s  shapely,  and  soft,  and  white  ; 

As  white  and  as  soft  as  a  lady's  hand 

Was  the  hand  of  the  beautiful  Knic:;ht. 


In  an  evil  day  and  an  hour  of  woe  21 
To  Garci' s  Hall  did  Coimt  A3'merifiue 

go; 

In  an  evil  hour  and  a  luckless  night 

From  Garci' s  Hall  did  he  take  his  flight, 

And  bear  with  him  that  lady  bright, 

That  lady  false,  his  bale  and  bane. 

There  was  feasting  and  joy  in  Count 

Aymerique's  bower, 
When  he  with  triumph,  and  pomp, 

and  pride, 
Brought  home  the  adult' ress  like  a 

bride  : 
His  daugliter  only  sate  in  her  tower. 
She  sate  in  her  lonely  tower  alone,  31 
And  for  her  dead  mother  she  made  her 

moan  ; 

'  Methinks,'  said  she,  '  my  father  for  me 

Might  have  brought  a  bridegroom  home, 

A  stepmother  he  brings  hither  instead, 

Count  Aymerique  will  not  his  daughter 

should  wed, 

But  he  brings  home  a  leman  for  his 

own  bed.' 

So  thoughts  of  good  and  thoughts  of  ill 

Were  working  thus  in  Abba's  will ; 

And  Argentine  with  evil  intent     40 

Ever  to  work  her  woe  was  bent ; 

That  still  she  sate  in  her  tower  alone. 

And  in  that  melancholy  gloom, 
When  for  her  mother  she  made  her  moan, 
She  wish'd  her  father  too  in  the  tomb. 


GARCl   FERRANDEZ 


()31 


She  watches  tlio  pilgrims  nnd  poor  who 

wait 

Kor  daily  food  at  her  father's  gate. 

■  I  wouUl  some  Knight  were  there,' 

thouglit  she, 

'  Dis-4uised  in  pilgrim- weeds  for  mo  ! 

For  Aymerique's  blessing  I  would  not 

stay,  50 

Xor  he  nor  his  leman  should  say  mo  nay, 

But  I  with  him  would  wend  away.' 


She  watches  her  handmaid  the  pittance 

deal. 
They  took  their  dole  and  went  away  ; 

But  yonder  is  one  who  lingers  still 

As  though  he  had  something  in  his  will, 

Some  secret  which  he  fain  would  say ; 

And  close  to  the  portal  she  sees  him  go, 

He  talks  with  her  handmaid  in 

accents  low  ; 

Oh  then  she  thought  that  time  went 

slow,  60 

And  long  were  the  minutes  that  she 

must  wait 

Till  her  handmaid  came  from  the 

castle-gate. 

G 

From  thecastle-gate  her  handmaid  came, 
And  told  her  that  a  knight  was  there. 
Who  sought  to  speak  with  Abba  the  fair. 
Count  Aymerique's  beautiful  daughter 

and  heir. 

She  bade  the  stranger  to  her  bower ; 

His  stature  was  tall,  his  features  bold, 

A  goodlier  form  might  never  maid 

At  tilt  or  tourney  hope  to  see  ;     70  1 

And  though  in  pilgrim- weeds  array' d,    ' 

Yet  noble  in  his  weeds  was  he, 

And  did  his  arms  in  them  enfold 

As  they  were  robes  of  royalty. 


He  told  his  name  to  the  high-born  fair. 
He  said  that  vengeance  led  him  there. 
*  Now  aid  rac,  lady  dear,'  quoth  he, 
'To  smite  the  adult'ress  in  her  ))ridc  ; 
\  our  wrongs  and  mine  avenged  sliall  be. 
And  I  will  take  you  for  my  bride.'  80 


He  pledged  the  wonl  of  a  uuo  Knight, 

From  out  the  weeds  his  hand  ho  drew  ; 

She  took  the  hand  that  ( Inrci  gave. 

And  then  she  knew  his  tale  wan  Iruo, 

For  she  saw  tlio  warrior's  hand  no  whito. 

And  she  knew  the  fame  of  the  beautiful 

Kniuht. 


r.\RT  II 


'Tis  the  hour  of  noon. 

The  bell  of  the  convent  hath  done. 

And  the  Sexts  are  begun  ; 

The  Count  and  his  leman  are  gone  to 

their  meat. 

They  look  to  their  i)age«,  and  lo  they  ace 

Where  Abba,  a  stranger  so  long  boforo, 

The  ewer,  and  bason,  and  na{)kin  boro; 

She  came  and  knelt  on  her  bended 

knee. 

And  first  to  her  father  minister'd  she  ; 

Count  Aymerique  look'd  on  hia 

daughter  down,  10 

He  look'd  on  her  then  without  a  frown. 


And  next  to  the  Lady  Argontino 
Humbly  she  went  and  knelt  ; 
The  Lady  Argentine  the  while 

A  haughty  wonder  felt ; 

Her  face  put  on  an  evil  smile  ; 

'  I  little  thouglit  that  I  should  seo 

The  Lady  Abba  kneel  to  me 

In  service  of  love  and  courtctiy  ! 

Count  Aymericjue.'  the  leman  crie<i, 

'  Is  she  weary  of  iier  solitude.       it 

Or  hath  she  (juell'd  her  prido  7  * 

Abba  no  angry  word  rej)lied. 

She  only  raised  her  eyes  and  criinl, 

'  Let  not  the  Ltuly  Ardent inr 

Be  wroth  at  ministry  of  niiiM- 1  ' 

She  look'd  at  AynH-ri<|ue  and  .ligh'd  ; 

*  My  father  will  not  frown,  I  wtn-n. 
That  Abba  again  at  hiM  board  aliould 

be  Been  ! ' 
Then  Aymerique  raiMrd  her  from  her 

knee,  JO 

.\rid  kiss'd  her  eyes,  and  bade  her  bo 
The  daughter  »ho  waii  wont  to  U*. 


632 


BALLADS   AND   METRICAL  TALES 


The  wine  hath  warm'  d  Count  Ay  merique. 

That  mood  his  crafty  daughter  knew  ; 

She  came  and  kiss'd  her  father  s  cheek, 

And  stroked  his  beard  with  gentle 

hand. 
And  winning  eye  and  action  bland, 

As  she  in  childhood  used  to  do. 
*  A  boon  !   Count  Aymerique,'  quoth 

she  ; 
'  If  I  have  found  favour  in  thy  sight. 
Let  me  sleep  at  my  father's  feet  to- 
night. 41 
Grant  this,'  quoth  she,  '  so  I  shall  see 
That  you  will  let  yom-  Abba  be 
The  daughter  she  was  wont  to  be.' 
With  asking  eye  did  Abba  speak. 
Her  voice  was  soft  and  sweet ; 
The  wine  had  warm'd  Count  Aymerique, 
And  when  the  hour  of  rest  was  come. 
She  lay  at  her  father's  feet. 


In  Aymerique' s  arms  the  adult' ress 

lay,  50 

Their  talk  was  of  the  distant  day. 
How  they  from  Garci  fled  away 

In  the  silent  hour  of  night ; 

And  then  amid  their  wanton  play 

They  mock'd  the  beautiful  Knight. 

Far,  far  away  his  castle  lay, 

The  weary  road  of  many  a  day  ;_ 

'  And  travel  long,'  they  said,  '  to  him. 

It  seem'd,  was  small  delight ; 

And  he  belike  was  loth  with  blood  60 

To  stain  his  hands  so  white.' 

They  little  thought  that  Garci  then 

Heard  every  scornful  word  ! 

They  little  thought  the  avenging  hand 

Was  on  the  avenging  sword  ! 

Fearless,  unpenitent,  unblest, 

Without  a  prayer  they  sunk  to  rest. 

The  adulterer  on  the  leman's  breast. 


Then  Abba,  listening  still  in  fear, 

To  hear  the  breathing  long  and  slow,  70 

At  length  the  appointed  signal  gave, 

And  Garci  rose  and  struck  the  blow. 

One  blow  sufficed  for  Aymerique, . . 

He'made  no  moan,  he  utter' d  no  groan ; 

But  his  death-start  waken'd  Argentine, 


And  by  the  chamber-lamp  she  saw 

The  bloody  falchion  shine  ! 

She  raised  for  help  her  in- drawn  breath, 

But  her  shriek  of  fear  was  her  shriek 

of  death. 

6 
In  an  evil  day  and  an  hour  of  woe  80 

Did  Garci  Ferrandez  wed  ! 
One  wicked  wife  he  has  sent  to  her 

grave, 
He  hath  taken  a  worse  to  his  bed. 

Bristol,  1801.  « 


BISHOP  BRUNO 

[First  published  in  The  Morning  Post, 
November  17,  17^ ;  afterwards  in  The 
Annual  Anthology, 1199, andin  Metrical  Tales, 
1805.  Southey  quotes  as  Lis  authority  for 
the  story  here  versilied  a  passage  in  Hey- 
wood's  Hierarchic  of  the  Blessed  Angels. '^ 


Bishop  Bruno  awoke  in  the  dead  mid- 
night, 

And  he  heard  his  heart  beat  loud  with 
affright : 

He  dreamt  he  had  rung  the  Palace  bell, 

And  the  sound  it  gave  was  his  passing 
knell. 

Bishop  Bruno  smiled  at  his  fears  so  vain, 
He  turn'd  to  sleep  and  he  dreamt  again  ; 
He  rang  at  the  Palace  gate  once  more. 
And  Death  was  the  Porter  that  open'd 
the  door. 

He  started  up  at  the  fearful  dream, 

And  he  heard  at  his  window  the  screech- 
owl  scream ;  10 

Bishop  Bruno  slept  no  more  that 
night,  .  . 

Oh  !  glad  was  he  when  he  saw  the  day- 
light ! 

Now  he  goes  forth  in  proud  aiTay, 
For  he  with  the  Emperor  dines  to-day  ; 
There  was  not  a  Baron  in  Germany 
That  went  with  a  nobler  train  than  he. 


h)tP 


BISHOP   BRUxXO 


033 


TO  aud  behind  his  soldiers  ride, 

.iic  people  throng'd  to  see  their  pride  ; 
.'lit  V  bow'd  the  licad,  aud  the  knee  they 

'bent. 
^ut  nobody  ble^^t  liiin  as  he  went.        20 

H)  he  went  on  stately  and  proud, 

\  hen  he  heard  a  voiee  that  eiied  aloud, 

Ho  !    ho  !    Bishop  Bruno  !   you  travel 

with  glee,  .  . 
iut  I  would  have  you  know,  you  travel 

to  me  ! ' 

U^hind  and  before  and  on  either  side, 

lo  look'd,  but  nobody  he  espied  ; 

Villi  the  Bishop  at  that  grew  cold  with 

fear, 
:\n-  he   heard  the  words  distinct  and 

clear. 

\ivl  when  he  rang  at  the  Palace  bell, 
Ir  almost  expected  to  hear  his  knell ;  30 
Villi  when  the  Porter  turn'd  the  key, 
[<j  almost  expected  Death  to  see. 

But  soon  the  Bishop  recover'd  his  glee, 
t'or  the  Emperor  welcomed  him  royally  ; 
Vnl  now  the  tables  were  spread,  and 

there 
Were  choicest  wines  and  dainty  fare. 

And  now  the  Bishop  had  blest  the  meat. 
When  a  voice  was  heard  as  he  sat  in  his 

seat,  .  . 
'  With  the  Emperor  now  you  are  dining 

with  glee, 
But    know,    Bishop    Bruno  !     you   sup 

with  me  ! '  40 

The  Bishop  then  grew  pale  with  affright. 
And  suddenly  lost  his  appetite  ; 
All  the  wine  and  dainty  cheer 
Could  not  comfort  his  heart  that  was 
sick  with  fear. 

But  by  little  and  little  recovered  he, 
Fur  the  wine  went  flowmg  merrily. 
Till  at  length  he  forgot  his  former  dread, 
And  his  cheeks  again  grew  rosy  red. 

\\  hen  he  sat  down  to  the  royal  fare 
Bishop    Bruno    was    the    saddest    man 
there ;  50 

But  when  the  masquers  enler'd  the  hall, 
ilc  was  the  merriest  man  of  all. 


Then  from  amid  tho  ma«queri*  orvwd 

There  went  a  voice  hollow  and  loud,  .  . 
'  You    have    pass'd    the    day,     Bishop 

Jkuno.  in  gloo  ; 
But  you  must  pjisa  tho  ni^ht  with  me  !  * 

His  check  grows  pale,  and  hi.s  eye-balls 

glare, 
And  stitT  round  his  tonsure  bristled  his 

hair  ; 
With   that   there   came   one   from    tlit* 

mas(iuers'  band, 
And  took  the  Bishop  by  the  hand.       60 

The  bony  hand  suspended  his  breath. 
His  marrow  grew  ccld  at  the  touch  of 

Death  ; 
On  saints  in  vain  ho  attempted  to  call, 
Bishop  Bruno  fell  dead  in  tho  Palace 

hall. 

Weslbury,  1798. 


A  TRUE  BALLAD  OF  ST.  ANTIDHS. 
THE  POPE,  AND  THE  DEVIL 

[Publislied  in  The  Morning  Post,  iNfJ,  or 
early  in  1803.  i'^outhey  took  the  .subjtvl  of 
this  Ballad  from  the  Coronica  de  Espaiia.] 

It  is  Antidius  the  Bishop 

Who  now  at  even  tide, 

Taking  the  air  and  saying  a  prayer. 

Walks  by  the  river  side. 

The  Devil  had  business  that  evening. 

And  he  upon  earth  would  go  ; 

For  it  was  in  the  month  of  August, 

And  the  weather  was  close  l>elow. 

He  had  his  books  to  settle. 
And  up  to  earth  he  hied,  lo 

To  do  it  there  in  the  evening  uir. 
All  by  the  river  side. 

His  imps  came  flying  around  him. 

Of  his  affairs  to  tell  : 
From  the  north,  and  the  Houlh.  and 

the  east,  and  the  west  ; 

Tluy  brought  him  tho  news  that  ho 

liked  iH'Ht, 

Of  the  things  lln-y  had  «ionr. 

And  the  souls  th«-y  had  won. 

Afid  how  they  mikxI  well 

In  the.  service  of  Hell.  » 


634 


BALLADS   AND   METRICAL   TALES 


There  came  a  devil  posting  in 

Return' d  from  his  employ. 

Seven  years  had  he  been  gone  from 

Hell, 
And  now  he  came  grinning  for  joy. 

'  Seven  years,'  quoth  he,  '  of  trouble 

and  toil 

Have  I  labour' d  the  Pope  to  win  ; 

And  I  to-day  have  caught  him, 

He  hath  done  a  deadly  sin  ! ' 

And  then  he  took  the  Devil's  book, 

And  wrote  the  deed  therein.        30 

Oh,  then  King  Beelzebub  for  joy, 

He  drew  his  mouth  so  wide, 

You  might  have  seen  his  iron  teeth, 

Four  and  forty  from  side  to  side. 

He  wagg'd  his  ears,  he  twisted  his  tail. 

He  knew  not  for  joy  what  to  do. 

In  his  hoofs  and  his  horns,  in  his  heels 

and  his  corns. 

It  tickled  him  all  through. 

The  Bishop  who  beheld  all  this,    39 
Straight  how  to  act  bethought  him  ; 
He  leapt  upon  the  Devil's  back, 
And  by  the  horns  he  cauglit  him. 

And  he  said  a  Pater-noster 

As  fast  as  he  could  say, 

And  made  a  cross  on  the  Devil's  head. 

And  bade  him  to  Rome  away. 

Away,  awaj%  the  Devil  flew, 
All  through  the  clear  moonlight ; 
I  warrant  who  saw  them  on  their  way 
He  did  not  sleep  that  night.        50 

Without  bridle,  or  saddle,  or  whip,  or 

spur. 

Away  they  go  like  the  wind  ; 

The  beads  of  the  Bishop  are  hanging 

before, 

And  the  tail  of  the  Devil  behind. 

They  met  a  Witch  and  she  hail'd  them, 

As  soon  as  she  came  within  call  ; 

'  Ave  Maria  ! '    the  Bishop  exclaim'd, 

It  frightened  her  broomstick  and  she 

got  a  fall. 


He  ran  against  a  shooting  star. 
So  fast  for  fear  did  he  sail,         6 
And  he  singed  the  beard  of  the  Bisho- 

Against  a  Comet's  tail ; 

And  he  pass'd  between  the  horns  of 

the  Moon, 

With  Antidius  on  his  back  ; 

And  there  was  an  eclipse  that  night, 

Which  was  not  in  the  Almanack. 

The  Bishop  just  as  they  set  out. 
To  tell  his  beads  begun  ; 
And  he  was  by  the  bed  of  the  Pope- 
Before  the  string  was  done.         71] 

The  Pope  fell  down  upon  his  knees. 
In  terror  and  confusion, 
And  he  confess' d  the  deadly  sin. 
And  he  had  absolution. 

And  all  the  Popes  in  bliss  that  be. 

Sung,  0  be  joyful  !   then  ; 

And  all  the  Popes  in  bale  that  be. 

They  howl'd  for  envy  then  ; 

For  they  before  kept  jubilee, 

Expecting  his  good  company,      8c " 

Down  in  the  Devil's  den. 

But  what  was  this  the  Pope  had  done 

To  bind  his  soul  to  Hell  ? 

Ah  !   that  is  the  mystery  of  this 

wonderful  history. 

And  I  wish  that  I  could  tell ! 

But  would  you  know,  there  you  must 

1  ou  can  easily  find  the  way  ; 

It  is  a  broad  and  a  well-known  road 

That  is  travel  I'd  by  night  and  by  day,  89 

And  you  must  look  in  the  Devil's  book ; 
You  will  find  one  debt  that  was  never 

paid  yet 

If  you  search  the  leaves  throughout ; 

And  that  is  the  mystery  of  this 

wonderful  history, 

And  the  way  to  find  it  out. 

Bristol,  1802. 


\m 


fe 


Stk 


HENRY   THE    HERMIT 


630 


HENRY  THE  HERAUT 

[First  published  ui  The  Morning  Post, 
November  1,  1798;  afterwards  in  J'oetns, 
vol.  ii,  175>9.  The  story  is  relateil  in  the 
Eiujlish  Mariijrologij,  IGU^.J 

It  was  a  little  island  where  he  dwelt, 

A  solitary  islet,  bleak  and  bare. 

Short  scanty  herbage  spotting  with  dark 

spots 
Its  grey  stone  siu'face.     Never  mariner 
Approach'd   that   rude   and   uninviting 

coast, 
Nor  ever  iisherman  his  lonely  bark 
Anchor' d   beside  its  shore.     It  was  a 

place 
Befitting  well  a  rigid  anchoret, 
Dead   to   the   hopes  and  vanities  and 
joys,  9 

And  purposes  of  life  :  and  he  had  dwelt 
Many  long  years  upon  that  lonely  isle  ; 
Kor  in  ripe  manhood  he  abandoned  arms, 
Honours  and  friends  and  country  and 

the  world, 
And  had  grown  old  in  solitude.     That 

isle 
Some  solitary  man  in  other  times 
Had    made    his    dwelling-place ;     and 

Henry  found 
The  little  chapel  which  his  toil  had  built 
Now  by  the  storms  unroof  d,  his  bed  of 

leaves 
\\  ind-scatter'd  ;     and    his    grave    over- 
grown with  grass, 
And  thistles,  whose  white  seeds  there 
wing'd  in  vain  20 

Wit  her' d  on  rocks,  or  in  the  waves  were 

lost. 
So  he  repair'd  the  chapel's  ruin'd  roof, 
Clrar'd  the  grey  lichens  from  the  altar- 
stone. 
And  underneath  a  rock  that  sheltcr'd 

him 
iVum   the  sea-blast,  he  built  his  her- 
mitage. 

The  peaisants  from  the  shore  would 
bring  him  food. 

And  beg  his  prayers  ;  but  human  con- 
verse else 

He  knew  not  in  that  utter  solitude  ; 


Nor  ever  visited  the  haunts  of  men. 
Save  when  some  sinful  wrutch  on  a  sick 
bed  30 

Implored   his   blessing   and   his   aid   in 

dealli. 
That  simunons  he  delayM  not  to  olx'v. 
Though  tiie  night  tempest  or  autumnal 

wind 
Madden'd  the  waves  ;    and  though  the 

mariner, 
Albeit  relying  on  his  saintly  loa<l, 
Grew  pale  t<j  see  the  jR-ril.     Thus  he 

lived 
A  most  austere  and  self-denying  man. 
Till  abstinence  and  age  and  watchfulncM 
Had  worn  him  down,  and  it  wa.s  pain  at 

last 
To   rise   at   midnight   from    his   lx;d   of 

leaves  40 

And  bend  his  knees  in  j)rayer.    Yet  not 

the  less, 
Though  with  reluctance  of  infirmity. 
Rose  he  at  midnight  from  his  l>ed  of 

leaves 
And  bent  his  knees  in  })rayir  ;   but  with 

more  zeal. 
More  self-condemning  fervour,  raised  hi.i 

voice 
IraploriHg  j)ardon  for  the  natural  sin 
Of    that    reluctance,    till    the    atoning 

prayer 
Had   satisfied   his   heart,   and   given    it 

peace. 
And  the  repented  fault  became  a  joy. 

One  night  upon  the  shore  his  chapel- 

bell  y> 

Was  heard  ;    the  air  was  calm,  and  \\.a 

far  sounds 
Over  the  water  camo,  di.stinct  and  U)ud. 
Alarm'd  at  that  unusual  hour  to  hear 
Its  toll  irregular,  a  monk  arost'. 
And  crost  to  the  island-chaix'!.     On  a 

stone 
Henry  was  sitting  there,  dead,  cold,  «n»i 

stiff, 
The  bell-rone  in  his  hand,  and  at  hb  fi"«t 
The  lamp  that  slrcam'd  a  long  uualcady 

light. 

Wcslbury,  17iW. 


636 


BALLADS  AND  METRICAL  TALES 


ST.  GUALBERTO 

ADDRESSED  TO  GEORGE  BURNETT. 

fPublished  in  The  Annual  Anthology, 
1800,  and  in  Metrical  Tales,  1805.  Southey 
quotes  ViUegas,  Flos  Sanctorum,  and  other 
writers,  as  narrating  the  stories  which  he 
has  versified  in  this  ballad.] 

1 

The  work  is  done,  the  fabric  is  com- 
plete ; 
Distinct  the  Traveller  sees  its  dis- 
tant toAver, 
Yet  ere  his  steps  attain  the  sacred 
seat, 
Must  toil  for  many  a  league  and 
many  an  hour. 
Elate   the   Abbot   sees   the  pile   and 
knows. 
Stateliest    of    convents   now,    his    new 
Moscera  rose. 


Long  were  the  tale  that  told  Moscera' s 
pride. 
Its  columns  cluster'd  strength  and 
lofty  state. 
How  many  a  saint  bedeck'd  its  sculp- 
tured side. 
What  intersecting  arches  graced  its 
gate ;  lo 

Its  towers  how  high,  its  massy  walls 
how  strong, 
These  fairly   to   describe   were   sure   a 
tedious  song. 


Yet  while  the  fane  rose  slowly  from 
the  ground, 
But  little  store  of  charity,  I  ween, 
The    passing     pilgrim    at    Moscera 
found  ; 
And  often  there  the  mendicant  was 
seen 
Hopeless  to  turn  him  from  the  con- 
vent-door, 
Because  this  costly  work  still  kept  the 
brethren  poor. 


Now  all  is  finish' d,  and  from  every 
side 
They  flock  to  view  the  fabric,  young 
and  old.  20 

Who  now  can   tell  Rodulfo's  secret 
pride, 
When  on  the  Sabbath-day  his  eyes 
behold 
The  multitudes  thatcrowdhischurch's 
floor, 
Some  sure  to  serve  their  God,  to  see 
Moscera  more  ?  .. 


So  chanced  it  that  Gualberto  pass'd 
that  way, 
Since  sainted  for  a  life  of  saintly 
deeds. 
He  paused  the  new-rear'd  convent  to 
survey, 
And  o'er  the  structure  whilst  hia 
eye  proceeds, 
Sorrow'd,  as  one  whose  holier  feelings 
deem 
That  ill  so  proud  a  pile  did  humble 
monks  beseem.  30 


Him,   musing  as  he  stood,   Rodulfo 
saw. 
And  forth  he  came  to  greet  the  holy 
guest : 
For  him  he  knew  as  one  who  held 
the  law 
Of  Benedict,  and  each  severe  behest 
So  duly  kept  with  such  religious  care, 
That   Heaven   had   oft   vouchsafed  its 
wonders  to  his  prayer. 


'  Good     brother,     welcome ! '      thus 
Rodulfo  cries, 
'  In  sooth  it  glads  me  to  behold  you 
here  ; 
It  is  Gualberto  !   and  mine  aged  eyes 
Did  not  deceive  me  :  yet  full  many 
a  year  40 

Hath  slipt  away,  since  last  you  bade 
farewell 
To  me  your  host  and  my  uncomfortable 
cell. 


W-^ 


%   ^' 


II 


ST.  GUALBERTO 


G3: 


"Twas  but  a  sorry  wolcomo  (lion  yoii 
found, 
And  such  as  suited  ill  a  guest  so 
dear. 
The  pile  was  ruinous,  the  base  un- 
sound ; 
It  glads  me  more  to  bid  you  wel- 
come here. 
For  you  can  call  to  mind  our  former 
state  ; 
Jome,  brother,  pass  with  me  the  new 
Moscera's  gate.' 


So  spake  the  cheerful  Abbot,  but  no 
smile 
Of  answering  j  oy  relax'  d  G  ualberto'  s 
brow ;  50 

He  raised  his  hand  and  pointed  to 
the  pile, 
'  Moscera  better  pleased  me  then, 
than  now  ; 
A  palace  this,  befitting  kingly  pride  ! 
Vill  holiness,  my  friend,  in  palace  pomp 
abide  ? ' 

10 
'Ay,'   cries  Rodulfo,   "tis  a  stat<»ly 
place  ! 
And  pomp  becomes  the  House  of 
Worship  well. 
Nay,  scowl  not  round  with  so  severe 
a  face  ! 
When   earthly  kings   in   seats   of 
grandeur  dwell. 
Where     art     exliausted     decks     the 
sumptuous  hall, 
Can  poor  and  sordid  huts  beseem  the 
Lord  of  all  ? '  60 

II 
'  And  ye   have  rear'd  these  stately 
towers  on  high 
To  serve  your  God  ? '    the  Monk 
severe  replied. 
'  It  rose  from  zeal  and  earnest  piety. 
And     prompted     by     no     worldly 
thoughts  beside.' 
'  Abbot,  to  him  who  prays  with  soul 
sincere 
However  poor  the  cell,  God  will  incline 
his  ear. 


12 

'  Rodulfo  !    whilo  tluH  haughty  build- 
ing  rose. 
Still   waa  the  pilgrim   wrlrome  ai 
your  dt>or  ? 
Did  charity  relieve  the  orpiian'H  wooh^ 
Clothed  ye  the  naked  ?   did  ye  feed 
the  poor  ?  70 

He  who  with  alms  most  succoufh  the 
distrest, 
Proud    Abbot !     know    ho    gervea    hi.s 
heavenly  Father  best. 

13 

'  Did  they  in  sumptuous  palaces  go 
dwell 
Who  lirst  abandon'd  all  to  serve  the 
Lord  ? 
Their  place  of  worship  waa  the  desert 
cell, 
Wild  fruits  and  berries  spread  their 
frugal  board. 
And  if  a  brook,  like  this,  ran  mur- 
muring by, 
They    blest    their    gracious    (Jod,    and 
"  thought  it  lu.xury  ".' 

14 
Then    anger   darken'd    in    Rodulfo'a 
face  ; 
'  Enough  of  preaching,'  8haq)ly  ho 
replied  ;  80 

'Thou  art  grown  envious;  .  .  'tis  a 
common  case, 
Humility  is  made  the  cloak  of  pride. 
Proud  of  our  home's  magnificence  arc 
we. 
But  thou  art  far  more  proud  in  rags  and 
beggary.' 

IT) 
With  that  c; ualberto  cried  in  fervent 
tone, 
'  O,  Father,  hear  me  !  If  this  co«tly 
pile 
Was    for   thine   honour    n-arM,    nnil 
thine  alone. 
Kless     it,     0     Father,     with     thy 
fostering  Bniile  ! 
Still   may   it    stand,    ond   n^^vrr  evil 
know. 
Long   as   beside   its    wallrt   the   endle^ 
stream  shall  flow.  9« 


638 


BALLADS   AND  METRICAL   TALES 


IG 
'  But,    Lord,    if    vain    and    worldly- 
minded  men 
Have  wasted  here  the  wealth  which 
thou  hast  lent, 
To  pamper  worldly  pride ;   frown  on 
it  then  ! 
Soon  be  thy  vengeance  manifestly 
sent ! 
Let  yonder  brook,  that  gently  flows 
beside, 
Now  from  its  base  sweep  down  the  un- 
holy house  of  pride  ! ' 

17 
He  said, . .  and  lo,  the  brook  no  longer 
flows  ! 
The  waters  pause,  and  now  they 
swell  on  high  ; 
Erect  in  one  collected  heap  they  rose  ; 
The  afifrighted  brethren  from  Mos- 
cera  fly,  loo 

And  upon  all  the  Saints  in  Heaven 
they  call. 
To  save  them  in  their  flight  from  that 
impending  fall. 

18 
Down  the  heapt  waters  came,  and, 
with  a  sound 
Like     thunder,     overthrown     the 
fabric  falls  ; 
Swept   far   and   wide   its   fragments 
strew  the  ground, 
Prone  lie  its  columns  now,  its  high- 
arch'd  walls, 
Earth   shakes  beneath   the   onward- 
rolling  tide. 
That   from   its   base   swept   down    the 
unholy  house  of  pride. 


19 
Were  old   Gualberto's  reasons   built 
on  truth, 
Dear  George,  or  like  Moscera's  base 
unsound?  no 

This  sure  I  know,  that  glad  am  I,  in 
sooth,  [ground ; 

He  only  play'd  his  pranks  on  foreign 
For   had   he   turn'd   the   stream   on 
England  too, 
The  Vandal  monk  had  spoilt  full  many 
a  goodly  view. 


20 
Then  Malmesbury's  arch  had  neve 
met  my  sight, 
Nor  Battle's   vast   and   venerablr 
pile ;  j 

I  had  not  traversed  then  with  such' 
delight 
The  hallowed  ruins  of  our  Alfred's 
isle, 
Where  many  a  pilgrim's  curse  is  wel' 
bestow' d 
On  those  who  rob  its  walls  to  mend  th€ 
turnpike  road.  12c 

21 


Wells  would  have  fallen,  dear  George,, 
our  country's  pride ; 
And  Canning's  stately  church  been; 
rear'd  in  vain  ;  ! 

Nor   had   the   traveller  Ely's   tower | 
descried,  « 

Which  when  thou  seest  far  o'er  the; 
fenny  plain,  | 

Dear  George,  I  counsel  thee  to  turnf    fe 
that  way, 
Its    ancient    beauties    sure    will    well 
reward  delay. 

22 

And    we    should    never    then    have 
heard,  I  think. 
At    evening    hour,    great    Tom's 
tremendous  knell. 
The  fountain   streams   that  now   in  i 
Christ-church  stink 
Had  niagara'd  o'er  the  quadrangle  : 
But,  as  'twas  beauty  that  deserved 
the  flood,  131 

I  ween,  dear  George,  thy  own  old  Pom- 
pey  might  have  stood. 

23 

Then  had  not  Westminster,  the  house 
of  God, 
Served    for    a    concert    room,    or 
signal-post ; 
Old  Thames,  obedient  to  the  father's 
nod, 

Had  swept  down  Greenwich,  Eng-  I 
land's  noblest  boast ;  * 

And,    eager   to   destroy   the   unholy 
walls, 
Fleet-ditch  had  roll'd  up  hill  to  over- 
whelm St.  Paul's. 


ST.   GUALBEKTO 


039 


I 


24 
George,  dost  thou  deem  the  legendary 
deeds 
Of  saiiits  Uke  this  but    rubbish,  a 
mere  store  140 

Of  trash,  that  he  flings  time  away  who 
reads  ? 
And  would'st  thou  ratlier  bid  me 
puzzle  o'er 
Matter  and  Mind  and  all  the  eternal 

round, 
lunged  headlong  down  the  dark  and 
fathomless  profound  ? 

25 

Now  do  I  bless  the  man  who  under- 
took 
These  Monks  and  Martyrs  to  bio- 
graphize ; 
And  love  to  ponder  o'er  his  ponderous 
book, 
The  mingle-mangle  mass  of  truth 
and  lies, 
Where    waking    fancies    mixt    with 
dreams  appear, 
^d  blind  and  honest  zeal,  and   holy 
faith  sincere.  150 

26 
All  is  not  truth  ;    and  yet,  methinks, 
'twere  hard 
Of    wilful    fraud    such    fablers    to 
accuse  ; 
What  if  a  Monk,  from  better  themes 
debarr'd, 
Should  for  an  edifying  story  chuse, 
How  some  great  Saint  the  Flesh  and 
Fiend  o'ercame, 
Sis  taste  I  trow,  and  not  his  conscience, 
were  to  blame. 

27 
No  fault  of  his,  if  what  he  thus  de- 
sign'd, 
Like  pious  novels  for  the  use  of 
youth. 
Obtain  d  such  hold  upon  the  simple 
mind 
That  'twas  received  at  length  for 
gospel-truth.  x6o 

A  fair  account  !    and  should'st  thou 
like  the  plea. 
Thank    thou    our    valued    friend,    dear 
George,  who  taught  it  me. 


28 


.Ml 


not  false  which  weiuH  at   lirsi 
a  lie. 
Fernan  Antolinez.aSpnnihh  knijiht, 
Kjielt    at    the    mass,    when    lo !     tho 
troops  hard  by 
Before  the  exixK^ted  hour  ho^an  tho 
fight. 
Though  courage,  duty,  honour,  sum- 
raon'd  there, 
He  chose  to  forfeit  all,  not  leave  tho  un- 
finish'd  prayer. 

29 
But  while  devoutly  thus  the  unarm'd 
knight 
Waits  till  the  holy  service  should 
be  o'er,  170 

Even  then  the  foremost  in  tho  furious 
tight 
Was  he  beheld  to  bathe  his  Rword 
in  gore ; 
First  in  the  van  his  plumes  wen-  actii 
to  play, 
And  all  to  him  decreed  the  glory  of  tho 
day. 

30 
The  truth  is  told,  and  men  at  onro 
exclaim. 
Heaven    had   his   Guardian    Angel 
deign' d  to  send  ; 
And  thus  the  tale  is  handed  down  to 
fame. 
Now  if  our  good  Sir  Feman  had  a 
friend 
Who  in  this  critical  season  eerved  him 
well. 
Dear  George,  the  tale  is  true,  and  yet  no 
miracle.  i8« 

31 
I  am  not  one  who  scan  with  scornful 

eyes 
The  dreams  which   make   tho  wi- 
th u.sia.st'8  Ix'st  delight  : 
Nor  tliou  the  legendary  lori*  de«pi«j 
If  of  (Jualberto  vet  again  I  wrilp. 
How    lirst    impll'd    ho    nought    tho 
convent-cell ; 
A  simple  tale  it  is,  but  one  that  pleased 
mt*  w»'ll. 


640 


BALLADS  AND  METRICAL  TALES 


32 
Fortune  had  smiled  upon  Gualberto's 
birth, 
The     heir     of     Valdespesa's     rich 
domains  ; 
An  only  child,  he  grew  in  years  and 
worth, 
And  well  repaid  a  father's  anxious 
pains.  190 

In  many  a  field  that  father  had  been 
tried, 
Well  for  his  valour  kno\\Ti,  and  not  less 
known  for  pride. 

33 

It  chanced  that  one  in  kindred  near 
allied 
Was  slain  by  his  hereditary  foe  ; 
Much  by  his  sorrow  moved  and  more 
by  pride, 
The  father  vow'd  that  blood  for 
blood  should  flow, 
And  from  his  youth  Gualberto  had 
been  taught 
That  with  unceasing  hate  should  just 
revenge  be  sought. 

34 

Long  did  they  wait ;    at  length  the 
tidings  came 
That   through   a   lone   and   unfre- 
quented way  200 
Soon  would  Anselmo,  such  the  mur- 
derer's name. 
Pass  on  his  journey  home,  an  easy 
prey. 
'  Go,'  said  the  father,  '  meet  him  in 
the  wood  ! ' 
And  young  Gualberto  went,  and  laid  in 
wait  for  blood. 

35 
When   now   the   youth    was   at    the 
forest  shade 
Arrived,  it  drew  toward  the  close  of 
day  ; 
Anselmo  haply  might  be  long  delay' d. 
And  he,  already  wearied  with  his 
way, 
Beneath   an   ancient    oak   his   limbs 
reclined. 
And   thoughts   of   near   revenge   alone 
possess'd  his  mind,  210 


36 
Slow  sunk  the  glorious  sun  ;  a  rosea 
light 
Spread   o'er   the   forest    from   b 
lingering  rays  ;  [sigl 

The  glowing  clouds  upon  Gualberto 
Soften' d  in  shade,  .  .  he  could  n. 
chuse  but  gaze  ; 
And  now  a  placid  greyness  clad  tl 
heaven. 
Save  where  the  west  retain' d  the  la 
green  light  of  even. 


Cool  breathed  the  grateful  air,  an 
fresher  now 
The    fragrance    of    the    autumns 
leaves  arose  ; 
The  passing  gale  scarce  moved  th, 
o'erhanging  bough, 
And  not  a  sound  disturb' d  the  dee 
repose,  22 

Save  when  a  falling  leaf  came  fluli 
tering  by,  ; 

Save  the  near  brooklet's  stream  tha, 
murmur' d  quietly. 


38 


Is 


there  who  has  not  felt  the  dee; 
delight,  1 

The  hush  of  soul,  that  scenes  lik[ 
these  impart  ?  : 

The  heart  they  will  not  soften  is  not 
right,  I 

And  young  Gualberto  was  not  hare ) 
of  heart. 
Yet  sure  he  thinks  revenge  become 
him  well. 
When  from  a  neighbouring  church  h«. 
heard  the  vesper-bell. 

39 
The  Romanist  who  hears  that  vesper 
bell, 
Howe'er   employ'd,    must   send   i 
prayer  to  Heaven.  230 

In  foreign  lands  I  liked  the  custorr 
well, 
For    with    the    calm    and    sobei 
thoughts  of  even 
It    well    accords ;     and    wert    thou 
journeying  there. 
It  would  not  hurt  thee,  George,  to  join 
that  vesper-prayer. 


je: 


ST.    GUALBEKTO 


641 


ir 


40  I 

liiiftlbcrto  had  heen  duly  taught  to 
hold  '  I 

All   pious   customs    with   religious 
care ;  I 

And,  .  .  for  the  young  man's  feelings 
were  not  cold, 
He  never  yet  had  miss'd  his  vesper- 
prayer. 
But  strange  misgivings  now  his  heart 
invade. 
And  when  the  vesper-bell  had  ceased  he 
had  not  pray'd.  240 

41 
And  wherefore  was  it  that  he  had  not 
pray'd  ? 
The  sudden  doubt  arose  within  his 
mind, 
And  many  a  former  precept  then  ho 
weighed, 
The  words  of  Him  who  died  to  save 
mankind  ; 
How    'twas    the    meek    who    should 
inherit  Heaven, 
And  man  must  man  forgive,  if  he  would 
bo  forgiven. 

42 
Troubled  at  heart,  almost  he  felt  a 
hope. 
That  yet  some  chance  his  victim 
might  delay. 
So  as  he  mused,  adown  the  neigh- 
bouring slope 
He  saw  a  lonely  traveller  on  his 
way ;  250 

And  now  he  knows  the  man  so  much 
'  abhorr'd,  .  . 

jHis  holier  thoughts  are  gone,  he  bares 
the  murderous  sword. 

43 
*The  house  of  Valdespesa  gives  the 
blow  ! 
Go,    and    our    vengeance    to    our 
kinsman  tell ! '  .  .  [foe, 

Despair  and  terror  seized  the  unarm' d 
And  prostrate  at  the  young  man's 
knees  he  fell. 
And  stopt  his  hand  and  cried,  '  Oh, 
do  not  take 
A  wretched   sinner's  life  !     mercy,   for 
Jesus'  sake  ! ' 


44 


At  that  most  blessed  name,  oa  at  a 

S^K'll, 

Conscience,  the  power  within  him, 
smoto  his  heart.  a 60 

His    hand,    for    murder    raiM-d,    uu- 
hanninn  fell  ; 
Ho    felt    cold    .sweat-drops   on    liiit 
forehead  start ; 
A  moment  mute  in  holy  horror  stood, 
Then  cried,  '  Joy,  joy,  my  (Jod  !   1  have 
not  shed  his  blood  !  ' 

He  rai.sed  Auselmo  up,  and  bade  him 
live. 
And  bless,  for  both  preserved,  that 
holy  name  : 
And  pray'd  the  astonish'd  foeman  to 
forgive 
The  bloody  purpose  led  by  which 
he  came. 
Then  to  the  neighbouring  church  he 
sped  away, 
His  over-burden'd  soul  before  his  God 
to  lay.  270 

4»> 
He  ran  with  breathless  speed,  .  .  ho 
reach' d  the  door. 
With    rapid    throbs    his    feverish 
pulses  swell ;  .  . 
He  came  to  crave  for  pardon,  to  adore 
For  grace  vouchsafed  ;    before  the 
cross  he  fell. 
And  raised   his  swimming  eye.H,  and 
tliought  that  there 
He  saw  the  imaged  Christ  smile  favour- 
ing on  his  prayer. 

47 
A  blest  illusion  !  from  that  very  night 
The  Monk's  austcrcst  life  devout 
he  led  ; 
And  still  he  felt  the  enthuaiaal'u  deep 
delight. 
Seraphic  visions  floated  round  hi* 
head.  ^    "^ 

The  joys  of  heaven  foretaatod  lill'd  hi« 
soul. 
And  still  the  good  nian'a  name  adoroa 
the  sainted  roll. 

H'fstbury,  1799. 


642 


BALLADS  AND  METRICAL  TALES 


QUEEN  MARY'S  CHRISTENING 

[.Southey  quotes  as  his  authorities  for  the 
story  here  versified,  Zurita,  1.  ii,  c.  59,  and 
La  Historia  dd  rauy  alio  6  invencible  Rey 
Don  Jayme  de  Aragon,  Primero  deste  Nombre, 
llamado  ElCoiiqiiistador. . . — Valencia,1584.J 

The  first  wish  of  Queen  Mary's  heart 
Is,  that  she  may  bear  a  son, 

Who  shall  inherit  in  his  time 
The  kingdom  of  Aragon. 

She  hath  put  up  prayers  to  all  the  Saints 

This  blessing  to  accord, 
But  chiefly  she  hath  call'd  upon 

The  Apostles  of  our  Lord. 

The  second  wish  of  Queen  Mary's  heart 
Is  to  have  that  son  call'd  James,     lo 

Because  she  thought  for  a  Spanish  King 
'Twas  the  best  of  all  good  names. 

To  give  him  this  name  of  her  own  will 

Is  what  may  not  be  done. 
For  having  applied  to  all  the  Twelve 

She  may  not  prefer  the  one. 

By  one  of  their  names  she  hatb  vow'd 
to  call 
Her  son,  if  son  it  should  be ; 
But  which,  is  a  point  whereon  she  must 
let 
The  Apostles  themselves  agree.        20 

Already  Queen  Mary  hath  to  them 

Contracted  a  grateful  debt, 
And  from  their  patronage  she  hoped 

For  these  farther  blessings  yet. 

Alas  !   it  was  not  her  hap  to  be 
As  handsome  as  she  was  good  ; 

And    that    her    husband    King    Pedro 
thought  so 
She  very  well  understood. 

She  had  lost  him  from  her  lawful  bed 
For  lack  of  personal  graces,  30 

And  by  prayers  to  them,  and  a  pious 
deceit, 
She  had  compass' d  his  embraces. 

But  if  this  hope  of  a  son  should  fail. 
All  hope  must  fail  with  it  then, 

For  she  could  not  expect  by  a  second 
device 
To  compass  the  King  again. 


Queen  Mary  hath  had  her  first  hearti 
wish — 
She  hath  brought  forth  a  beautif 
boy; 
And  the  bells  have  rung,  and  mass 
been  sung. 
And  bonfires  have  blazed  for  joy. 

And  many's  the  cask  of  the  good  r< 

wine. 

And  many  the  cask  of  the  white, 

Which  was  broach' d  for  joy  that  mon 

ing, 

And  emptied  before  it  was  night. 

But  now  for  Queen  Mary's  secor 
heart's  wish. 

It  must  be  determined  now,  ' 

And  Bishop  Boyl,  her  Confessor,  ' 

Is  the  person  who  taught  her  how. 

Twelve  waxen  tapers  he  hath  had  mad 
In  size  and  weight  the  same ;  j 

And  to  each  of  these  twelve  tapers  '. 
He  hath  given  an  Apostle's  name. 

One  holy  Nun  had  bleach' d  the  wax,  ; 

Another  the  wicks  had  spun  ; 
And  the  golden  candlesticks  were  bles; 

Which  they  were  set  upon. 

From  that  which  should  burn  tb 
longest, 

The  infant  his  name  must  take  ; 
And  the  Saint  who  own'd  it  was  to  b( 

His  Patron  for  his  name's  sake.       t 

A  godlier  or  a  goodlier  sight 

Was  nowhere  to  be  seen, 
Methinks,  that  day,  in  Christendom, 

Than  in  the  chamber  of  that  goO' 
Queen 

Twelve  little  altars  have  been  there 

Erected,  for  the  nonce  ; 
And  the  twelve  tapers  are  set  thereon. 

Which  are  all  to  be  lit  at  once. 

Altars  more  gorgeously  drest 

You  nowhere  could  desire  ;  7 

At  each  there  stood  a  minist'ring  Pries, 
In  his  most  rich  attire. 

A  high  altar  hath  there  been  raised. 
Where  the  crucifix  you  see  ; 

And  the  sacred  Pix  that  shines  with  golc 
And  sparkles  with  jewelry. 


QUEEN    MARYS   CHRlSTENlNd 


ii4a 


*"'  Bishop  Boyl,  with  his  precious  mitre  on. 
Hath  taken  there  his  stand, 

•'In  robes  wliich  were  embroidered 

By  the  Queen's  own  royal  haiul.       80 

In  one  part  of  the  ante-room 
,.     The  Ladies  of  the  Queen, 

All  with  their  rosaries  in  hand, 
'^       Upon  their  knees  are  seen. 

In  the  other  part  of  the  ante-room 
t       The  Chiefs  of  the  realm  you  behold, 
Ricos  Omes,  and  Bishops  and  Abbots, 
And  Knights  and  Barons  bold. 

I;  Queen  Mary  could  behold  all  this 

As  she  lay  in  her  state  bed  ;  90 

And  from  the  pillow  needed  not 
To  lift  her  languid  head. 

One  fear  she  had,  though  still  her  heart 
I,     The  unwelcome  thought  eschew'd, 
:  f  That  haply  the  unlucky  lot 
Might  fall  upon  St.  Jude. 

,  But  the  Saints,   she   trusted,   that   ill 

chance 
I     Would  certainly  forefend  ; 
:)  And  moreover  there  was  a  double  hope 
Of  seeing  the  wish'd-for  end  :  100 

Because  there  was  a  double  chance 

For  the  best  of  all  good  names  ; 
If  it  should  not  be  Santiago  himself, 
i      It  might  be  the  lesser  St.  James. 

And  now  Bishop  Boyl  hath  said  the 
mass ; 
And  as  soon  as  the  mass  was  done, 
The  priests  who  by  the  twelve  tapers 
stood 
Each  instantly  lighted  one. 

The  tapers  were  short  and  slender  too. 
Yet  to  the  expectant  throng,  no 

Before  they  to  the  socket  burnt. 
The  time,  I  trow,  seem'd  long. 

The  first  that  went  out  was  St.  Peter, 
'      The  second  was  St.  John  ; 
And  now  St.  Matthias  is  going. 
And  now  St.  Matthew  is  gone. 

Next  there  went  St.  Andrew, 
There  goes  St.  Philip  too  ; 
•  And  see  !    there  is  an  end 

Of  St.  Bartholomew.  120 


St.  Simon  is  in  the  snuff ; 

But  it  was  a  matter  of  doubt 
Whether  ho  or  St.  Tlu.nm.s  could  1^^  hAJd 

Soonest  to  hnve  gone  out. 

There  are  only  three  remaining, 
St.  Jude.  and  the  two  Sts.  .Tanirs  : 

And  great  was  then  Queen  Mary'w  hopo 
For  the  best  of  all  good  names. 

(ircat  was  then  Queen  Mary's  hope, 
But  greater  her  fear.  I  gue«.s,         130 

When  one  of  the  three  went  out. 

And  that  one  was  St.  James  the  Lcm. 

They  are  now  within  less  than  quarter- 
inch. 

The  only  remaining  two  ! 
When  there  came  a  thief  in  St.  .Fames, 

And  it  made  a  gutter  too  ! 

Up  started  Queen  Mary, 

Up  she  sate  in  her  bed  : 
'  I  never  can  call  him  .hula.'i  ! ' 

She  claspt  her  hands  and  said.         140 

'  I  never  can  call  him  Judas  ! ' 

Again  did  she  exclaim  ; 
'  Holy  mother  preserve  us  ! 

It  is  not  a  Christian  name  ! ' 

She  spread  her  hands  and  claspt  them 
again. 

And  the  Infant  in  the  cradle 
Set  up  a  cry,  an  angry  cry. 

As  loud  as  he  was  able. 

'  Holy  Mother  preserve  us  ! ' 

The  Queen  her  prayer  renewM  ;      150 
When  in  came  a  moth  at  the  window 

And  tiutter'd  about  St.  Jude. 

St.  James  hath  fallen  in  the  socket. 
But  as  yet  the  flame  is  not  out. 

And  St.  Judo  hatli  singed  the  silly  moth 
That  flutters  .so  blindly  al)out. 

And  before  the  flame  and  the  molten 
wax 

That  silly  moth  could  kill. 
It  hath  beat  out  St.  Jude  with  itn  wings. 

And  St.  James  is  burning  ittiM  !      160 

Oh,  that  was  a  joy  for  Quo<«n  Mar>*n 
heart ; 

The  babe  is  chriatoned  Jamcj* ; 
The  Prince  of  A 1  agon  hath  got 

The  best  of  all  good  namcti  I 


644 


BALLADS  AND  METRICAL  TALES 


Glory  to  Santiago, 

The  mighty  one  in  war  ! 
James  he  is  call'd,  and  he  shall  be 

King  James  the  Conqueror  ! 

Now  shall  the  Crescent  wane, 

The  Cross  be  set  on  high  170 

In  triumph  upon  many  a  Mosque  ; 
Woe,  woe  to  Mawmetry  ! 

Valencia  shall  be  subdued  ; 

Majorca  shall  be  won  ; 
The  Moors  be  routed  every  where  ; 

Joy,  joy,  for  Aragon  ! 

Shine  brighter  now,  ye  stars,  that  crown 

Our  Lady  del  Pilar, 
And  rejoice  in  thy  grave,  Cid  Campeador 

Ruy  Diez  de  Bivar  !  180 

Keswick,  1829. 


ROPRECHT  THE  ROBBER 

The  story  here  versified  is  told  by  Taylor 
the  Water  Poet,  in  his  '  Three  Weeks,  Three 
Days,  and  Three  Hours'  Observations  from 
London  to  Hamburgh  in  Germany;  amongst 
Jews  and  Gentiles,  with  Descriptions  of 
Towns  and  Towers,  Castles  and  Citadels, 
artificial  Gallowses  and  natural  Hangmen  ; 
and  dedicated  for  the  present  to  the  absent 
Odcombian  Knight  Errant,  Sir  Thomas 
Coryat.'  It  is  in  the  volume  of  his  collected 
works,  p.  82,  of  the  third  paging. 

CoUein,  which  is  the  scene  of  this  story,  is 
more  probably  KoUen  on  the  Elbe,  in 
Bohemia,  or  a  town  of  the  same  name  in 
Prussia,  than  Cologne,  to  which  great  city 
the  reader  will  perceive  I  had  good  reasons 
for  transferring  it. 

PART  I 

RoPRECHT  the  Robber  is  taken  at  last, 
In  Cologne  they  have  him  fast : 
Trial  is  over,  and  sentence  past ; 
And  hopes  of  escape  were  vain  he  knew, 
For  the  gallows  now  must  have  its  due. 

But    though    pardon    cannot   here   be 

bought, 
It  may  for  the  other  world,  he  thought ; 
And  so  to  his  comfort,  with  one  consent. 
The  Friars  assured  their  penitent. 


Money,  they  teach  him,  when  rightb 
given,  I' 

Is  put  out  to  account  with  Heaven  ; 
For  suffrages  therefore  his  plunder  went 
Sinfully  gotten,  but  piously  spent. 

All  Saints,  whose  shrines  are  in  that  city 
They  tell  him,  will  on  him  have  pity, 
Seeing  he  hath  liberally  paid, 
In  this  time  of  need,  for  their  good  aid. 

In  the  Three  Kings  they  bid  him  confide. 
Who  there  in  Cologne  lie  side  by  side ; 
And  from  the  Eleven  Thousand  Virgins 
eke,  2c 

Intercession  for  him  will  they  bespeak. 

And  also  a  sharer  he  shall  be  I 

In  the  merits  of  their  community  ; 
All  which  they  promise,  he  need  not  fear, . 
Through  Purgatory  will  carry  him  clear.,; 

Though  the  furnace  of  Babylon  could : 
not  compare  . , 

With  the  terrible  fire  that  rages  there,   1 
Yet  they  their  part  will  so  zealously  do. 
He  shall   only   but  frizzle  as  he  fiiesl 
through. 

And  they  will  help  him  to  die  well,   3oi 
And  he  shall  be  hang'd  with  book  and 

bell; 
And  moreover  with  holy  water  they 
Will  sprinkle  him,  ere  they  turn  away. 

For  buried  Roprecht  must  not  be, 
He  is  to  be  left  on  the  triple  tree  : 
That  they  who  pass  along  may  spy 
Where  the  famous  Robber  is  hanging 
on  high. 

Seen  is  that  gibbet  far  and  wide 
From  the  Rhine  and  from  the  Dussel- 

dorff  side ; 
And  from  all  roads  which  cross  the  sand. 
North,  south,  and  west,  in  that  level 

land.  41 

It  will  be  a  comfortable  sight 
To  see  him  there  by  day  and  by  night ; 
For  Roprecht  the  Robber  many  a  year 
Had  kept  the  country  round  in  fear. 

So  the  Friars  assisted,  by  special  grace, 
With  book  and  bell  to  the  fatal  place  j 
And  he  was  hang'd  on  the  triple  tree, 
With  as  much  honour  as  man  could  be. 


Jiiip* 


I 


ROPRECHT   THE    RORRER 


In  his  suit  of  irons  he  waa  hung,        50 
fTbey   sprinkled    liim    then,    and    tlieir 

psalm  they  suu<i  ; 
And  turning  away  when  tliis  duty  was 

paid. 
They  said  what  a  goodly  end  ho  had 
I         made. 

The  crowd  broke  up  and  went  their  way; 
All  were  gone  by  the  close  of  day  ; 
And  Roprecht  the  Robber  was  left  there 
Hanging  alone  in  the  moonlight  air. 

The  last  who  look'd  back  for  a  parting 

sight, 
Beheld  liim  there  in  the  clear  moonlight ; 
But    the    first    who    look'd    when    the 

morning  shone,  60 

Saw  iu  dismay  that  Roprecht  was  gone. 


PART  u 

The  stir  in  Cologne  is  greater  to-day 
Thau  all  the  bustle  of  yesterday  ; 
,  Hundreds  and  thousands  went  out  to 

see  ; 
The  irons  and  chains,  as  well  as  he, 
Were  gone,  but  the  rope  was  left  on  the 

tree. 

A  wonderful  thing  !  for  every  one  said 
He  had  hung  till  he  was  dead,  dead, 

dead  ; 
And  on  the  gallows  was  seen,  from  noon 
Till  ten  o'clock,  in  the  Ught  of  the  moon. 

Moreover  the  Hangman  was  ready  to 
swear  10 

He  had  done  his  part  with  all  due  care  ; 
And  that  certainly  better  hang'd  than  he 
No  one  ever  was,  or  ever  could  be. 

Neither  kith   nor   kin,    to    bear    him 

away 
And  funeral  rites  in  secret  pay, 
Had  he,  and  none  that  pahis  would  take, 
With  risk  of  the  law,  for  a  stranger's 

sake. 

Su  'twas  thought,  because  he  had  died 

so  well, 
He  was  taken  away  by  miracle. 
But  would  he  again  alive  be  found  '.    20 
Or  had  he  been  laid  iu  holy  ground  '.' 


If  in  holy  ground  hia  rvlica 

iSome  marvellous  sign  would  show,  they 

said  ; 
If  restored  to  life,  a  Friar  ho  would  be, 
Or  a  holy  Hermit  certainly, 
And  die  in  the  odour  of  hanclity. 

That  thus  it  would  prove  they  could  not 

doubt, 
Of  a  man  whoso  end  had  been  so  devout ; 
And  to  disputing  then  thoy  fell  29 

About  who  had  wrought  this  miracle. 

Had  the  Three  Kings  this  mercy  shown, 
Who    were    the    pride    and    honour    of 

Cologne  ? 
Or  was  it  an  act  of  projwr  grace. 
From  the  Army  of  Virgins  of  British 

race. 
Who  were  also  tho  glory  of  that  place  ? 

Pardon,  some  said,  thoy  might  presume. 
Being   a  kingly   act,   from   tho  Kings 

must  come  ; 
But  others  maintain'd  that  St.  Ursula's 

heart 
Would  sooner  be  moved  to  tho  merciful 

part. 

There  was  one  who  thought  this  aid 
divine  40 

Came  from  the  other  bank  of  tho 
Rhine; 

For  Roprecht  there  too  had  for  favour 
applied, 

Because  his  birth-place  waa  on  that  side. 

To  Dusseldortf  then  tho  praise  might 

belong. 
And  its  Army  of  Martyrs,  ten  thousand 

strong  i 
But    ho    for   a    Dusscldorll    man    wm 

known. 
And   no   ono   would   listen   to   him   in 

Cologne, 
Wliere  tho  people  would  have  the  whole 

wonder  their  own. 

Tho  Friars,  who  helpd  him   lu  •w    .-. 

well, 
]*ut  in  their  cUiui  to  tho  miracle  ;       y> 
Creator  things  than  this,  as  their  Auu»l»« 

could  ivW, 
1  The  stock  of  their  nu-rits  for  hinful  men 
Had  done  before,  and  would  do  again. 


646 


BALLADS  AND  METRICAL  TALES 


! 


'Twas  a  whole  week's  wouder  in  that 

great  town, 
And   in  all  places,  up   the   river   and 

down : 
But  a  greater  wonder  took  place  of  it 

then, 
For  Roprecht  was  found  on  the  gallows 

again  ! 


With  that  the  whole  city  flocked  out 

to  see  ; 
There  Roprecht  was  on  the  triple  tree, 
Dead,  past  all  doubt,  as  dead  could  be  ; 
But  fresh  he  was  as  if  spells  had  charm' d 

him, 
And    neither    wind    nor    weather    had 

harm'd  him. 

While  the  multitude  stood  in  a  muse,     | 
One  said,  I  am  sure  he  was  hang'd  in 

shoes  ! 
In  this  the  Hangman  and  all  concurr'd  ; 
But  now,  behold,  he  was  booted  and 

spurr'd  ! 

Plainly  therefore  it  was  to  be  seen,     lo 
That  somewhere  on  horseback  he  had 

been  ; 
And    at    this    the    people    marvelled 

more 
Than  at  any  thing  which  had  happen' d 

before. 

For  not  in  riding  trim  was  he 

When  he  disappear' d  from  the  triple 

tree ; 
And  his  suit  of  irons  he  still  was  in, 
With  the  collar  that  clipp'd  him  under 

the  chin. 

AVith  that  this  second  thought  befell, 
That  perhaps  he  had  not  died  so  well, 
Nor  had  Saints  perform' d  the  miracle ; 
But  rather  there  was  cause  to  fear,     21 
That   the    foul   Fiend   had   been   busy 
hero  ! 

Ivoprecht   the   Robber  had   long   been 

their  curse, 
And  hanging  had  only  made  him  worse  ; 
For  bad  as  he  was  when  living,  they  said 
They  had  rather  meet  him  ali\c  than 

dead. 


What  a  horse  must  it  be  which  he  had 

ridden, 
No  earthly  beast  could  be  so  bestridden; 
And  when  by  a  hell-horse  a  dead  ridei 

was  carried, 
The    whole    land    would    be    fearfully 

harried !  30 

So  some  were  for  digging  a  pit  in  the 

place,  I 

And  burjdng  him  there  with  a  stone  on 

his  face  ; 
And  that  hard  on  his  body  the  earth 

should  be  press' d, 
And  exorcists  be  sent  for  to  lay  him 

at  rest. 

But     others,     whose    knowledge     was 

greater,  opined 
That  this  corpse  was  too  strong  to  be  1 

confined  ; 
No  weight  of  earth  which  they  could  lay 
Would  hold  him  down  a  single  day, 
If  he  chose  to  get  up  and  ride  away. 

There  was  no  keeping  Vampires  under 
ground ;  40 

And  bad  as  a  Vampire  he  might  be  found, 
Pests  against  whom  it  was  understood 
Exorcism  never  had  done  any  good. 

But  fire,  they  said,  had  been  proved  to  be 

The  only  infallible  remedy ; 

So   they   were   for    burning   the   body 

outright. 
Which  would  put  a  stop  to  his  riding 

by  night. 

Others  were  for  searching  the  mystery 

out. 
And  setting  a  guard  the  gallows  about, 
Who  should  keej)  a  careful  watch,  and 

see  50 

Whether  Witch  or  Devil  it  might  be 
That  helped  him  down  from  the  triple 

tree. 

For  that  there  were  Witches  in  the  land. 
Was  what  all  by  this  might  understand  ; 
And  they  must  not  let  the  occasion  slip 
For  detecting  that  cursed  fellowship. 

Some  were  for  this,  and  some  for  that, 
And  some  they  could  not  tell  for  what  : 
And  never  was  such  commotion  known 
In  that  great  city  of  Cologne.  60 


Je»'' 


Ite 


I 


KOPKECHT   THE    ROBBER 


♦)47 


boor    of    good 
hour  aiul  a  half 
in 


PART  IV 

iKTER    Snoye    was   a 
renown, 
A" ho  dwelt  about  an 
from  the  town  : 
*!  And  he,   while  tlie  people  were  all 
^ ,        debate, 
j  Went  quietly  in  at  the  city  gate. 

^  f^or  Father  Kijf  he  sought  about. 
His  confessor,  till  he  found  him  out ; 
liut  the  Father  Confessor  wonder'd  to  see 
riie    old    man.    and    what    his    errand 
might  be. 

The  good  Priest  did  not  wonder  less, 
When    Pieter    said    he    was    come    to 
confess ;  lo 

'  Why,  Pieter,  how  can  this  be  so  ? 
I  confessed  thee  some  ten  days  ago  ! 

'  Thy    conscience,    methinks,    may    be 

well  at  rest, 
An  honest  man  among  the  best ; 
I  would  that  all  my  flock,  like  thee. 
Kept  clear  accounts  with  Heaven  and 

me  ! ' 

Always  before,  without  confusion, 
Being  smre  of  easy  absolution, 
Pieter  his  little  slips  had  summ'd  ; 
But  he  hesitated  now,  and  he  haw'd, 
and  humm'd.  20 

And  something  so  strange  the  Father 

saw 
In  Pieter's  looks,  and  his  hum  and  his 

haw. 
That  he  began  to  doubt  it  was  something 

more 
Tiicin  a  trifle  omitted  in  last  week's  score. 

At  length  it  came  out,  that  in  the  affair 
Of  Roprecht  the  Robber  he  had  some 

share ; 
The  Confessor  then  gave  a  start  in  fear — 
*  God  grant  there  have  been  no  witch- 
craft here  ! ' 

Pieter  Snoye,  who  was  looking  down, 
With  something  between  a  smile  and 

a  frown,  30 

Felt  that  suspicion  move  his  bile. 
And  look'd  up  with  more  of  a  frown 

than  a  smile. 


*  Fifty  years  I,  Pieter  Snoye, 

Have  lived  in  this  country,  man  and  hoy, 
And  have  always  paid  the  Church  her 

due. 
And  kept  short  scores  with  Heaven  and 

you. 

'  The  Devil  himself,  though  Devil  ho  Ix-. 
Would  not  dare  impute  that  niti  to  mo  ; 
He  might  charge  mo  as  well  with  here«y: 
And  if  he  did,  here,  in  this  place,  40 
I'd  call  him  liar,  and  spit  in  hia  face  I ' 

The  Father,  he  saw.  cast  a  gracious  eye. 
When  ho  hoard  him  (hiis  the  Dovil  dofy  ; 
The  wrath,  of  which  ho  had  eased  hi.«4 

mind. 
Left    a    comfortable    sort    of    warmth 

behind. 

Like  what  a  eheerful  cup  will  impart, 
In  a  social  hour,  to  an  honest  man's 

heart : 
And  he  added,  '  For  all  the  witchcraft 

here, 
1  shall  presently  make  that  matter  clear. 

'  Though  I  am,  as  you  very  well  know. 

Father  Kijf,  50 

A   peaceable   man,    and   keep   clear   of 

strife, 
It's  a  queerish  business  that  now  I've 

been  in  ; 
But  I  can't  say  that  it's  much  of  a  sin. 

'  However,  it  needs  must  Ix*  confes^s'd, 
And  as  it  will  set  tlii.s  people  at  rest. 
To  come  with  it  at  once  wa.s  best  : 
Moreover,  if  I  delayed.  I  thought 
That  some  might  iK>rha{)s  into  trouble 
be  brought. 

'  Under  the  seal  I  tell  it  you, 

And  you  will  judge  what  is  Ix'st  to  do,  60 

That  no  hurt  to  mo  and  my  son  may 

ensue. 
No  earthly  harm  have  we  intended. 
And  what  was  ill  done,  has  been  well 

mended. 

'  I  and  my  son  Piet  Pietentfotm. 
Were  returning  home  by   the  light  of 

the  moon. 
From  this  good  city  of  Cologne. 
On  the  night  of  the  execution  day  ; 
And  hard  bv  the  gibbet  w«a  our  «•>• 


648 


BALLADS   AND   METRICAL   TALES 


'  About  midnight  it  was  we  were  passing 

My  son,  Piet  Pieterszoon,  and  I,         70 
When  we  heard  a  moaning  as  we  came 

near, 
Which  made  us  quake  at  first  for  fear. 

*  But  the  moaning  was  presently  heard 

again, 

And  we  knew  it  was  nothing  ghostly 
then  ; 

"  Lord  help  us,  father  !  "  Piet  Pieters- 
zoon said, 

"  Roprecht,  for  certain,  is  not  dead  !  " 

*  So    under    the    gallows   our   cart   we 

drive. 
And,  sure  enough,  the  man  was  alive  ; 
Because  of  the  irons  that  he  was  in, 
He  was  hanging,  not  by  the  neck,  but 

the  chin.  80 

•'The  reason  why  things  had  got  thus 

wrong, 
Was,  that  the  rope  had  been  left  too 

long; 
The  Hangman's  fault — a  clumsy  rogue, 
He  is  not  fit  to  hang  a  dog. 

*  Now  Roprecht,  as  long  as  the  people 

were  there. 
Never  stirr'd  hand  or  foot  in  the  air ; 
But  when  at  last  he  was  left  alone, 
By  that  time  so  much  of  his  strength 

was  gone, 
That  he  could  do  little  more  than  groan. 

'  Piet  and  I  had  been  sitting  it  out,     90 
Till    a   latish    hour,    at   a   christening 

bout ; 
And  perhaps  we  were  rash,  as  you  may 

think. 
And  a  little  soft  or  so,  for  drink. 

*  Father  Kijf,  we  could  not  bear 

To  leave  him  hanging  in  misery  there  ; 
And  'twas  an  act  of  mercy,  I  cannot  but 

say, 
To  get  him  down,  and  take  him  away. 

*  And  as  you  know,  all  people  said 
What  a  goodly  end  that  day  he  had 

made  ; 
So  we  thought  for  certain.  Father  Kijf, 
That  if  he  were  saved  he  would  mend 

his  life.  loi 


'  My  son,  Piet  Pieterszoon,  and  I, 

We  took  him  down,  seeing  none  was   •' 

nigh  ; 
And  we  took  off  his  suit  of  irons  with  ^  >- 

care,  1  '-■ 

When  we  got  him  home,  and  we  hid 

him  there. 

*  The  secretj  as  you  may  guess,  was  known 
To  Alit,  my  wife,  but  to  her  alone  ; 
And  never  sick  man,  I  dare  aver. 

Was  better  tended  than  he  was  by  her.  |  ' 

'  Good  advice,  moreover,  as  good  could  (.; 

be,  no  i' 

He  had  from  Alit  my  wife,  and  me ; 
And  no  one  could  promise  fairer  than  he;  .- 
So  that  we  and  Piet  Pieterszoon  our  son,  I 
Thought  that  we  a  very  good  deed  had  <- 

done.  ' 

*  You  may  well  think  we  laughed  in  our  1  -^ 

sleeve, 
At   what   the   people   then   seem'd   to  • 

believe ; 
Queer  enough  it  was  to  hear  them  say. 
That  the  Three  Kings  took  Roprecht 

away  : 


'  Or  that  St.  Ursula,  who  Is  in  bliss. 
With  her  Array  of  Virgins  had  done 
this  :  X20 

The  Three  Kings  and  St.  L'rsuJa,  too, 
I  warrant,  had  something  better  to  do. 

'  Piet  Pieterszoon  my  son,  and  I, 
We  heard  them  talk  as  we  stood  by. 
And  Piet  look'd  at  me  with  a  comical 

eye. 
We  thought  them  fools,  but,   as  you 

shall  see. 
Not  over- wise  ourselves  were  we. 

'  For  I  must  tell  you.  Father  Kijf, 
That  when  we  told  this  to  Alit  my  wife, 
She    at    the    notion    perk'd    up    with 

delight,  130 

And  said  she  believed  the  people  were 

right. 

'  Had  not  Roprecht  put  in  the  Saints 

his  hope, 
And  who  but  they  should  have  loosen'd 

the  rope. 
When  they  saw  that  no  one  could  intend 
To  make  at  the  gallows  a  better  end 


Cut  70 

bppy 
lie 

fill 
buys 


■h.\ 


I 


KOPKEC'll'I'    rill-:    ROBBER 


040 


u  .  she  said,  it  was  perfectly  clear 
hut   there  must  have  been  a  miraclo 

here  ; 
lul  wo  had  the  happiness  to  bo  in  it, 
!i\  iii^  been  brought  there  just  at  the 

minute. 

And  therefore  it  would  become  us  to 
iiiiike  X40 

a  dtlcriiig  for  this  favour's  sake 
u  the  Three  Kings  and  the  Virgins  too, 
nee  we  eould  not  tell  to  whieh  it  was 
due. 

For  greater  honour  there  could  bo  none 
han  what  in  this  business  the  Saints 

had  done 
o  us  and  Piet  Pieterszoon  our  son  ; 
ho  talk'd  me  over,  Father  Kijf, 
,ith  that  tongue  of  hers,  did  AUt  my 

wife. 

Lord,   forgive   us !     as   if   the   iSaints 

w  ould  deign 
o  come  and  help  such  a  rogue  in  grain  ; 
Hien   the  only   mercy  the  case  could 

admit  151 

v'uuld  have  been  to  make  his  halter  fit ! 

That  would  have  made  one  hanging  do 

II  happy  season  for  him  too, 

V'hon  ho  was  in  a  proper  cue  ; 

.nd    have   saved   some   work,    as  you 

will  see, 
o  Lay  son  Piet  Pieterszoon,  and  me. 

Wtll,  Father,  we  kept  him  at  bed  and 

board, 
'ill  his  neck  was  cured  and  his  strength 

restored  ; 
uid  we  should  have  sent  him  off  this 

day  160 

Vith  something  to  help  him  on  his  way. 

But  this  wicked  Roprecht,  what  did  he  ? 

liough  he  had  been  saved  thus  merci- 
fully, 

liMLdng  had  done  him  so  little  good, 

"li  It  ho  took  to  his  old  ways  as  soon  as 
ho  could. 

[> a^t  night,  when  wo  were  all  asleep, 
111'  uf  his  bed  did  this  gallows-bird  creep, 
!  •    Pieterszoon' 8  boots  and  spurs  he 

j<ut  on, 
\iid  stole  my  best  hor.sc,  and  away  he 
was  gone 


'  Now  Alit,  my  wife,  did  not  sleep  ao 

hard,  170 

But  she  heard   tho  horse's  fct-t  in  the 

yard  ; 
And  when  she  jogg'd  nie,  and  bade  me 

awake, 
My  mind  misgave  me   jui  soon  b«  bUc 

spake. 

'To  the  window  my  good  woman  went. 
And  watcird  which  way  his  course  ho 

bent ; 
And  in  such  time  as  a  pipe  can  bo  lit. 
Our  horses  were  ready  with  bridle  an(f 

bit. 

'  Away,  as  fast  as  wo  could  Inc. 
Wo  went,  Piet  Pieterszoon  and  I  ; 
And  still  on  the  plain  wo  had  him  in 

sight ;  180 

The  moon  did  not  shine  for  nothing 

that  night. 

'  Knowing  tho  ground,  and  riding  fa«t, 

Wo  came  up  with  him  at  last, 

And — would   you    believe   it  ?     Father 

Kijf, 
Tho    ungrateful     wretch    would    havo 

taken  ray  life. 
If  he  had  not  misa'd  his  stroke,  with 

a  knife  ! 

'  The  struggle  in  no  long  time  was  done, 
Because,  you  know,  we  were  two  to  our  ; 
But  yet  all  our  strength  we  were  fain 

to  try, 
Piet  Pieterszoon  my  son,  and  I.         »9o 

'  When  we  had  got  him  on  the  ground. 
We  fastened  his  hands,  and  his  legs  wo 

bound  ; 
And  across  the  horse  we  laid  him  then. 
Andbroughthim  back  totheliousf  again. 

'"Wo    havo    robbed    the    gallows    and 

that  was  ill  done  !  " 
Said  I,  to  Piet  Pieterszoon  my  sou  ; 
"  And  restitution  we  must  make 
To  that  same  gallown,  for  juetice'  sake. 

'  In  his  suit  of  irons  the  rogue  we  array  "d. 
'  And  once  again  in  the  eart  he  wa**  laid' 
I  Night  not  yet  so  far  wa«  wpt-nt.  ioi 

But  there  was  tirao  enough  for  our 
intent  ; 

And  back  to  the  triple  tree  wu  went. 


Y  .-{ 


650 


BALLADS   AND   METRICAL   TALES 


'  Hi8  own  rope  was  ready  there  ; 

To  measure  the  length  we  took  good 
care  ; 

And  the  job  which  the  bungling  Hang- 
man begun, 

This  time,  I  think,  was  properly 
done, 

By  me  and  Piet  Pieterszoon  my  son.' 


THE  YOUNG  DRAGON 

[Parts  I  and  II  were  published  in  Fraser^s 
Magazine,  April  1830;  Parts  III  and  IV 
in  the  issues  of  the  same  Magazine  for  June 
and  July  1830,  respectively.] 

The  legend  on  which  this  poem  is  founded 
is  related  in  the  '  Vida  y  Hazanas  del  Gran 
Tamorlan,  con  la  Descripcion  de  las  Tierras 
de  su  Imperio  y  Sehorio,  escrita  por  Ruy 
Gonzalez  de  Clavijo,  Camarero  del  muy  alto 
y  Poderoso  Sefior  Don  Enrique,  Tercero 
deste  Nombre,  Rey  de  Castilla  y  de  Leon  ; 
con  un  Itinerario  de  lo  Sucedido  en  la 
Embajada,  que  por  dicho  Senor  el  Rey  hizo 
al  dicho  Principe,  llamado  por  otro  Nombre 
Taraurbec,  Aho  del  Nacimiento  de  1403.' 


PiTHYRiAN  was  a  Pagan, 

An  easy-hearted  man, 
And  Pagan  sure  he  thought  to  end 

As  Pagan  he  began  ; 
Thought   he,   the  one   must   needs   be 

true. 
The  old  Religion,  or  the  new, 

And  therefore  nothing  care  I ; 
T  call  Diana  the  Divine  ; 
My  daughter  worships  at  the  shrine 

Of  the  Christian  Goddess,  Mary.     lo 

In  this  uncertain  matter 

If  I  the  wrong  course  take, 
Mary  to  me  will  mercy  show 

For  my  Marana's  sake. 
If  I  am  right,  and  Dian  bend 
Her  dreadful  bow,  or  Phoebus  send 

His  shafts  abroad  for  slaughter, 
Safe  from  their  arrows  shall  I  be, 
And  the  twin  Deities  for  me 

Will  spare  my  dear-loved  daughter.  20 


If  every  one  in  Antioch 

Had  reasoned  in  this  strain. 
It  never  would  have  raised  alarm 

In  Satan's  dark  domain. 
But  Mary's  Image  every  day 
Looks  down  on  crowds  who  come  to  praj 

Her  votaries  never  falter  : 
While  Dian's  temple  is  so  bare, 
That  unless  her  Priestess  take  good  can 

She  will  have  a  grass-green  altar.    2 

Perceiving  this,  the  old  Dragon 

Inflamed  with  anger  grew  ;  [ills 

Earthquakes  and  Plagues  were  commo: 

There  needed  something  new  ; 
Some  vengeance  so  severe  and  strange 
That  forepast  times  in  all  their  range 

With  no  portent  could  match  it : 
So  for  himself  a  nest  he  made. 
And  in  that  nest  an  egg  he  laid. 

And  down  he  sate  to  hatch  it.         4 

He  built  it  by  the  fountain  ; 

Of  Phlegethon's  red  flood, 
In  the  innermost  abyss,  the  place 

Of  central  solitude  ; 
Of  adamantine  blocks  unhewn. 
With  lava  scoria  interstrewn. 

The  sole  material  fitting  ; 
With  amianth  he  lined  the  nest, 
And  incombustible  asbest,  I 

To  bear  the  fiery  sitting.  s] 

There  with  malignant  patience  j 

He  sate  in  fell  despite. 
Till  this  dracontine  cockatrice  ; 

Should  break  its  way  to  light.  | 

Meantime  his  angry  heart  to  cheer,       j 
He  thought  that  all  this  while  no  ieax, 

The  Antiocheans  stood  in, 
Of  what  on  deadliest  vengeance  bent   1 
With  imperturbable  intent  ' 

He  there  for  them  was  brooding.    6^' 

The  months  of  incubation  ; 

At  length  were  duly  past,  i 

And  now  the  infernal  Dragon-chick  , 

Hath  burst  its  shell  at  last ; 
At  which  long-look' d-f or  sight  enrapt,  ! 

For  joy  the  father  Dragon  clapt  I 

His  brazen  wings  like  thunder. 

So  loudly  that  the  mighty  sound  ' 
Was  like  an  earthquake  felt  around 

And  all  above  and  under.  7c 


<&i 


THE   YOUNG    DRAGON 


651 


The  diabolic  yoimgliug 

Camo  out  no  callow  birth, 
Pulinix.  defeucelcss,  blind  and  weak, 

Like  bird  or  beast  of  earth  ; 
Or  man,  most  helpless  thing  of  all 
f  !  That  Hy,  or  swim,  or  cree[),  or  crawl ; 
But  in  his  perfect  figure  ; 
His  horns,  his  dreadful  tail,  his  sting, 
i  I  Scales,  teeth,  and  claws,  and  every  thing 
;  >      Complete  and  in  their  vigour.  80 

The  Old  Dragon  was  delighted, 

And  proud  withal  to  see 
In  what  perfection  he  had  hatch' d 

His  hellish  progeny  ; 
And  roimd  and  round,  with  fold  on  fold, 
His  tail  about  tlie  imp  he  roll'd 

In  fond  and  close  cnlacement ; 
And  neck  round  neck  with  many  a  turn 
He  coil'd,  which  was,  you  may  discern, 
^1      Their  manner  of  embracement.        90 

PAKT  u 

A  VOICE  was  heard  in  Antioch, 

Whence  utter'd  none  could  know. 
But  from  their  sleep  it  waken  d  all, 

Proclaiming  Woe,  woe,  woe  ! 
It  sounded  here,  it  sounded  there. 
Within,  without,  and  every  when.', 

A  terror  and  a  warning  ; 
I   Repeated  thrice  the  dreadful  word 
By  every  living  soul  v.as  heard 

Before  the  hour  of  morning,  10 

And  in  the  air  a  rushing 

Pass'd  over,  in  the  night ; 
And  as  it  pass'd,  there  pass'd  with  it 

A  meteoric  light ; 
.    The  blind  that  piercing  light  intense 
'    Felt  in  their  long  seal'd  visual  sense. 

With  sudden  short  sensation  : 
The  deaf  that  rushing  in  ihe  sky 
Could  hear,  and  that  portentous  cry 

Reach' d  them  with  constematiou.  20 

The  astonished  Antiocheans 

Impatiently  await 
The  break  of  day,  not  knowing  when 

Or  what  might  be  their  fate. 
Alaa  !   what  then  the  people  hear. 
Only  with  certitude  of  fear 

Their  sinking  hearts  affrighted  ; 
For  m  the  fertile  vale  below, 
Carao  news  ihat.  in  tliat  night  of  woe. 

A  Dragon  had  alighted.  3<j 


It  \vatt  no  earthly  monster 

In  Libyan  deserts  nurst  ; 
Nor  had  the  Lerna  lake  sent  forth 

Tliis  winged  worm  accurst  ; 
The  Old  Dragon's  own  laid  egg  wa^  thi», 
The  tierce  Young  Dragon  of  the  abyaij,' 

Who  from  the  liery  fountain. 
Through  earth's  concavities  that  night 
Had  made  his  way,  and  taken  iiight 

Out  of  a  burning  mountain.  40 

A  voice  that  went  before  him 

The  cry  of  woe  preferr'd  ; 
The  motion  of  his  brazen  wingH 

Was  what  the  deaf  had  heard  ; 
The  flashing  of  his  eyes,  that  light 
The  which  upon  their  inward  night 

The  bUnd  had  felt  astounded  : 
What  wonder  then,  when  from  the  wall 
They  saw  him  ui  the  vale,  if  all 

With  terror  were  confomided.  50 

Compared  to  that  strong  armour 

Of  scales  which  he  was  m, 
The  hide  of  a  rhinoceros 

Was  like  a  lady's  skin. 
A  battering  ram  might  j>lay  in  vain 
Upon  his  head,  with  might  and  main. 

Though  fifty  men  had  work'd  it  ; 
And  from  his  tail  they  saw  him  fling 
Out,  like  a  rocket,  a  long  sting. 

When  he  for  pastime  jerk'd  it.  60 

To  whom  of  (ioda  or  Hei-oes 

Should  they  for  aid  aj>ply  ? 
Where  should  they  look  for  suceour  now. 

Or  whither  should  they  lly  r 
For  now  no  Demigods  were  found 
Like     those     whose     dealhlesa     deeds 
abound 

In  ancient  song  and  story  ; 
No  Hercules  was  then  on  earth. 
Nor  yet  of  her  St.  (leorge'8  birth 

Could  Cappadocia  glory.  70 

And  even  these  against  him 

Had  found  their  strength  but  hmall ; 
He  could  have  Hwallow«<i  Hen.ulti«. 

Club,  lion-skin,  and  all. 
Yea,  had  St.  (iixjrye  hiniM-lf  Ih«cu  tliero 
l'j)on  the  fiercest  steed  that  e'er 

To  battle  bt)re  U'strider, 
This  dreadful  Dragon  in  hvt  miphf. 
One  mouthful  only,  and  ono  bn 

Had  made  of  lior>c  and  rid«. 


652 


BALLADS   AND   IVIETRICAL   TALES 


|! 


They  see  how  imavaiUng 

All  human  force  must  prove  ; 
Oh  might  their  earnest  prayers  obtain 

Protection  from  above  ! 
The  Christians  sought  our  Lady's  shrine 
To  invocate  her  aid  divine  ; 

And,  with  a  like  emotion, 
The  Pagans  on  that  fearful  day 
Took  to  Diana's  fane  their  way, 

And  oflef  d  their  devotion.  90 

But  there  the  offended  Goddess 

Beheld  them  with  a  frown  ; 
The  indignant  altar  heaved  itself 

And  shook  their  offerings  down  ; 
The  Priestess  with  a  deathlike  hue 
Pale  as  the  marble  Image  grew, 

The  marble  Image  redden' d  ; 
And  these  poor  suppliants  at  the  sight 
Felt  in  fresh  access  of  affright 

Their  hearts  within  them  deaden' d. 

Behold  the  marble  eyeballs  loi 

With  life  and  motion  shine  ! 
And  from  the  moving  marble  lips 

There  comes  a  voice  divine. 
A  demon  voice,  by  all  the  crowd 
Distinctl}^  heard,  nor  low,  nor  loud. 

But  deep  and  clear  and  thrilling  ; 
And  carrying  to  the  soul  such  dread 
That  they  perforce  must  what  it  said 

Obey,  however  unwilling.  ixo 

Hear  !   hear  !   it  said,  ye  people  ! 

The  ancient  Gods  have  sent 
In  anger  for  your  long  neglect 

This  signal  punishment. 
To  mortal  Mary  vows  were  paid. 
And    prayers    preferr'd,    and    offerings 
made  ; 

Our  temples  were  deserted  ; 
Now,  when  our  vengeance  makes  ye  wise, 
Unto  your  proper  Deities 

In  fear  ye  have  reverted  !  120 

Hear  now  the  dreadful  judgement 

For  this  which  ye  have  done  ; 
The  infernal  Dragon  will  devour 

Your  daughters,  one  by  one  ; 
A  Christian  Virgin  every  day 
Ye  must  present  him  for  his  prey, 

\Vith  garlands  deck'd,  as  meet  is  : 
That  with  the  Christians  he  begins 
Is  what,  in  mercy  to  your  sins, 

Y^e  owe  to  my  entreaties.  130 


Whether,  if  to  my  worship 

Ye  now  continue  true, 
I  may,  when  these  are  all  consumed, 

Avert  the  ill  from  you  : 
That  on  the  Ancient  Gods  depends, 
If  they  be  made  once  more  your  friends 

By  your  sincere  repentance  : 
But  for  the  present,  no  delay  ; 
Cast  lots  among  ye,  and  obey 

The  inexorable  sentence.  140 


Though  to  the  Pagan  priesthood 

A  triumph  this  might  seem. 
Few  families  there  were  who  thus 

Could  in  their  grief  misdeem  ; 
For  oft  in  those  distracted  days, 
Parent  and  child  went  different  ways, 

The  sister  and  the  brother  ; 
And  when,  in  spirit  moved,  the  wife 
Chose  one  religious  course  of  life, 

The  husband  took  the  other.  lo 

Therefore  in  every  household 

Was  seen  the  face  of  fear  ; 
They  who  were  safe  themselves,  exposed 

In  those  whom  they  held  dear. 
The  lists  are  made,  and  in  the  um 
The  names  are  placed  to  wait  their  turn 

For  this  far  worse  than  slaughter ; 
And  from  that  fatal  urn,  the  first 
Drawn  for  this  dreadful  death  accurst 

Was  of  Pithyrian's  daughter.  20 

With  Christian-like  composure 

Marana  heard  her  lot. 
And  though  her  comitenance  at  first 

Grew  pale,  she  trembled  not. 
Not  for  herself  the  Virgin  grieved  ; 
She  knew  in  whom  she  had  believed. 

Knew  that  a  crown  of  glory 
In  Heaven  would  recompense  her  worth, 
And  her  good  name  remain  on  earth 

The  theme  of  sacred  story.  30 

Her  fears  were  for  her  father. 

How  he  should  bear  this  grief. 
Poor  wretched  heathen,  if  he  still 

Remain'd  in  misbelief  ; 
Her  looks  amid  the  multitude. 
Who  struck  with  deep  compassion  stood, 

Are  seeking  for  Pithyrian  : 
He  cannot  bear  to  meet  her  eye.       [tiy, 
^V^lere  goest  thou  ?  whither  would;;!  Ihou 

Thou  miserable  Syrian  V  40 


THE    YOUNG   DRAGON 


663 


Hath  sudden  hope  inspired  him. 
Or  is  it  in  despair 

IThftt  through  the  throng  he  made  his 
I  way  ■ 

I      And  sped  ho  knew  not  where  ? 
For  how  eould  he  the  sight  sustain, 
When  now  the  sacrilieial  train 

Inhumanly  surround  her  ! 
How  bear  t-o  see  her.  wlien  with  flowers 

I  From  rosiers  and  from  jasmine  bowers 
They  like  a  victim  crown' d  her  !     50 
He  knew  not  why  nor  whither 
I       So  fast  he  hurried  tiience, 
i    But  felt  like  one  possess' d  by  some 
I       Controlling  influence, 
•    Nor  turn'd  he  tx)  Diana's  fane, 
i    Inly  assured  that  prayers  were  vain 
!        If  made  for  such  protection  ; 
Hb  pagan  faith  he  now  forgot. 
'    And  the  wild  way  he  took  was  not 

His  own,  but  Heaven's  direction.    60 

He  who  had  never  enter' d 

A  Christian  church  till  then, 
Except  in  idle  mood  profane 

To  view  the  ways  of  men, 
X(  iw  to  a  Christian  church  made  straight. 
And  hastened  through  its  open  gat€, 

By  his  good  Angel  guided, 
And  thinking,  though  he  knew  not  why, 
That  there  some  blessed  Power  on  high 

Had  help  for  him  provided.  70 

Wildly  he  look'd  about  him 

On  many  a  form  divine. 
Whose  Image  o'er  its  altar  stood, 

And  many  a  sculptured  shrine, 
In  which  believers  might  behold 
Relics  more  precious  than  the  gold 

And  jewels  which  encased  them. 
With  painful  search  from  far  and  near 
Brought  to  be  venerated  here 

Where  piety  had  placed  them.  80 

There  stood  the  Virgin  Mother 

Crown' d  with  a  starry  wreath, 
And  there  the  aweful  Crucifix 

Appear'd  to  bleed  and  breathe  ; 
Martyrs  to  whom  their  palm  is  given, 
And  sainted  Maids  who  now  in  Heaven 

With  glory  are  invested  : 
Cllancing  o'er  these  his  rapid  eye 
Toward  one  image  that  stood  nigh 

Was  drawn,  and  there  it  rested.       90 


The  eoimtonancc  that  fix'd  him 

Was  of  a  sun- burnt  niicMi. 
The  face  was  like  a  lM()i»hel'H  fare 

Inspired,  but  yet  wreno  ; 
His  arms  and  legs  and  feet  were  baro  ; 
The  raiment  wjw  of  canierH  hair. 

That,  loosely  hanging  roimd  him, 
Fell  from  the  shouUlerH  to  the  kn«o  ; 
And  round  the  loins,  though  olsowhrro 
free, 

A  leathern  girdle  bound  him. 

With  his  right  arm  uplifted 

The  great  rrcrursor  stood. 
Thus  represented  to  the  life 

In  carved  and  painted  woo^l. 
Below  the  real  arm  was  laid 
Within  a  crystal  shrine  display'<l 

For  public  veneration  ; 
Not  now  of  flesh  and  blood.  .  .  but  bone, 
Sinews,  and  shrivell'd  skin  alone, 

In  ghastly  preservation.  im 

Moved  by  a  secret  impulse 

Which  he  could  not  wit  list  .uk  I. 
Let  me,  Pithyrian  cried,  adore 

That  blessecl  arm  and  hand  ! 
This  day,  this  miserable  day, 
My  pagan  faith  I  put  away, 

Abjure  it  and  abhor  it  ; 
And  in  the  Saints  I  put  my  trust, 
And  in  the  Cross  ;   and,  if  I  must. 

Will  die  a  Martyr  for  it.  120 

This  is  the  arm  whose  succour 

Heaven  brings  me  here  to  seek  I 
Oh  let  me  press  it  to  my  Hpn, 

And  so  its  aid  bespeak ! 
A  strong  faith  makes  me  now  presume 
That,  when  to  this  unhappy  doom 

A  hellish  power  hath  brought  her. 
The  heavenly  hand  wlio^e  mortal  mould 
I  humbly  worship,  will  unfold 

Its  strength,  and  save  my  daughter. 

The  Sacristan  with  wonder  iji 

And  pity  heard  his  prayer. 
And  placed  the  relic  in  hi.s  hand. 

As  he  knelt  humbly  there. 
Right  thankfully  the  knctdinR  roan 
To  that  eonliding  Sacristan 

Return'd  it.  aftor  ki'^'ing  ; 
And  he  within  itn  cr}'stal  jthrino 
Replaced  the  precious  arm  divinr. 

Nor  saw  that  au^ht  won  miwint:     »«• 


654 


BALLADS   AND   METRICAL   TALES 


PART  IV 

Oh  piety  audacious  ! 

Oh  boldness  of  belief  ! 
Oh  sacrilegious  force  of  faith, 

That  then  inspired  the  thief  ! 
Oh  wonderful  extent  of  love, 
That  Saints  enthroned  in  bliss  above 

Should  bear  such  profanation, 
And  not  by  some  immediate  act. 
Striking  the  offender  in  the  fact, 

Prevent  the  perpetration  !  lo 

But  sure  the  Saint  that  impulse 

Himself  from  Heaven  had  sent. 
In  mercy  predetermining 

The  marvellous  event ; 
So  inconceivable  a  thought. 
Seeming  with  such  irreverence  fraught, 

Could  else  have  no  beginning  ; 
Nor  else  might  such  a  deed  be  done, 
As  then  Pithyrian  ventured  on, 

Yet  had  no  fear  of  sinning.  20 

Not  as  that  Church  he  enter' d 

Did  he  from  it  depart, 
Like  one  bewilder' d  by  his  grief, 

But  confident  at  heart ; 
Triumphantly  he  went  his  way 
And  bore  the  Holy  Thumb  away. 

Elated  with  his  plunder  ; 
That  Holy  Thumb  which  well  he  knew 
Could  pierce  the  Dragon  through  and 
through, 

Like  Jupiter's  own  thunder.  30 

Meantime  was  meek  IVIarana 

For  sacrifice  array' d, 
And  now  in  sad  procession  forth 

They  led  the  flower-crown' d  Maid. 
Of  this  infernal  triumph  vain, 
The  Pagan  Priests  precede  the  train. 

Oh  hearts  devoid  of  pity  ! 
And  to  behold  the  abhorr'd  event. 
At  far  or  nearer  distance,  went 

The  whole  of  that  great  city.  40 

The  Christians  go  to  succour 
The  sufferer  with  their  prayers, 

The  Pagans  to  a  spectacle 
Which  dreadfully  declares. 

In  this  their  over-ruling  hour. 

Their  Gods'  abominable  power ; 


Yet  not  without  emotion 
Of  grief,  and  horror,  and  remorse, 
And  natural  piety,  whose  force 

Prevail'd  o  er  false  devotion. 


so 


The  walls  and  towers  are  cluster'd, 

And  every  hill  and  height 
That  overlooks  the  vale,  is  throng' d 

For  this  accursed  sight. 
Why  art  thou  joyful,  thou  green  Earth  ? 
Wherefore,  ye  happy  Birds,  your  mirtli 

Are  ye  in  carols  voicing  ? 
And  thou,  0  Sun,  in  yon  blue  sky 
How  canst  thou  hold  thy  course  on  high 

This  day,  as  if  rejoicing  ?  60 

Already  the  procession 

Hath  pass'd  the  city  gate. 
And  now  along  the  vale  it  moves 

With  solemn  pace  sedate. 
And  now  the  spot  before  them  lies, 
Where  waiting  for  his  promised  prize 

The  Dragon's  chosen  haunt  is  ; 
Blacken' d  beneath  his  blasting  feet, 
Though  yesterday  a  green  retreat 

Beside  the  clear  Orontes.  70 

There  the  procession  halted  ; 

The  Priests  on  either  hand 
Dividing  then,  a  long  array. 

In  order  took  their  stand. 
Midway  between,  the  Maid  is  left 
Alone,  of  human  aid  bereft : 

The  Dragon  now  hath  spied  her ; 
But  in  that  moment  of  most  need. 
Arriving  breathless  with  his  speed, 

Her  Father  stood  beside  her.  80 

On  came  the  Dragon  rampant. 

Half  running,  half  on  wing. 
His  tail  uplifted  o'er  his  back 

In  many  a  spiral  ring  ; 
His  scales  he  ruffled  in  his  pride. 
His  brazen  pennons  waving  wide 

Were  gloriously  distended  ; 
His  nostrils  smoked,'his  eyes  flash' d  fire. 
His  lips  were  drawn,'  and  in  his  ire 

His  mighty  jaws  extended.  90 

On  came  the  Dragon  rampant. 

Expecting  there  no  check, 
And  open-mouth'd  to  swallow  both 

He  stretch' d  his  burnish' d  neck. 
Pithyrian  put  his  daughter  by. 
Waiting  for  this  with  watchful  eye 


ftt'j^ 


. 


THE    YOUNG   DRAGON 


artl' 
mini 


fl55 


And  ready  to  prevent  it ; 
Within  arm's  length  lie  let  liim  eomo, 
Then  in  ho  throw  tlio  Holy  Thumb, 

And  down  his  throat  he  sent  it.        loo 

The  hugest  brazen  mortar 

That  ever  yet  liretl  bomb. 
Could  not  have  elieck'd  thisfiendishbeast 

As  did  that  Holy  Tluimb. 
He  stagger' d  as  he  wheel' d  short  romul. 
His  loose  feet  scraped  along  the  ground. 

To  lift  themselves  unable  : 
His  pennons  in  their  weakness  flagg'd. 
His  tail  erected  late,  now  dragg'd. 

Just  like  a  long  wet  cable.  '    no 

A  rumbling  and  a  tumbling 

Was  heard  in  his  inside. 
He  gasp'd,  he  panted,  he  lay  down, 

He  rolled  from  side  to  side  : 
He  moan'd,  he  groan' d,  he  snuff' d,  he 

snored. 
He  growl' d,  be  howl'd,  he  raved,  he 
roar'd  ; 

But  loud  as  were  his  clamours. 
Far  louder  was  the  inward  din. 
Like  a  hundred  braziers  working  in 

A  caldron  with  their  hammers.        120 

The  hammering  came  faster, 

More  faint  the  moaning  sound, 
And  now  his  body  swells,  and  now 

It  rises  from  the  ground. 
Not  upward  with  his  own  consent. 
Nor  borne  by  his  own  wings  he  went. 

Their  vigour  was  abated  ; 
But  lifted  no  one  could  tell  how 
By  power  unseen,  with  which  he  now 

Was  visibly  inflated.  130 

Abominable  Dragon, 

Now  art  thou  overmatch'd. 
And  better  had  it  been  for  thee 

That  thou  hadst  ne'er  been  hatch'd  ; 
For  now,  distended  like  a  ball 
To  its  full  stretch,  in  sight  of  all, 

The  body  mounts  ascendant ; 
The  head  before,  the  tail  behind. 
The  wings,  like  sails  that  want  a  wind. 

On  either  side  are  pendant.  140 

Not  without  special  mercy 

Was  he  thus  borne  on  high. 
Till  he  appear'd  no  bigger  than 

An  Eagle  in  the  sky.  1 


For  when  about  some  tin 

Yet  still  in  perfect  reach  of  .si^ht, 

Oh.  wonder  of  all  uondeni! 
Ho  burst  in  pieces,  with  a  Hound 
Heard  for  a  luiinlrod  loaeurn  nround, 
And  liko  a  thousand  thuiulorH.         150 

But  had  that  great  explosion 

Been  in  t  he  lower  sky, 
All  Antioch  would  have  been  laid 

In  ruins,  certainly. 
And  in  that  vast  assembled  rout 
Who  crowded  joyfully  nliout 

Pithyrian  and'his  daughter. 
The  splinters  of  the  monster's  hide 
Must  needs  have  made  on  every  side 

A  very  dreadful  slaughter.  160 

So  far  the  broken  pieces 

Were  now  dispersed  around. 
And  shiver'd  so  to  dust,  that  not 

A  fragment  e'er  was  found. 
The  Holy  Thumb  (so  it  is  thou^'h») 
When  it  this  miracle  had  wrouiiht 

At  once  to  Heaven  ascended  : 
As  if,  when  it  had  thus  display'd 
Its  power,  and  saved  the  Christian  IMaid, 

Its  work  on  earth  was  ended.  170 

But  at  Constantinople 

The  arm  and  hand  were  shown, 
lentil  the  mighty  Ottoman 

O'erthrcw  the  Grecian  throne. 
And  when  the  Monks  this  tale  who  told 
To  pious  visitors  would  hold 

The  holy  hand  for  ki.«<sing. 
They  never  fail'd,  with  faith  devout, 
In  confirmation  to  point  out,  179 

That  there  the  Thumb  was  missing. 

Kesvcick,  1829. 


EPILOaiTE  TO  THE  YOl^'O 
DRACON 

I  TOLD  my  t^ilo  of  the  Holy  Thumb 
That  split  the  Dragon  aaundrr. 

And  my  daughters  made  groat  cye«  •* 
they  heard. 
Which  were  full  of  delight  and  wonder. 

With  listening  lips  and  looks  intent. 

There  sate  an  enecr  l»oy.  [hand*, 

Wlio  shouted  sonu-tinu-s  and  clapt  hii 

And  could  not  sit  atill  for  joy. 


656 


BALLADS   AND   METRICAL  TALES 


But  when  I  look'd  at  my  Mistress's  face, 
It  was  all  too  grave  the  while  ;         lo 

And  when  I  ceased,  methought  there 
was  more 
Of  reproof  than  of  praise  in  her  smile. 

That  smile  I  read  aright,  for  thus 

Reprovingly  said  she, 
'  Such  tales  are  meet  for  youthful  ears 

But  give  little  content  to  me. 

*  From  thee  far  rather  would  I  hear 

Some  sober,  sadder  lay. 
Such  as  I  oft  have  heard,  well  pleased 
Before  those  locks  were  grey.'  20 

*  Nay,  Mistress  mine,'  I  made  reply, 

'  The  autumn  hath  its  flowers. 
Nor  ever  is  the  sky  more  gay 
Than  in  its  evening  hours. 

*  Our  good  old  Cat,  Earl  Tomlemagne, 

Upon  a  warm  spring  day, 

Even  like  a  kitten  at  its  sport, 

Is  sometimes  seen  to  play. 

'  That  sense  which  held  me  back  in  youth 
From  all  intemperate  gladness,        30 

That  same  good  instinct  bids  me  shun 
Unprofitable  sadness. 

*  Nor  marvel  you  if  I  prefer 

Of  playful  themes  to  sing  ; 
The  October  grove  hath  brighter  tints 
Than  Summer  or  than  Spring  : 

'  For  o'er  the  leaves  before  they  fall 
Such  hues  hath  Nature  thrown. 

That  the  woods  wear  in  sunless  days 
A  sunshine  of  their  own.  40 

'  Why  should  I  seek  to  call  forth  tears  ? 

The  source  from  whence  we  weep 
Too  near  the  surface  lies  in  youth. 

In  age  it  lies  too  deep. 

*  Enough  of  foresight  sad,  too  much 

Of  retrospect  have  I ; 
And  well  for  me  that  I  sometimes 
Can  put  those  feelings  by  ; 


'  From  public  ills,  and  thoughts  thatj 
else 

Might  weigh  me  down  to  earth, 
That  I  can  gain  some  intervals 

For  healthful,  hopeful  mirth  ; 

'  That  I  can  sport  in  tales  which  suit 

Young  auditors  like  these. 
Yet,  if  I  err  not,  may  content 

The  few  I  seek  to  please.  1 

'  I  know  in  what  responsive  minds 

]\Iy  lightest  lay  will  wake 
A  sense  of  pleasure,  for  its  own. 

And  for  its  author's  sake.  60 

'  I  know  the  eyes  in  which  the  light 

Of  memory  will  appear  ; 
I  know  the  lips  which  while  they  read 

Will  wear  a  smile  sincere  : 

'  The  hearts  to  which  my  sportive  song 
The  thought  of  days  will  bring, 

When  they  and  I,  whose  Winter  now 
Comes  on,  were  in  our  Spring. 

'  And  I  their  well  known  voices  too, 
Though  far  away,  can  hear,  70 

Distinctly,  even  as  when  in  dreams 
They  reach  the  inward  ear. 

'  "  There  speaks  the  man  we  knew  of 
yore," 

Well  pleased  I  hear  them  say, 
"  Such  was  he  in  his  lighter  moods 

Before  our  heads  were  grey. 

'  "  Buoyant  he  was  in  spirit,  quick 

Of  fancy,  blithe  of  heart, 
And  Care  and  Time  and  Change  have 
left 

Untouch' d  his  better  part."  80 

'  Thus    say   my  morning    friends    who 
now 

Are  in  the  vale  of  years. 
And  I,  save  such  as  thus  may  rise, 

Would  draw  no  other  tears.' 

Kesxoich,  1829. 


A  TALE   OF   PARAGUAY 


PREFACE 

Osr.  of  my  friends  observed  to  me  in  a 
letter,  that  niaiiy  stories  which  are  said  to 
be  founded  on  fact,  have  in  reahty  hoen 
foundered  on  it.  This  is  the  case  if  there  be 
any  gross  violation  committal  or  i<::norance 
betrayed  of  historical  manners  in  the 
prominent  parts  of  a  narrative  wherein  the 
writer  affects  to  observe  them  :  or  when 
the  ground-work  is  taken  from  some  part 
of  history  so  popular  and  well  known  that 
any  mixture  of  liction  disturbs  the  sense 
of  truth.  Still  more  so,  if  the  subject  be  in 
itself  so  momentous  that  any  alloy  of 
invention  must  of  necessity  debase  it:  but 
most  of  all  in  themes  drawn  from  Scripture, 
whether  from  the  more  familiar  or  the  more 

'\  fill  portions  ;    for  when  what  is  true  is 

.red,  whatever  may  be  added  to  it  is  so 
surely  felt  to  be  false,  that  it  appears  pro- 
fane." 
Founded  on  fact  the  Poem  is,  which  is 
re  committed   to  the  world  :    but  what- 

•■  r  may  be  it,s  defects,  it  is  liable  to  none 
"I  these  objections.  The  story  is  so  singu- 
lar, so  simple,  and  witlral  so  complete,  that 
it  must  have  been  injured  by  any  alteration. 
How  faithfully  it  ha.s  been  followed,  the 
T' ader  may  perceive  if  he  chooses  to  consult 
the  abridged  tran.slation  of  Dobrizhoffer's 
History  of  the  Abipones.  .  . 

[In  "the  original  Preface  Southey  here 
subjoined  a  long  extract  from  DobrizhofTer  de 
Abiponibus,  Lib.  Prodromns,  pp.  07-100, 
which  it  has  not  been  thought  necessary  to 
reprint  in  the  present  edition. — Ed.] 


TO   EDITH  ]\rAY  SOUTHEY 

1 

Edith  !   ten  years  are  nnmber'd,  since 

the  day, 
Which  ushers  in  the  cheerful  month  of 

May, 
To  us  bj'  thy  dear  birth,  mj^  daughter 

dear. 


Was  blest.      Thou  therefore  didflt  ihr, 

name  partake 
Of  that  sweet  month,  the  8wecto8t  of 

t  he  year ; 
But    litlier  was   it   given    the©   for  the 

fittke 
Of    a  good    man,   thy   father's   friend 

sincere. 
Who  at  the  font  made  answer  in  tl»y 

name. 
Thy  love  and  reverence  rightly  may  he 

claim. 
For  clo.sely  hath  he  been  with  me  allie<l 
In  friendship's  holy  bonds,  from  that 
first  hour  n 

When  in  our  youth  we  met  onTejo'sside; 
Bonds  which,  defying  now  all  Fortune'a 

power. 
Time  hath  not  loosen'd.  nor  will  Death 

divide. 


A   child    more  welcome,    by   indulgent 

Heaven 
Never  to  parents'  tears  and  prayers  wa« 

given  : 
For  scarcely  eight  months  at  thv  happv 

birth 
Had  pass'd,  since  of  thy  sister  we  won' 

left,  .  . 
Our  first-born,  and  our  only  babe.  l)oreft. 
Too  fair  a  flower  was  she  for  tlu«  rude 

earth !  «> 

The  features  of  her  beauteous  infancy 
Have   faded   from    me.  like  a  panning 

cloud. 
Or  like  the  glories  of  an  evening  fky  : 
And    .seldom     hath     my    tongue    pro- 
nounced her  name. 
Since  she  wa.s  summon'd  to  a  happier 

sphere. 
But  that  dear  love,  so  deeply  wounded 

then. 
I  in  my  soul  with  silent  faith  Hinrere 
Devoutly  cherish  till  we  m'M«t  ag«i"- 


658 


A   TALE    OF   PARAGUAY 


o 

I    saw    thee    first    with     trembling 

thankfulness, 
0  daughter  of  ray  hopes  and  of  my 


fears 


30 


Press' d    on    thy    senseless    cheek    a 

troubled  kiss, 
And  breathed  my  blessing  over  thee 

with  tears.  [alloy  ; 

But  memory  did  not  long  our  bliss 
For  gentle  nature,  who  had  given  relief, 
Wean'd  with  new  love  the  chasten"  d 

heart  from  grief  ; 
And  the  sweet  season  minister'd  to  joy. 


It  was  a  season  when  their  leaves  and 

flowers  [spread  ; 

The  trees  as  to  an  Arctic  summer 
When    chilling     wintry     winds    and 

snowy  showers, 
Which    had    too    long    usurp' d    the 

vernal  hours,  40 

Like    spectres    from    the    sight    of 

morning,  fled  [May  ; 

Before  the  presence  of   that  joyous 
And  groves  and  gardens  all  the  live- 
long day 
Rung  with  the  birds'  loud  love-songs. 

Over  all, 
One  thrush  was  heard  from  mom  till 

even-fall ;  [lay 

Thy  Mother  well  remembers,  when  she 
The  happy  prisoner  of  the  genial  bed, 
How  from  yon  lofty  poplar's  topmost 

spray 
At   earliest   dawn   his   thrilling   pipe 

was  heard  ; 
And,  when  the  light  of  evening  died 

away,  50 

That  blithe  and  indefatigable  bird 
Still  his  redundant  song  of  joy  and  love 

preferr'd. 


How  I  have  doted  on  thine  infant 
smiles 

At  morning,  when  thine  eyes  unclosed 
on  mine  ; 

How,  as  the  months  in  swift  succes- 
sion roU'd, 

I  mark'd  thy  human  faculties  unfold. 

And  watch'd  the  dawning  of  the 
light  divine  ; 


And  with  what  artifice  of  playful  guiles 
Won  from  thy  lips  with  still-repeated: 

wiles 
Kiss    after   kiss,    a   reckoning   often 

told.  .  .  60: 

Something  I  ween  thou  know'st ;  for 

thou  hast  seen  ' 

Thy  sisters  in  their  turn  such  fondness  1 

prove,  [years ' 

And  felt  how  childhood  in  its  winning 
The   attemper'd   soul   to    tenderness 

can  move. 
This  thou  canst   tell ;    but  not  the 

hopes  and  fears 
With   which   a   parent's   heart   doth 

overflow,  .  . 
The  thoughts  and  cares  inwoven  with 

that  love,  .  . 
Its  nature  and  its  depth,  thou  dost  not, 

canst  not  know. 

6  i 

The  years  which  since  thy  birth  have 

pass'd  away 
May   well   to   thy  young   retrospect 

appear  70 

A  measureless  extent :  .  .  like  yester- 
day [career. 
To  me,  so  soon  they  filled  their  short 
To  thee  discourse  of  reason  have  they 

brought. 
With  sense  of  time  and  change  ;   and 

something  too 
Of  this  precarious  state  of  things  have 

taught, 
Where  Man  abideth  never  in  one  stay; 
And  of  mortality  a  mournful  thought. 
And  I  have  seen  thine  eyes  suffused 

in  grief,  [grey 

When  I  have  said  that  with  autumnal 
The  touch  of  eld  hath  mark'd  thy 

father's  head  ;  80 

That  even  the  longest  day  of  life  is 

brief,  [leaf. 

And  mine  is  falling  fast  into  the  yellow 


Thy  happy  nature  from  the  painful 

thought 
With    instinct    turns,    and    scarcely 

canst  thou  bear 
To  hear  me  name  the  Grave  :    Thou 

knowest  not  [there ! 

How  large  a  portion  of  my  heart  is 


TO    EDITH   MAY    SOUTHEY 


UoU 


The  faces  which  I  loved  in  infancy 
Are    gone ;      and     bosom-friends    of 

riper  age, 
\\  itli  whom  1  fondly  talk'd  of  years 

to  come, 
Siimmond    before  me  to  their  heri- 
tage, 90 
Are  in  the  better  world,  beyond  the 

tomb. 
And    1    have    brethren    tiiere,    and 

sisters  dear. 
And  dearer  babes.     I  therefore  needs 

must  dwell 
fton  in  thought  with  those  whom  still 

1  love  so  well. 


Thus  wilt  thou  feel  in  thy  maturer 

mind  ; 
When  grief  shall  be  thy  portion,  thou 

wilt  rtnd 
Safe  consolation  in  such  thoughts  as 

these,  .  . 
A  present  refuge  in  affliction's  hour. 
And,    if    indulgent   Heaven    thy    lot 

should  bless 
With  all  imaginable  happiness,       100 
Here    shalt    thou    have,    my    child, 

be\'ond  all  power 
Of  chance,  thy  holiest,  surest,  best 

delight. 
Take    therefore    now    thy    Father's 

latest  lay,  .  . 
Perhaps  his  last ;  .  .  and  treasure  in 

thine  heart 
The  feelings  that  its  musing  strains 

convey. 
A  song  it  is  of  life's  declining  day, 
\ot  meet  for  youth.     Vain  passions 

to  excite, 
Xo  strains  of  morbid  sentiment  I  sing. 
Nor  tell  of  idle  loves  with  ill-spent 

breath  ; 
A  reverent  offering  to  the  Grave  I 

bring,  no 

And  twine  a  garland  for  the  brow  of 

Death. 


Keswick,  1814. 


PROEM 

That  was  a  memorable  day  for  Spain, 
W  luMi  onl'amploMRH  lowr'rM.Hobiihrly 

won,  Itheplaiii 

The  Frenchmen  stoo<l,  and  saw  uj^on 
Their  long-expected  HUceourH  haj«ten- 

i»K  on  :  (array. 

Exult ingly  they  mark'd  the  bravo 
And  tlcrm'd   their  leader  Hhould   hJH 

purpose  gain. 
Though     Wellington     and     England 

barr'd  the  way. 
Anon  the  bayonets  glitter'd  inthe  sun, 
And  fre(|uent  cainion  llasli'd,  whow^ 

lurid  light 
Redden'd  through  sul^ihurous  nnioke  ; 

fast  volleying  round  10 

RoU'd    the    war-tlnmders,    and    with 

long  rebound 
Backward    from    many    a   rock    and 

cloud-ca])t  height 
In  answering  peals  PjTene  sent   th 

sound. 
Impatient  for  relief,  toward  the  fight 
The  hungry  garrison  their  eye-balln 

strain  : 
Vain  was  the  Frenchman's  skill,  hi« 

valour  vain  ; 
And    even    then,    when    eager    hope 

almost  [prayer. 

Had  moved  their  irreligious  lipn  to 
Averting  from  the  fatal  Hcene  their 

sight,  fdeflpair. 

They  breathed  the  execrationH  of 
For     Wellesley's     star     hath     riwn 

ascendant  there  ;  2« 

Once    more    he    drove    the    host    of 

France  to  tlight. 
And  triumph'd  once  again  for  Oo<l  nnd 

for  the  right. 

That  was  a  day,  whoso  influence  far 

and  wide   '  I  a  j"y 

The  struggling  nations  felt  ;  it  wm 
Wherewith    all    Euroj>e    rung    from 

side  to  side.  \i\xi\r 

Yet  hath  Pamplona  seen  in  former 
A  moment   big  with  mightier  con»c- 

tjuenee.  (clinir. 

Affecting  many  an  ago  and  di*tAnt 
That  day   it    was   which  im»w   in   her 

defence,  •>** 


660 


A   TALE    OF   PARAGUAY 


Contending  with  the  French  before 

her  wall, 
A  noble  soldier  of  Guipuzcoa  fall, 
8ore  hurt,   but  not   to  death.     For 

when  long  care 
Restored   his   shatter' d   leg   and   set 

him  free,  [formity, 

He  would  not  brook  a  slight  de- 
As  one  who,  being  gay  and  debonnair. 
In  courts  conspicuous  as  in  camps 

must  be  : 
So  he  forsooth  a  shapely  boot  must 

wear ;  [life, 

And  the  vain  man,  with  peril  of  his 

Laid  the  recover' d  limb  again  beneath 

the  knife.  40 

Long  time  upon  the  bed  of  pain  he  lay 
Whiling  with  books  the  weary  hours 

away  ; 
And  from  that  circumstance  and  this 

vain  man  [began, 

A  train  of  long  events  their  course 
Whose  term  it  is  not  given  us  yet  to 

sec.  [name. 

Who  hath  not  heard  Loyola's  sainted 
Before    whom    Kings    and    Nations 

bow'd  the  knee  ? 
Thy  annals,  Ethiopia,  might  proclaim 
What  deeds  arose  from  that  prolific 

day; 
And  of  dark  plots  might  shuddering 

Europe  tell.  50 


But  Science  too  her  trophies  wou 

display  ; 
Faith  give  the  martyrs  of  Japan  the 

fame ;  [dw€ 

And  Charity  on  works  of  love  wou 
In  California's  dolorous  regions  dreai 
And  where,  amid  a  pathless  world  v 

wood,  [w&i 

Gathering  a  thousand  rivers  on  h* 
Huge  Orellana  rolls  his  affluent  flood 
And    where    the    happier    sons    ( 

Paraguay, 
By  gentleness  and  pious  art  subduec 
Bow'd  their  meek  heads  beneath  th 

Jesuits'  sway,  6 

And  lived  and  died  in  filial  servitudt, 

I  love  thus  uncontroird,as  in  a  dream 
To  muse  upon  the  course  of  humai 

things ;  | 

Exploring    sometimes    the    remotes ; 

springs,  [gleam 

Far  as  tradition  lends  one  guiding 
Or  following,  upon  Thought's  auda 

cious  wings. 
Into  Futurity,  the  endless  stream.      | 
But  now,  in  quest  of  no  ambitious 

height,  [way. 

I  go  where  Truth  and  Nature  lead  mj 
And,   ceasing    here    from    desultory 

flight,  70 

In  measured  strains  I  tell  a  Tale  of 

Paraguay. 


<^ 


A  TALE   OF  PARAGUAY 


CANTO  I 

1 

Jenner  !  for  ever  shall  thy  honour' d 

name  [blest. 

Among  the  children  of  mankind  be 
Who  by  thy  skill  hast  taught  us  how 

to  tame  [pest 

One  dire  disease,  .  .  the  lamentable 
Which  Africa  sent  forth  to  scourge 

the  West, 

As  if  in  vengeance  for  her  sable  brood 

80  many  an  age  remorselessly  opprest. 

For  that  most  fearful  malady  subdued 

Receive    a    poet's    praise,    a    father's 

gratitude. 


Fair  promise  be  this  triumph  of  an 

age,  10 

When    Man,    with    vain    desires    no  ■  | 

longer  blind,  '  * 

And  wise  though  late,  his  only  war    ' 

shall  wage  [mankind, 

Against  the  miseries  which  afflict 
Striving    with    virtuous    heart    and 

strenuous  mind  [away. 

Till  evil  from  the  earth  shall  pass 
Lo,  this  his  glorious  destiny  assign' d  ! 
For  that  blest  consummation  let  us 

pray, 
And  trust  in  fervent  faith,  and  labour 

as  we  may. 


CANTO    1 


(i(il 


riic  hideous  malady  which  lost  its 

power 
When  Jeiuicr's  art  the  dire  contagion 

stay'U,  20 

Among  Columbia's  sons,  in  fatal  hour 
Across     the     wide     Atlantic     wave 

convey' d,  [play'd  : 

Its    ticrcest    form    of    pestilence  dis- 
Where'er  its  deadly  course  the  jilague 

began 
Vainly   the  wretched  sufferer  look'd 

for  aid  ; 
Parent   from  child,   and  child   from 

parent  ran, 
'or  tyrannous  fear  dissolved  all  natural 

bonds  of  man. 


A  feeble  nation  of  Guarani  race, 
Thinn'd     by     perpetual     wars,     but 

unsubdued, 
Had  taken  up  at  length  a  resting-place 
Among    those    tracts    of    lake    and 

swamp  and  wood,  31 

\\'here     Mondai     issmng     from     its 

solitude 
Flows   with   slow   stream   to   Empa- 

lado's  bed. 
It  was  a  region  desolate  and  rude  ; 
But  thither  had  the  horde  for  safety 

fled, 
.\.ud    being    there    conceal' d    in    peace 

their  lives  they  led. 

L  ^ 

There  had  the  tribe  a  safe  asylum 

/  found 

Amid  those  marshes  wide  and  wood- 
lands dense, 
With  pathless  wilds  and  waters  spread 

around. 
And    labyrinthine    swamps,    a    sure 
defence  40 

From  human  foes,  .  .  but  not  from 
tMt  pestilence. 

\    The   spotted   plague   appear' d,    that 
direst  ill,  .  . 
How  brought  among  them  none  could 
tell,  or  whence  :  [still. 

The  mortal  seed  had  lam  among  them 
And  quicken'd  now  to  work  the  I..ord's 
mysterious  will. 


Alas,  it  wns  no  modicablo  grief 
Which  bei  bs  might  reach  !   Nor  could 

the  juggler's  power 
With  all  his  antic  mummcricB  bring 

relief.  (hour. 

Faith  might  not  aid  him  in  that  ruling 
Himself  a  victim  now.       The  dread- 
ful stour  50 
None  could  cscajH',  nor  aught  its  force 

assuage. 
The    marriageable    maiden    had    htf 

dower 
From  death  ;    the  strong  man  sunk 

beneath  itti  rage, 
And  death  cut  short  the  thread  of  chil<l- 

hood  and  of  age. 


No    time    for    customary    mourning 

now  ; 
With  hand  close-clcnch'd  to  pluck  the 

rooted  hair. 
To  beat  the  bosom,  on  the  swelling 

brow  [tear 

Inflict  redoubled  blows,  and  blindly 
The  cheeks,  indenting  bloody  furrowu 

there. 
The    deep-traced    signs    indeUblo    of 

woe ;  60 

Then  to  some  crag,  or  bank  abrupt, 

repair,  [throw 

And,  giving  giief  its  scope,  infuriate 

The  impatient  body  thence  upon  the 

earth  below. 


Devices  these  by  poor  weak  nature 

taught. 
Which    thus    a    change    of    buffering 

would  obtain  ; 
And,  flying  from  intolerable  thought 
And  piereuig  recollections,  would  full 

fain 
Distract  itself  by  sense  of  lle«hly  p«in 
From    anguish    that    the   uoul    mual 

else  rndure. 
Easier  all  outward  tormeuttf  to  lU*- 

tain,  7» 

Than  thost-  lKail-wound»  whieh  only 

tinu'  ean  eurr, 
And  He  in  whom  alun«  tl.i-  ho\Hn  of  man 

liiv  ^ure. 


662 


A   TALE   OF   PARAGUAY 


None  sorrow' d  here  ;  the  sense  of  woe 

was  sear'd,  [ill. 

When  every  one  endured  his  own  sore 
The  prostrate  sufferers  neither  hoped 

nor  fear'd  ; 
The    body    labourVl,    but    the    heart 

was  still :  .  . 
So  let  the  conquering  malady  fulfil 
Its  fatal  course,  rest  cometh  at  the 

end  !  [will 

Passive  they  lay  with  neither  wish  nor 
For  aught  but  this  ;  nor  did  they  long 

attend  80 

That   welcome   boon  from   death,   the 

never-failing  friend. 

10 

Who  is  there  to  make  ready  now  the 

pit, 
The  house  that  will  content  from  this 

day  forth 
Its  easy  tenant  ?    Who  in  vestments  fit 
Shall  swathe  the  sleeper  for  his  bed  of 

earth, 
Now   tractable  as   when  a    babe   at 

birth  ? 
Who  now  the  ample  funeral  urn  shall 

knead, 
And  burying  it  beneath  his  proper 

hearth 
Deposit  there  with  careful  hands  the 

dead. 
And  lightly  then  relay  the  floor  above 

his  head  ?  90 


Unwept,   unshrouded,   and   unsepul- 

chred, 
The  hammock  where   they  hang  for 

winding  sheet 
And  grave  suffices  the  deserted  dead  : 
There  from  the  armadillo's  searching 

feet 
tSafer  than  if  within  the  tomb's  re- 
treat. 
The  carrion  birds  obscene  in  vain  essay 
To    find    that    quarry :     round    and 

round  they  beat 
The  air,  but  fear  to  enter  for  their 

prey, 
And  from  the  silent  door  the  jaguar 

turns  away. 


12 

But  nature  for  her  universal  law  lot 
Hath  other  surer  instruments  in  store 
Whom  from  the  haunts  of  men  nc' 

wonted  awe 
Withholds     as     with     a     spell.     In 

swarms  they  pour 
From  wood  and  swamp  :    and  when 

their  work  is  o'er, 
On  the  white  bones  the  mouldering' 

roof  will  fall ; 
Seeds  will  take  root,  and  spring  in  sun 

and  shower  ; 
And  Mother  Earth  ere  long  with  her 

green  pall, 
Resuming   to   herself    the    wreck,    will 

cover  all. 

I 

Oh  !  better  thus  with  earth  to  have'i 
their  part,  109 

Than  in  Egyptian  catacombs  to  lie, 

Age  after  age  preserved  by  horrid  art, ; 

In  ghastly  image  of  humanity  ! 

Strange  pride  that  with  corruption* 
thus  would  vie  !  ; 

And  strange  delusion  that  would  thus ; 
maintain 

The  fleshly  form,  till  cycles  shall  pass 

by, 

And  in  the  series  of  the  eternal  chain, 
The  spirit  come  to  seek  its  old  abode 
again. 

14  ''■'' 

One  pair  alone  survived  the  general 

fate  ; 
Left    in    such    drear    and    mournful 

solitude, 
That  death  might  seem  a  preferable 

state.  120 

Not  more  deprest  the  Arkite  patriarch 

stood. 
When    landing    first    on    Ararat    he 

view'd, 
AVhere    all     around     the     mountain 

summits  lay, 
Like  islands  seen  amid  the  boundless 

flood: 
Nor  our   first  parents   move  forlorn 

than  they. 
Through   Eden   when   they  took   their 

solitary  way. 


ail 


lilt  pi 
loi 

i'i 
HieTH 

M' 

ID 


hi 


I 


CANTO    i 


003 


15 

Alike  to  them,  it  6eem' din  their  despair. 
Whither    they    wauder'd    from    the 

infected  spot. 
Chance  might  direct  their  steps  :  they 

took  no  care  ; 
Come  well  or  ill  to  them,  it  matter'd 

not !  130 

Left  as  they  were  in  that  unhappy  lot, 
The  solo  survivora  they  of  all  their 

race. 
They  reck'd  not  when  their  fate,  nor 

where,  nor  what,  [case. 

In   this  resignment  to  their  hopeless 
:  .i:ierent  to  all  choice  or  circumstance 

of  place. 

16 
Tiiat  palsying  stupor  pass'd  away  ore 

long. 
And,  as  the  spring  of  health  resum'd 

its  power. 
They  felt  that  life  was  dear,  and  iiope 

was  strong. 
What  marvel  ?    'Twas  with  them  the 

morning  hour. 
\\  hen  bliss  appears  to  be  the  uatuial 

tlower  140 

<Jf  all   the   creatures  of  this  joyous 

earth  ; 
And    sorrow    fleeting    like    a   vernal 

shower  [mirth ; 

>>arce  interrupts  the  current  of  our 

Such  is  the  happy  heart  we  bring  with 

us  at  birth. 

17 
Though  of  his  nature  and  his  bound- 
less love  [sense. 
Erring,    yet    tutor'd    by    instinctive 
Tliey  rightly  deem'd  the  Power  who  ' 
rules  above                   [pestilence.  | 
Had   saved   them   from   the   wasting 
That  favouring  Power  would  still  be 
their  defence  : 
'•     Thus  were  they  by  their  late  deliver- 
I             ance  taught  150 
k/   To  place  a  child-like  trust  in  Provi- 
l*             dence, 

And  in  their  state  forlorn  they  fomid 
this  thought 
Uf  natural  faith  with  hope  and  consola- 
tion fraught. 


18 

And  now  they  built  thomsclvwj  a  Ic^ly 

bower,  [bwidr. 

Amid  a  ghwle.  slow  MondaiH  Mn««in 
Screen' d  from  the  Houthcm  bla*t  of 

])iercing  power : 
Not  like  their  native  dwelling,  long 

and  wide, 
By  skilful  toil  of  numlK-rs  edilied. 
The  common  home  of  all,  their  human 

nest. 
Where  throeacoro  hammockii  {wndaiit 

side  by  side  160 

Were  ranged,  and  on  the  ground  the 

tires  were  drest ; 
Alas,  that  populous  hive  hath  now  no 

livmg  guest  ! 

11) 
A  few  (irm  stakes  they  planted  in  the 

ground. 
Circling   a   narrow   space,   yet   iargo 

enow  ; 
These  strongly  interknit  they  clostxl 

around 
With  basket-work  of  many  a  pliant 

bough. 
The  roof  was  like  the  sides  ;   the  doo. 

was  low. 
And  rude  the  hut,  ami  trimm'd  with 

little  care,  [now  ; 

For  little  heart  had  they  to  dre««  it 
Yet  was  the  humble  structure  fresh 

and  fair,  i7« 

And  soon  its  inmates  found  that  lo\e 

might  sojourn  there. 

20 
Quiara  could  i-ecall  to  mind  the  touTBo 
Of    twenty    summers ;     i)erfeclly    ho 

knew 
Whate'er  his  fathers  taught  of  »kill 

or  force. 
Right  to  the  mark  his  whixring  Unco 

he  threw. 
And  from  his  bow  the  unerring  arrow 

flew  (»>«> 

With  fatal  aim  :    and  when  the  laden 
15u/;t'd  by  him  in  ita  flight,  he  couUl 

pursue  (frro 

Its  path  with  certain  ken,  and  follow 

I  nlil  he  traced  the  hive  in  hiddi-n  bank 

or  tree.  »•« 


664 


A  TALE   OF   PARAGUAY 


21 

Of   answering  years   was  Monnema, 

nor  less  [ways. 

Expert    in    all    her    sex's  household 
The  Indian  weed  she  skilfully  could 

dress ; 
And  in  what  depth  to  drop  the  yellow 

maize 
8he  knew,  and  when  around  its  stem 

to  raise 
The  lighten' d  soil ;  and  well  could  she 

prepare 
Its  ripen' d  seed  for  food,  her  proper 

praise ;  [care 

Or  in  the  embers  turn  with  frequent 

Its  succulent  head  yet  green,  sometimes 

for  daintier  fare. 

22 

And  how  to  macerate  the  bark  she 
knew,  190 

And  draw  apart  its  beaten  fibres  fine, 

And,  bleaching  them  in  sun,  and  air, 
and  dew, 

From  dry  and  glossy  filaments  en- 
twine 

With  rapid  twirl  of  hand  the  length- 
ening line  ; 

Next,  interknitting  well  the  twisted 
thread,  [combine, 

In    many   an   even    mesh   its   knots 

And   shape   in    tapering   length   the 
pensile  bed, 
Light  hammock  there  to  hang  beneath 
the  leafy  shed. 

23 

Time  had  been  when,  expert  in  works 

of  clay, 
She  lent  her  hands  the  swelling  urn 

to  mould,  200 

And  fill'd  it  for  the  appointed  festal 

day  [bold 

With  the  beloved  beverage  which  the 
Quati'd  in  their  triumph  and  their  joy 

of  old  ;  [rude, 

The  fruitful  cause  of  many  an  uproar 
When,  in  their  drunken  bravery  un- 

controH'd, 
8ome  bitter  jest  awoke  the  dormant 

feud. 
And   wrath   and   rage   and   strife   and 

wounds  and  death  ensued. 


24 


the 
once   had; 


These  occupations  were  gone  by 

skill 
Was   useless   now,    which 

been  her  pride. 
Content  were  they,  when  thirst  im 

pell'd,  to  fill  nam 

The    dry    and    hollow    gourd    from 

Mondai's  side  ; 
The  river  from  its  sluggish  bed  sup-' 

plied 
A  draught  for  repetition  all  unmeet ; 
Howbeit  the  bodily  want  was  satisfied, 
No  feverish  pulse  ensued,  nor  ireful 

heat. 
Their    days    were    undisturb'd,    their 

natural  sleep  was  sweet. 

25 

She  too  had  learnt  in  youth  how  best 
to  trim  [day, 

The  honour' d  Chief  for  his  triumphal 

And    covering    with    soft   gums    the' 
obedient  limb  ! 

And  body,  then  with  feathers  over- ; 
lay,  220 

In  regular  hues  disposed,  a  rich  dis- 
play. 

Well-pleased  the  glorious  savage  stood 
and  eyed 

The  growing  work ;    then  vain  of  his 
array 

Look'd  with  complacent  frown  from 
side  to  side. 
Stalk' d   with   elater  step,   and   swell' d 
with  statelier  pride. 

26 
Feasts    and    carousals,    vanity    and 

strife, 
Could  have  no  place  with  them  in 

solitude 
To  break  the  tenor  of  their  even  life. 
Quiara  day  by  day  his  game  pursued, 
Searching  the  air,  the  water,  and  the 

wood,  230 

With  hawk-like  eye,  and  arrow  sure 

as  fate  ;  [food : 

And  Monnema  prepared  the  hunter's 
Cast  with  him  here  in   this  forlorn 

estate. 
In  all  things  for  the  man   was  she  a 

fittino;  mate. 


CANTO   1 


27 


lier 


The    Moon    had    gather' d    oft 

monthly  store 
;  Of  light,  and  oft  in  darkness  left  the 

sky,  L^o'-' 

Since   Monnema   a    growing  burthen 
Of    life    and    hope.      The    appointed 

weeks  go  by  ; 
And  now  her  hour  is  come,  and  none 

is  nigh 
To  help  :   but  human  help  she  needed 

none.  240 

A    few    short    throes    endured    with 

scarce  a  cry,  [son, 

Ipon  the  bank  she  laid  her  new-born 

Chen  slid  into  the  stream,  and  bathed, 

and  all  was  done. 


Might    old    observances    have    there 

been  kept, 
Then    should    the   husband    to    that 

pensile  bed. 
Like  one  exhausted  with  the  birth 

have  crept,  [head. 

And,  laying  down  in  feeble  guise  his 
For  many  a  day   been  nursed  and 

dieted  [due. 

With  tender  care,  to  childing  mothers 
Cert€s  a  custom  strange,  and  yet  far 

spread  250 

Through  many  a  savage  tribe,  howe'er 

it  grew, 
And  once  in  the  old  world  known  as 

widely  as  the  new. 


H. 


29 


he 


This  could   not   then   be  done 

might  not  lay 
The  bow  and  those  unerring  shafts 

aside  ; 
Nor    through    the    appointed    weeks 

forego  the  prey,  [wide, 

Still  to  be  sought  amid  those  regions 
None    being    there    who   should    the 

while  provide 
That    lonely    household    with    their 

needful  food  : 
So  still  Quiara  through  the  forest  plied 
His  daily  task,  and  in  the  thickest 

wood  260 

Still  laid  his  snares  for  birds,  and  still 

the  chase  pursued. 


30 

liut   seldom    may   such    thought«  of 

mingled  joy 
A  father's  agitated  breast  dilate, 
As  when  ho  lirst   beheld  that  infnnt 

boy. 
Who    hath    not    proved    it,    ill    (an 

estimate 
The  feeling  of  that  stirring  hour.  .  . 

the  weight 
Of   that   new   sense,    the   thoughtful. 

pensive  bliss. 
In  all  the  changes  of  our  changeful 

state. 
Even  from  the  cradle  to  tho  grave, 

I  wis. 
The  heart  doth  undergo  no  change  no 

great  as  this.  970 

31 
A  deeper  and  unwonted  feeling  till'd 
These  parents,  gazing  on  their  new- 
born son. 
Aire  idy  in  their  busy  hopes  they  build 
On  this  frail  sand.  Now  let  the  8ea*on« 
run,  [done 

And  let  the  natural  work  of  time  Ikj 
With  them,  .  .  for  unto  them  a  child  is 

born  : 
And  when  the  hand  of  Death   may 

reach  the  one. 
The   other   will   not   now   Ix*   Irft    to 
mourn 
A  solitary  wretch,  all  utterly  forlorn. 

Thus  Monnema  and  thus  Quiara 
thought,  ««o 

Though  each  the  melancholy  thought 
rep  rest ; 

They  could  not  choos*"!  but  fei'l.  yet 
utter'd  not 

The  human  feeling,  which  in  hours  of 
rest 

Often  would  rise,  and  fill  tho  Inxling 
breast 

With  a  dreml  foretaHte  of  that  mourn- 
ful day. 

WlM-n.  at  the  in»>xorahlo  I'owrr'ii 
behest.  (away. 

The  unwilling  Hpirit.  ealli"*!  |M'rfor«  •« 
Must  leave,  for  ever  Irnve,  itM  dear  con- 
natural clay. 


666 


A   TALE    OF   PARAGUAY 


33 

Link'd  as  they  were,  where  each  to 

each  was  all, 
How  might  the  poor  survivor  hope  to 

bear  290 

That    heaviest    loss    which    one    day 

must  befall. 
Nor  sink  beneath  the  weight  of  his 

despair  V 
Scarce   could   the   heart   even   for   a 

moment  dare 
That  miserable  time  to  contemplate, 
When    the    dread   Messenger  should 

find  them  there, 
From   whom  is  no  escape,   .   .   and 

reckless  Fate, 
Whom  it  had  bound  so  close,  for  ever 

separate. 

3.4 

Lighter  that  burthen  lay   upon   the 

heart 
When  this  dear  babe  was  born  to 

share  their  lot ; 
They  could  endure  to  think  that  they 

must  part.  300 

Then  too  a  glad  consolatory  thought 
Arose,  while  gazing  on  the  child  they 

sought 
With  hope  their  dreary  prospect  to 

delude,  [taught, 

Till  they  almost  believed,  as  fancy 
How  that  from  them  a  tribe  should 

spring  renew' d. 
To    people    and    possess    that    ample 

solitude. 

35 
Such  hope  they  felt,   but  felt  that 

whatsoe'er  [prove. 

The  undiscoverable  to  come  might 
Unwise  it  were  to  let  that  bootlesscare 
Disturb  the  present  hours  of  peace 

and  love.  310 

For  they  had  gain'd  a  happiness  above 
The  state  which  in  their  native  horde 

was  known  : 
No  outward  causes  were  there  here  to 

move 
Discord  and  alien  thoughts ;    being 

thus  alone 
From  all  mankind,  their  hearts  and  their 

desires  were  one. 


36 

Different  their  love  in  kind  and  i: 

degree 
From  what  their  poor  depraved  fore 

fathers  knew, 
With  whom  degenerate  instincts  wer 

left  free  [pursue 

To  take  their  course,  and  blindly  t' 
Unheeding  they   the   ills   that   mus 

ensue,  32 

The  bent  of  brute  desire.     No  mora 

tie  [crev 

Bound  the  hard  husband  to  his  serviL 
Of  wives  ;    and  they  the  chance  o 

change  might  try. 
All  love  destroy' d  by  such  preposteroui 

liberty. 


I*? 

ail 


Is::; 


37 
Far  other  tie  this  solitary  pair 
Indissolubly  bound  ;    true  helpmatei 

they. 
In  joy  or  grief,  in  weal  or  woe  tc 

share. 
In  sickness  or  in  health,  through  life' 

long  day ; 
And  reassuming  in  their  hearts  hei 

sway 
Benignant  Nature  made  the  burthen 

light.  33c—  .- 

It  was  the  Woman's  pleasure  to  obeyj    & 
The  Man's  to  ease  her  toil  in  all  h€; 

might,  I 

80  each  in  serving  each  obtain  d  the 

best  delight. 


38 
And  as  connubial,  so  parental  love 
Obey'd  unerring  Nature's  order  here,' 
For  now  no  force  of  impious  custom 

strove 
Against  her  law  ;  .  .  such  as  was  wont 

to  sear 
The     imhappy     heart     with     usages 

severe,  ; 

Till  harden'd  mothers  in   the  grave  j 

could  lay 
Their  living  babes  with  no  compunc- 1 

tious  tear  ;  340 

So    monstrous    men    become,    when 

from  the  way 
Of  primal  light  they  turn  thro'  heathen  i 

paths  astray. 


CANTO   1 


(it), 


39 

Dcliver'd   from   this   yoke,    in    tliem 

henceforth 
The  springs  of  natural  love  may  freely 

flow  : 
\r\v    joys,    new    virtues    with    that 

happy  birth 
Are    born,    and    with    the    growing 

infant  grow. 
Source  of  our  purest  happiness  below 
la   that    benignant   law    which   hath 

entwine<l 
4    Dearest  deligiit  with  strongest  duty  so, 
1 1  That     in     the     healthy     heart     and 

righteous  mind  350 

^ver  they  co-exist,   inseparably  com- 
bined. 

40 
Oh  !    bliss  for  them  when   in    that 
(  infant  face 

They    now    the    mifolding    faculties 
I  descry. 

And  fondly  gazing,  trace  .  .  or  think 

they  trace 
The  first  faint  speculation  in  that  eye, 
Wliich  hitherto  hath  roll'd  in  vacancy ! 
Oh  !    bliss  in  that  soft  countenance 

to  seek 
Some  mark  of  recognition,  and  espy 
The  quiet  smile  which  in  the  innocent 
cheek 
){  kindness  and  of  kind  its  conscious- 
ness doth  speak  !  360 

41 
For  him,  if  born  among  their  native 
tribe, 
i  Some  haughty  name  his  parents  had 
thought  good. 
As  weening  that  therewith  they  should 
'  ascribe 

The  strength  of  some  fierce  tenant  of 
the  wood, 
j    The  water,  or  the  aerial  solitude, 
;    Jaguar    or    vulture,     water- wolf    or 
I  snake. 

The    beast    that    prowls    abroad    in 

search  of  blood. 
Or  reptile  that  within  the  treacherous 
brake 
IWaita  for  the  })rey,  uneoifd,  its  hunger 
to  aslake. 


42 

Now  soften'd  as  their  .spirilN  wcrt*  by 

love,  3^ 

Abhorrent   from  such  thoughta  they 

turn'd  away  ;  (dovr. 

And,  witii  a  happier  feeling,  from  the 
They  named  the  Child   Veruti.     On 

a  day 
When  smiling  at  his  mother'^  brra«t 

in  play, 
They    in    his    tones    of    murnmring 

pleasure  heard 
A    sweet   resemblance   of   the   «toek- 

dove's  lay. 
Fondly   tiuy 'named  him  from   that 

gentle  bird. 
And  soon  such  happy  use  cndear'd  the 

fitting  word. 

43 
Days  pass,  and  moon«  have  wax'd 

and  waned,  and  still 
This   dovelet   nestled   in    their   leafy 

bower  380 

Obtains  increase  of  sense,  and  strength 

and  will. 
As  in  due  order  many  a  latent  j>ower 
Expands.     .     .     humanity's    exalted 

dower:  (fled. 

And  they,  while  thus  the  days  serenely 
Beheld  him  flourish  like  a  vigotou.'i 

flower,  (head, 

Which,  lifting  from  a  genial  soil  its 

By  seasonable  suns  and  kindly  nhowcrs 

is  fed. 

44 
Ere  long  the  cares  of  helplc-^j^  baby- 
hood (plucf. 
To   the  next   stage  of  infancy  gi^o 
That    age    with    sense    of    con»ciou8 

growth  endue<l,  39© 

When  every  gesture  hath  it.x  prop«r 

grace  : 
Then   come   the   unsteady   ntrp,    the 

tottering  i)aee  ; 
And    watchful    hoinvs    and    emulous 

thoughts  apiH-ar  ; 
Tlie  imitative  lips  e.Hsay  to  traee 
Their  word.s,  observant  both  with  ryr 

and  ^ar. 
In  mutilated  sounds  which  i>arentB  lo\c 

to  hear. 


668 


A   TALE    OF   PARAGUAY 


45 

Serenely  thus  the  seasons  pass  away  ; 
And,  oh  !    how  rapidly  they  seem  to 

fly  [to-day 

With  those  for  whom  to-morrow  like 

Glides  on  in  peaceful  uniformity  !  400 

,     Five  years  have  since  Yeruti's  birth 

gone  by, 
Fi ve.happy  years !  . .  and,  ere  the  Moon 

which  then 
Hung  like  a  Sylphid's  light  canoe  on 

high 
Should  fill  its  circle,  Monnema  again 
Laying  her  burthen  down   must  bear 

a  mother's  pain. 

46 

Alas,  a  keener  pang  before  that  day  • 
Must  by  the  wretched  Monnema  be 

borne  ! 
In  quest  of  game  Quiara  went  his  way 
To  roam  the  wilds  as  he  was  wont,  one 

morn  ; 
She   look'd   in   vain   at   eve  for  his 

return.  410 

By  moonlight  through  the  midnight 

solitude 
She  sought  him  ;    and  she  found  his 

garment  torn, 
His  bow  and  useless  arrows  in  the 

wood, 
Marks  of  a  jaguar's  feet,  a  broken  spear, 

and  blood. 


CANTO   II 


O  THOU  who    listening  to  the  Poet's 

song 
Dost  yield  thy  willing  spirit  to  his 

sway, 
Look    not    that   I    should    painfully 

prolong 
The  sad  narration  of  that  fatal  day 
With  tragic  details  :    all  too  true  the 

lay  ! 
Nor  is  my  purpose  e'er  to  entertain 
The  heart  with  useless  grief  ;    but,  as 

I  may. 
Blend   in   my   calm   and   meditative 

strain  [pain. 

CJonsolatory  thoughts,  the  balm  for  real 


0  Youth  or  Maiden,  whosoe'er  th( 

art. 
Safe  in  my  guidance  may  thy  spii 
be; 

1  wound   not   wantonly   the   tend 

heart : 
And  if  sometimes  a  tear  of  sympatl 
Should  rise,  it  will  from  bitterness  I 

free  .  . 
Yea,  with  a  healing  virtue  be  endue 
As  thou  in  this  true  tale  shalt  he. 

from  me 
Of  evils  overcome,  and  grief  subdue 
And  virtues  springing  up  like  flowers 

solitude. 


The  unhappy  Monnema,  when  thi, 

bereft,  ' 

Sunk    not    beneath    the    desolatin' 

blow,  :■ 

Widow'd  she  was :   but  still  her  chilj 

was  left ;  1 

For  him  must  she  sustain  the  weigL 

of  woe,  ; 

Which  else  would  in  that  hour  ha\ 

have  laid  her  low.  ; 

Nor  wish'd  she  now  the  work  of  deat] 

complete :  \ 

Then  only  doth  the  soul  of  womai 

know 
Its  proper  strength,  when  love  an 

duty  meet ; 
Invincible  the  heart  wherein  they  hav 

their  seat. 


i 


Ui 


The  seamen,  who  upon  some  coral  ree 
Are  cast  amid  the  interminable  main; 
Still  cling  to  life,  and,  hoping  for  reliel* 
Drag  on  their  days  of  wretchednesj 

and  pain.  31 

In  turtle  shells  they  hoard  the  scanty? 

rain, 
And  eat  its  flesh,  sun-dried  for  lack  0 

fire. 
Till  the  weak  body  can  no  more  sus 

tain 
Its    wants,    but    sinks    beneath    it; 

sufferings  dire  ; 
Most  miserable  man  who  sees  the  res* 

expire  ! 


CANTO    II 


(Hi{i 


|i  He  lingers  there   wliile  months   nnd 

.  years  go  by  : 

^\  And   holds  his  hope  though  months 
and  years  have  ])ast  ; 
And    still    at    morning    round     the 

farthest  sk}-, 
And  still  at  eve  his  eagle  glance  is 
cast,  40 

If  there  he  may   behold   the  far-otT 

mast 
Arise,  for  which  he  hath  not  ceased 

to  pray. 
And  if  perchance  a  ship  should  come 

at  last, 
And  bear  him  from  that  dismal  bank 
away, 
ie  blesses  God  that  he  hath  lived  to  see 
that  day. 


,   So  strong  a  hold  hath  life  upon  the 
I  soul, 

I    Which  sees  no   dawning   of   eternal 
light, 
But  subject  to  this  mortal  frame's 

controul. 
Forgetful  of  its  origin  and  right. 
Content  in  bondage  dwells  and  utter 
night.  50 

By  worthier  ties  was  this  poor  mother 

bound 
To  life  ;    even  while  her  grief  was  at 

the  height, 
Tlien  in  maternal  love  support  she 
found, 
.\nd  in  maternal  cares  a  healing  for  her 
wound. 


j  /  For  now  her  hour  is  come  :    a  girl  is 
j  /  bom, 

i     Poor  infant,  all  unconscious  of  its  fate, 
J     How    passing    strange,    how    utterly 

forlorn  ! 

i     The  genial  season  served  to  mitiiiate 

In  all  it  might  their  sorrowful  estate. 

Supplying  to  the  mother  at  her  door 

From  neighbouring  trees,  which  bent 

beneath  their  weight,  61 

A  full  supply  of  fruitage  now  mature, 

80  in  that  time  of  need  their  sustenance 

was  sure. 


Nor   (hen   nione.   but    nlway  <li<l    the 

Eyi^ 
Of    Mercy    look    upon     that     ionply 

bower. 
Days  pas.s'd.  and  weeks  and  njontliH 

aiui  years  went  by  ; 
And  never  evil  thing  the  while  had 

power 
To  enter  there.     The  boy  in  .sun  and 

shower 
Rejoicing  in  his  strength  to  youthhwl 

grew  ; 
And    Mooma,    that    beloved    girl,    a 

dower  70 

Of  gentleness  from  bount^'oua  nature 

drew. 
With  all  that  should  the  heart  of  woman- 
kind imbue. 

1) 
The  tears,  which  o'er  her  infancy  were 

shed 
Profuse,  resented  not  of  grief  alone  : 
Maternal  love  their  bitterness  allny'd. 
And  with  a  strength  and  virtue  all  its 

own 
Sustain'd  the  breaking  heart,   A  look, 

a  tone, 
A  gesture  of  that  innocent  balx*.  in 

eyes 
With  saddest  recollections  overflown 
Would  sometimes  make  a  tender  smile 

arise,  «o 

Like  sunshine  opening  thro'  a  shower  in 

vernal  skies. 

10 
No  looks  but  those  of  tendcmeas  were 

found 
To   turn   upon   that   helpless  infant 

dear  ; 
And,  as   her   sen.so    unfolded,    never 

sound 
Of  wrath  or  discord  brake  upon  her 

ear. 
Her  soul  its  native  purity  sincf re 
Possess'd,  by  no  example  here  deliled  ; 
From  envious  paattions  free,  exempt 

from  fear. 
Unknowing  «»f  ftH  iU.  ani><l  **'*'  *''** 
Beloving  and  U-1ov.h|  mU,-  wtw,.  u  li'M-py 

child. 


670 


A   TALE   OF   PARAGUAY 


11 

Yea,  where  that  solitary  bower  was 

placed, 
Though   all   unlike   to   Paradise   the 

scene, 
(A  wide  circumference  of  woodland's 

waste  : ) 
Something  of   what  in   Eden   might 

have  been 
Was   shadow' d   there  imperfectly,   I 

ween. 
In  this  fair  creature :    safe  from  all 

offence, 
Expanding    like    a    shelter' d    plant 

serene. 
Evils  that  fret  and  stain  being  far 

from  thence. 
Her  heart  in  peace  and  joy  retain' d  its 

innocence.  99 

12 

At  first  the  infant  to  Yeruti  proved 
A  cause  of  wonder  and  disturbing  joy. 
A  stronger  tie  than  that  of  kindred 

moved 
His  inmost  being,  as  the  happy  boy 
Felt  in  his  heart  of  hearts  without  alloy 
The  sense  of  kind  :    a  fellow  creature 

she, 
In  whom,  when  now  she  ceased  to  be 

a  toy 
For  tender  sport,  his  soul  rejoiced  to 

see 
Connatural  powers  expand,  and  growing 

sympathy. 

13 

For  her  he  cull'd  the  fairest  flowers, 

and  sought 
Throughout   the   woods   the  earliest 

fruits  for  her.  no 

The  cayman's  eggs,  the  honeycomb 

he  brought 
To  this  beloved  sister,  .  .  whatsoe'er, 
To  his  poor  thought,  of  delicate  or 

rare 
The  wilds  might  yield,  solicitous  to 

find. 
They  who  affirm  all  natural  acts  de- 
clare 
Self-love  to  be  the  ruler  of  the  mind, 
Judge  from  their  own  mean  hearts,  and 

foully  wrong  mankind. 


14 

Three  souls  in  whom  no  selfishness  h 

place 
Were  here :   three  happy  souls,  whic 

undefiled, 
Albeit   in   darkness,   still  retain' d 

trace  i 

Of  their  celestial  origin.     The  wild 
Was  as   a  sanctuary   where   Natu 

smiled  ' 

Upon   these  simple  children  of   h- 

own,  1 

And,  cherishing  whate'er  was  met 

and  mild,  ' 

Call'd  forth  the  gentle  virtues,  sue 

alone,  i 

The  evils  which  evoke  the  stronger  beir- 

unknown. 

15 

What  though  at  birth  we  bring  wil 

us  the  seed 
Of  sin,  a  mortal  taint, .  .  in  heart  an 

will 
Too  surely  felt,  too  plainly  shown  i 

deed, .  . 
Our  fatal  heritage  ;   yet  are  we  still 
The  children  of  the  All  Merciful ;  an 

ill  1- 

They  teach,   who  tell  us  that  froi 

hence  must  flow 
God's  wrath,  and  then  his  justice  t 

fulfil. 
Death  everlasting,  never-ending  woe 
0  miserable  lot  of  man  if  it  were  so  ! 

16 

Falsely  and  impiously  teach  they  wh 

thus 
Our  heavenly  Father's  holy  will  mie 

read  ! 
In  bounty  hath  the  Lord  created  us. 
In  love  redeem' d.     From  this  authen 

tic  creed 
Let  no  bewildering  sophistry  impede 
The  heart's  entire  assent,  for  God  i 

good.  14 

Hold  firm  this  faith,  and,  in  whateve 

need. 
Doubt  not  but  thou  wilt  find  thy  sou 

endued 
With  all-sufficing  strength  of  heavenl) 

fortitude  ! 


CANTO    11 


ti7i 


17 

^  .  By  nature  peccable  and  frail  are  we, 
Easily    beguiled  ;     (o    vice,    to   error 
^ii  j  prone  ; 

But  apt  for  virtue  too.     Humanity 
^'-     U  not  a  ticld  where  tare.s  and  thorns 
alone 
\re  left  to  spring  ;    good  seed  hath 

there  been  sown 
With  no  unsparing  hand.     Sometimes 
i  I  the  shoot  150 

[i  Is  choked  with  weeds,  or  withers  on 
H I  a  stone  ; 

|i  But  in  a  kindly   soil   it  strikes  its 
*  i  root, 

ind    flourisheth,    and    bringeth    forth 


«l 


abundant  fruit. 
18 


Love,  duty,  generous  feeling,  tender- 
»r  I  ness, 

'  Spring  in  the  uncontaminated  mind  ; 
i  :  And    these    were    Mooma's    natural 

dower.    Nor  less 
[  i  Had  liberalNature  tothe  boyassign'd. 
Happier  herein  than  if  among  man- 
ii  (  kind 

I  j  Their  lot  had  fallen,  .   .   oh,  certes 
; )  happier  here  ! 

#  I  That  all  things  tended  still  more  close 
,  I  to  bind  160 

I I  Their  earliest  ties,  and  they  from  year 

to  year 
1  letain'd  a  childish  heart,  fond,  simple, 
and  sincere. 


19 
,   They  had  no  sad  reflection  to  alloy 
I   The  calm  contentment  of  the  passing 
1  day, 

Nor  foresight  to  disturb  the  present 

joy. 
>(0t  so  with  Monnema ;    albeit  the 

sway 
Of  time  had  reach'd  her  heart,  and 
I  worn  away, 

,    At  length,  the  grief  so  deeply  seated 
there, 
The  future  often,  like  a  burthen,  lay 
Upon   that  heart,   a  cause  of  secret 
care  170 

And  melancholy  thought ;    yet  did  she 
not  despair. 


20 


Chance  from  the  fellowship  of  human 

kind 
Had  cut  thcMU  off,  and  chance  might 

rcunitf. 
On  thi.s  poor  possibility  her  mind 
Reposed  ;     she    did    not    for    horMJf 

invite 
The    unlikely    thought,    and    chcriMh 

with  delight 
The  dream  of  what  such  change  might 

haply  bring  ; 
Gladness   with   hop<»   long  sinco   had 

taken  flight 
From  her  ;    she  felt  that  life  was  on 

the  wing. 
And  happiness  like  youth  has  here  no 

second  spring.  180 

21 

So  were  her  feelings  to  her  lot  com- 
posed 

That  to  herself  all  change  had  now 
been  pain. 

For  Time  upon  her  own  desires  had 
closed  ; 

But  in  her  children  as  she  lived  again. 

For    their   dear   sake   she    leanit    to 
entertain 

A  wish  for  human  intercourse  rcnew'd; 

And  oftentimes,  while  they  drvour'd 
the  strain. 

Would  she  beguile  their  evening  .'soli- 
tude 
Withstories  strangely  told  and  strangely 
imderstood. 


Little  she  knew,  for  little  had  ahe  mh^i\. 
And  little  of  traditionary  lore  i9« 

Had  reach'd  her  ear  ;  and  yet  to  them 

I  ween 
Their    mother's    knowlt>dgo    swra'd 

a  boundless  store. 
A  world  it  open'd  to  their  thoughlii, 

yea  more,  .  . 
Another   world    beyond    this   mortal 

state. 
Bereft  of  her  they  had  indeed  been 

poor. 
Being  left  to  animal  »<«n»e,  degenrratr. 
Mere  creatures,   they   had  »unk   b<low 

the  Ijciwta'  r.Htato. 


672 


A   TALE    OF   PARAGUAY 


23 

The  human  race,  from  her  they  under- 
stood. 

Was  not  within  that  lonely  hut  con- 
fined, 200 

But  distant  far  beyond  theu'  world  of 
wood 

Were  tribes  and  powerful  nations  of 
their  kind  ; 

And  of  the  old  observances  which  bind 

People  and  chiefs,  the  ties  of  man  and 
wife, 

The  laws  of  kin  religiously  assign' d, 

Rites,  customs,  scenes  of  riotry  and 
strife. 
And    all    the    strange    vicissitudes    of 
savage  life. 

24 

Wondering  they  listen  to  the  won- 
drous tale. 
But  no  repining  thought  such  tales 
excite :  209 

Only  a  wish,  if  wishes  might  avail. 
Was  haply  felt,  with  juvenile  delight. 
To  mingle  in  the  social  dance  at  night. 
Where  the  broad  moonshine,  level  as 
a  flood,  [light, 

O'erspread  the  plain,  and  in  the  silver 
Well-pleased,   the  placid  elders  sate 
and  view'd 
The  sport,  and  seem'd  therein  to  feel 
their  youth  renew' d. 


But   when    the   darker   scenes   their 

mother  drew. 
What    crimes    were    wrought    when 

drunken  fury  raged. 
What  miseries  from  their  fatal  discord 

grew. 
When    horde   with   horde   in   deadly 

strife  engaged  :  220 

The  rancorous  hate  with  which  their 

wars  they  waged. 
The  more  unnatural   horrors   which 

ensued, 
When,  with  inveterate  vengeance  un- 

assuaged, 
The  victors  round  their  slaughter' d 

captives  stood, 
And  babes  were  brought  to  dip  their 

little  hands  in  blood  : 


26 


Horrent  they  heard  ;    and  with  h« 

hands  the  Maid  [bl( 

Prest  her  eyes  close  as  if  she  strove  l 
The  hateful  image  which  her  min  I 

portray' d.  1 

The    Boy    sate    silently,    intent    i 

thought ; 
Then  with  a  deep-drawn  sigh,  as  if  L  J 

sought  2;! 

To  heave  the  oppressive  feeling  f roi  I 

his  breast,  i 

Complacently  compared  their  hanr 

less  lot 
With  such  wild  life,  outrageous  an- 

unblest ;  [besi , 

Securely  thus  to  live,  he  said,  was  surel 


27 


On  tales  of  blood  they  could  not  bea 

to  dwell. 
From    such    their    hearts    abhorren 

shrunk  in  fear.  [tel 

Better  they  likedthatMonnemashouk 
Of  things  unseen ;    what  Power  ha<  , 

placed  them  here,  j 

And  whence  the  living  spirit  came 

and  where  | 

It    pass'd,    when    parted    from    thi 

mortal  mould ;  241 

Of    such    mysterious    themes    witi 

willing  ear 
They  heard,  devoutly  listening  whilji 

she  told 
Strangely-disfigured  truths,  and  fablei  I 

feign' d  of  old.  iv 


28 


-m^ 


By  the  Great  Spirit  man  was  made,  j 

she  said. 
His  voice  it  was  which  peal'd  along 

the  sky. 
And  shook  the  heavens  and  fill'd  the ,  .  "* 

earth  with  dread. 
Alone  and  inaccessible,  on  high  ;'  Jf 

He  had  his  dwelling-place  eternally,    |  T^ 
And  Father  was  his  name.     This  all'  ,M 

knew  well ; 
But  none  had  seen  his  face  :    and  if 

his  eye  ***  nW; 

Regarded  what  upon  the  earth  befell,!'!!*^ 

Or  if  he  cared  for  man,  she  knew  not : . .  •  v^^ 

who  could  tell  ?  ^ 


CANTO   II 


673 


29 

Et  this,  she  said,  was  sure,  that  after 
death 
ere    was    reward    and    there    was 
punishment  : 
And  that  the  evil  doers,   when  the 
breath  [spent, 

IH  their  injurious  lives  at  length  was 
[nto  all  noxious  forms  abhorr'd  were 
sent,  [still 

'Of  beasts  and  reptiles  ;    so  retaining 
riioir  old  propensities,  on  evil  bent, 
riu'v    work'd    where'er    they    might 
their  wicked  will,  260 

]e  natural  foes  of  man,  whom  we  pur- 
sue and  kill. 

30 

It  hotter  spirits,  some  there  were  who 

said 
That  in  the  grave  they  had  their  place 

of  rest. 
Lightly  they  laid  the  earth  upon  the 

dead. 
Lest  in  his  narrow  tenement  the  guest 
should  sullter  underneath  such  load 

opprest.  [free, 

1^11   that  death  surely  set  the  spirit 
>ad   proof  to  them  poor  Monnema 

addrest. 
Drawn  from  their  father's  fate ;    no 

grave  had  he 
\ierein   his  soul   might  dwell.      This 

therefore  could  not  be.  270 

31 

Likelier  they  taught  who  said  that  to 

the  Land 
'!    Souls  the  happy  spirit  took   its 
llight, 

A   it^gion  underneath   the  sole  com- 
mand 

iJf  the  Good  Power  ;    by  him  for  the 
upright 

Appointed  and  replenish'd  with  de- 
light ; 

A  land  whore  nothing  evil  ever  came. 

Sorrow,    nor    pain,    nor    peril,    nor 
affright, 

Xoi  change,  nor  death  ;   but  there  the 
human  frame, 

litouch'd  by  age  or  ill,  continued  still 
the  same. 


32 


Winds  would  not  pierce  it  there,  nor 

heat  and  cold  tso 

(brieve,  nor  thirst  parch  and  hunger 

pine  ;    but  there 
The  sun  by  day  its  even  inlluenco  hold 
With    genial    warmth,    and    through 

the  unclouded  air 
The  moon  upon  hor  nightly  journey 

fare  : 
The  lakes  and  fish-full  streamfl  are 

never  dry  ; 
Trees  ever  green  perpetual  fruitage 

bear  ;  |  cyo. 

And,  whorosoeVr  ihr  hunter  turns  hi.i 

Water  and   earlli   and   heaven   to   liim 

their  stores  supply. 

33 

And  once  there  was  a  way  to  that 

good  land. 
For  in   mid-earth  a  wondrous  Tree 

there  grew,  290 

By  which  the  adventurer  might  with 

foot  and  hand 
From  branch  to  branch  his  upward 

course  pursue  ;  [true, 

An  easy  path,  if  what  were  said  l>o 
Albeit  the  ascent  was  long  :  and  when 

the  height 
Was  gain'd,  that  blissful  region  waa 

in  view. 
Wherein   the   traveller  safely   might 

alight. 
And  roam  abroad  at  will,  and  take  hi* 

free  delight. 

34 
0  happy  time,  when  ingreaa  thui  WM 

given 
To    the    upper    world,    and    at    thoir 

pleasure  they 
Whose  hearts  were  strong  might  paaa 

from  Earth  to  Heaven  300 

By  their  own  act  and  choice  !   In  evil 

day 
Mishap  had  fatally  cut  ofT  that  way, 
And  none  may  now  the  Land  of  Spirit* 

gain,  {cl»y 

Till  from  its  dear-loved  tenfment  of 
Violence  or  age,  infirmity  and  pain. 
Divorce  the  soul  which  there  full  gltdly 

would  remain. 


674 


A  TALE   OF  PARAGUAY 


35 
Such  grievous  loss  had  by  their  own 

misdeed 
Upon    the    unworthy    race    of    men 

been  brought. 
An  aged  woman  once  who  could  not 

speed 
In  fishing,  earnestly  one  day  besought 
Her  countrymen,  that  they  of  what 

they  caught  3" 

A    portion    would    upon    her    wants 

bestow. 
They  set  her  hunger  and  her  age  at 

nought, 
And  still  to  her  entreaties  answered 

no  ! 
And   mock'd  her,   till  they  made  her 

heart  with  rage  o'erflow. 

36 

But  that  Old  Woman  by  such  wanton 

wrong 
Inflamed,  went  hurrying  down  ;    and 

in  the  pride 
Of  magic  power,  wherein  the  crone 

was  strong. 
Her  human  form  infirm  she  laid  aside. 
Better  the  Capiguara's  limbs  supplied 
A  strength  accordant   to  her  fierce 

intent :  321 

These  she  assumed,  and,  burrowing 

deep  and  wide 
Beneath  the  Tree,  with  vicious  will, 

she  went. 
To    inflict    upon    mankind    a    lasting 

punishment. 

37 
Downward  she  wrought  her  way,  and 

all  around  [mined 

Labouring,  the  solid  earth  she  under- 
And  loosen' d  all  the  roots  ;  then  from 

the  ground 
Emerging,  in  her  hatred  of  her  kind, 
Resumed     her     proper     form,     and 

breathed  a  wind 
Which  gather' d  like  a  tempest  round 

its  head  :  330 

Ef  tsoon  the  lofty  Tree  its  top  inclined 
Uptorn     with     horrible     convulsion 

dread. 
And   over  half   the   world   its   mighty 

wreck  lay  spread. 


38 
But  never  scion  sprouted  from  th 

Tree, 
Nor  seed  sprang  up  ;    and  thus  tl 

easy  way. 
Which  had  till  then  for  young  and  0 

been  free,  [ay 

Was  closed  upon  the  sons  of  men  f 
The  mighty  ruin  moulder' d  where 

lay 
Till  not  a  trace  was  left ;    and  no 

in  sooth 
Almost  had  all  remembrance  pass 

away.  3 

This  from  the  Elders  she  had  heard 

youth  ; 
Some  said  it  was  a  tale,  and  some  a  ve; 

truth, 

39  j 

Nathless  departed  spirits  at  their  w:l 
Could  from  the  Land  of  Souls  pass 

and  fro  ;  [sti 

They  come  to  us  in  sleep  when  all 
Sometimes  to  warn  against  the  ir 

pending  blow, 
Alas  !   more  oft  to  visit  us  in  woe  : 
Though  in  their  presence  there  w 

poor  relief  ! 
And  this  had  sad  experience  made  h 

know,  1 

For  when  Quiara  came,  his  stay  Wii] 

brief,  3 

And,  waking  then,  she  felt  a  freshen 

sense  of  grief. 


40 
Yet  to  behold  his  face  again,  and  hefji  51,, 
His    voice,    though    painful,    was  I   j 

de^p  delight:  l(y.'. 

It  was  a  jo3^  to  think  that  he  was  nea«  y . 
To   see   him   in   the   visions   of   tlT 

night,  .  .  I 

To  know  that  the  departed  still  r  I 

quite 
The  love  which  to  their  memory  st 

will  cling  : 
And,  though  he  might  not  bless  In 

waking  sight 
With  his  dear  presence,'  t was  a  blesse 

thing 
That  sleep  would  thus  sometimes  h 

actual  image  bring.  3' 


CANTO   II 


676 


41 


'  I^Vhy  comes  he  not  to  mo  ?    Yoruti 

cries  : 

lA.nd  Mooma,  echoing  with  a  sigh  the 

I        thought,  [eyes 

ksk'd  why  it  was  that  to  her  longing 

ro  dream  the  image  of  her  father 
brought  ? 
jjjor  Monnema  to  solve  that  question 

sought 
fn  vain,  content  in  ignorance  to  dwell ; 
Perhaps   it    was   because   they   knew 

him  not  ; 
Perhaps  .  .  but  sooth  she  could  not 

answer  well ; 
\  Kit    the    departed    did,    themselves 
alone  could  tell. 

42 
^Vliat    one    tribe   held    another   dis- 
believed. 370 
[•"or  all  concerning  this  was  dark,  she 

said  ; 
Uncertain  all.  and  hard  to  be  received. 
The  dreadful  race,  from  whom  their 

fathers  tied, 
jBoasted  that  even  the  Country  of  the 
'        Dead 

SVas  theirs,  and  where  their  Spirits 
I  '        chose  to  go. 
The  ghosts  of  other  men  retired  in 
'  I        dread 

I'  iBefore  the  face  of  that  victorious  foe  ; 
ilfi  better,  then,  the  world  above,  than 
this  below  ! 

43 

lijWhat  then,  alas!  if  this  were  true, 
' '         was  death  ? 

Only  a  mournful  change  from  ill  to  ill  ! 

'And  some  there  were  who  said  the 
living  breath  381 

Would  ne'er  be  taken  from  us  by  the 
will 

;0f  the  Ciood  Father,  but  continue  still 

To  feed  with  life  the  mortal  frame  he 
gave, 

Uid  not  mischance  or  wicked  witch- 
craft kill  ;  .  . 

Evils  from  which  no  care  avail'd  to 
save. 

il  whereby  all  were  sent  to  fill  the 
greedy  grave. 


44 

In   vain  to  counterwork   tho  baleful 

charm 
By  spells  of  rival   witdurnft    was  it 

sought. 
Less  potent  waa  that  art  to  help  than 

harm.  390 

No  means  of  safety  old  cxporionco 

brought : 
Nor  better  fortune  did  they  find  who 

thought 
From  Death,  as  from  sorac  living  foe, 

to  fly  : 
For  speed  or  subterfuge  avail'd  them 

nought. 
But  wheresoe'er  they  fled  tl.cy  found 

him  nigh  :  fenomy. 

None    ever    coulil    elude    that    uns^-cn 

45 

Bootless  the  boast,  and  vain  the  proud 

intent 
Of  those  who  hojieil.   with  mrogant 

display 
Of  arms  and  force,  to  scare  him  from 

their  tent. 
As  if  their  threatful  shouts  and  tierce 

array  40*' 

Of  war  could  drive  the  Invisible  away ! 
Sometimes,  regardless  of  the  sutTertr's 

groan. 
They  dragg'd  the  dying  out.  and  as 

prey 
Exposed  him.  that  content  with  him 

alone 
Death  might  depart,  and  thus  his  fate 

avert  their  own. 

4C) 
Depart  he  might, .  .  but  only  10  leturn 
In  quest  of  other  victims.  s(K)n  or  liiti- ; 
When  they  who  held  this  fmul  l.«li.( 

would  leurn. 
Each  by  his  own  inevitable  fate. 
That  in  the  course  of  man's  uncertain 

state  <•<» 

Death   is  the  one  and  only  certain 

thing. 
Oh  folly  then  to  fly  or  deprecate 
That  which  at  laHt  Time,  ever  on  tho 

wing. 
Certain  as  day  and  night,  to  weary  ago 

must  bring  ! 


670 


A   TALE   OF   PARAGUAY 


47 
While   thus   the   Matron   spake,   the 

youthful  twam 
Listen'd  in  deep  attention,  wistfull}' ; 
Whether  with  more  of  wonder  or  of 

pain  [eye 

Uneath  it  were  to  tell.     With  steady 
Intent  they  heard ;   and,   when  she 

paused,  a  sigh 
Their  sorrowful  foreboding  seem'd  to 

speak :  420 

Questions  to  which  she  could  not  give 

reply 
Yeruti  ask'd ;    and  for  that  Maiden 

meek,  .  .  [cheek. 

Involuntary  tears  ran  down  her  quiet 

48 
A   different   sentiment    within   them 

stirr'd,  [day, 

When  Monnema  recall'd  to  mind  one 
Imperfectly,  what  she  had  sometimes 

heard 
In  childhood,  long  ago,  the  Elders  say : 
Almost  from  memory  had  it  pass'd 

away,  .  . 
How  there  appear' d  amid  the  wood- 
lands men 
Whom  the  Great  Spirit  sent  there  to 

convey  430 

His  gracious  will ;   but  little  heed  she 

then 
Had  given,  and  like  a  dream  it  now 

recurr'd  again. 

49 
But   these   young    questioners   from 

time  to  time 
Call'd   up   the  long-forgotten   theme 

anew. 
Strange  men  they  were,  from  some 

remotest  clime, 
She  said,  of  different  speech,  uncouth 

to  view. 
Having    hair    upon    their   face,    and 

white  in  hue  ; 
Across  the  World  of  waters  wide  they 

came 
Devotedly  the  Father's  work  to  do, 
And  seek  the  Red-Men  out,  and  in  his 

name  440 

His  merciful  laws,  and  love,  and  promises 

proclaim. 


50 
They  served  a  Maid  more  beauti 

than  tongue 
Could    tell,    or    heart    conceive. 

human  race, 
All  heavenly  as  that  Virgin  was,  ; 

sprung  ; 
But  for  her  beauty  and  celestial  gra 
Being  one  in  whose  pure  elements 

trace 
Hade'er  inhered  of  sin  or  mortal  sta 
The   highest    Heaven    was   now   1 

dwelling-place  ; 
There  as  a  Queen  divine  she  held  1 

reign, 
And  there  in  endless  joy  for  ever  woi 

remain. 

61 

Her  feet  upon  the  crescent  Moon  w« 

set, 
And,  moving  in  their  order  romid  1 

head. 
The    Stars    compose    her    sparkli 

coronet. 
There  at  her  breast  the  Virgin  Motl 

fed 
A  Babe  divine,  who  was  to  judge  1 

dead. 
Such  power  the  Spirit  gave  this  awe: 

Child; 
Severe  he  was,  and  in  his  anger  dre£ 
Yet  alway  at  his  Mother  s  will  gn 

mild. 
So  well  did  he  obey  that  Maiden  unc 

filed. 


Sometimes  she  had  descended  frc 

above 

To  visit  her  true  votaries,  and  requi 
Such  as  had  served  her  well.     Ai 

for  her  love,  j 

These    bearded    men,   forsaking    :    i 

delight. 
With  labour  long  and  dangers  infinit    ' 
Across  the  great  blue  waters  can 

and  sought 
The  Red-Men  here,  to  win  them, 

they  might,  [augb 

From  bloody  ways,  rejoiced  to  pro: 

Even   when   with   their  own  lives  tl 

benefit  was  bought. 


CANTO   II 


«77 


II  53 

t  I  For,  trusting  in  this  heavenly  Maiden's 
grace, 

lit  was  for  them  a  joyful  thing  to  die, 

As  men  who  went  to  have  their  happy 
place  471 

With  hor.  and  witli  that  Holy  Child, 
on  high. 
;    In  tields  of  bliss  above  the  starry  sky, 

In  glory  at  the  Virgin  Mother's  feet  : 

And  all  who  kept  their  lessons  faith- 
fully 

An  everlasting  guerdon  there  would 
meet, 

'hen  Death  had  led  their  souls  to  that 
L  celestial  seat. 

"'  54 

On  earth  they  oifer'd,  too,  an  easy  life 

i  To  those  who  their  mild  lessons  would 
obey, 

I  Exempt  from  want,  from  danger,  and 
from  strife  ;  480 

I  And  from   the   forest   leading   them 
away, 

(  They   placed   them   underneath   this 

I  Virgin's  sway, 

I    A  numerous  fellowship,  in  peace  to 

I  dwell ; 

I  Their  high  and  happy  ollice  there  to 

[pay 

I  Devotions  due,    which   she  requited 

I  well, 

'heir  heavenly  Guardian  she  in  what- 
soe'er befell. 


Thus,  Monucma  remember' d,  it  was 
I  told 

i  By  one  who  in  his  hot  and  headstrong 
I  youth 

I   Had   left    her    happy    service ;     but 
when  old 

Lamented  oft  with  unavailing  ruth, 
:    And  thoughts  which  sharper  than  a 
I  serpent's  tooth  491 

I    Pierced   him,   that  he   had  changed 
I  that  peaceful  place 

For  the  fierce  freedom  and  the  ways 
uncouth  [grarc. 

Of  their  wild  life,  and  lost  that  Lady's 
Wherefore   he   had   no   hope   to  see  in  | 
Heaven  her  face.  I 


56 

And  she  remember' d,  too.  when  lifftt 

they  lied 
For  siifety  to  the  farthest  Kolitudo 
Before  their  cruel  foe«,  and  lived  in 

dread 
That  thither  too  their  steps  might  Ixj 

l)ursued 
I3y    those    old    enemies    athifht    f«.r 

blood ;  500 

How  some  among  them  hoi)ed  to  ace 

the  day 
When   these   beloved    messengers  of 

good 
To  that  lone  hiding-place  might  tind 

the  way, 
And  them  to  their  abode  of  blctibeductM 

convey. 

57 
Such  tales  excited  in  Yeruti's  heart 
A  stirring  hope  that  haply  he  might 

meet 
Some  minister  of  Heaven  ;  and  many 

a  part 
Untrod    before    of    that    wild    wood 

retreat 
Did  he  with  indefatigable  feet 
Explore  ;   yet  ever  from  the  fruitless 

quest  5«o 

Return'd  at  evening  to  his  native  seat 

By  daily  disapi)ointment  undeprcst. . . 

>So  buoyant  was  the  hoi)e  that  till'd  hid 

youthful  breast. 

58 
At  length  the  hour  approach'd  that 

should  fulfil 
His  harmless  heart's  desire,  when  they 

shall  see 
Their  fellow-kind,  and  take  for  good 

or  ill 
The  fearful  chance,  for  such  it  uectla 

must  be. 
Of  change  from  that  entire  simplicity. 
Yet  wherefore  should  the  thought  o( 

change  appal  ? 
Orief    it    i>erhap8   might    brijig.    Mid 

injurv.  5" 

An.l   death  ;   .   .    but   evil  never  c«0 

befall 
The  virtuous,  for  the  Eye  of  Heaven  i» 

over  all. 


678 


A  TALE  OF  PARAGUAY 


CANTO  III 


Amid  those  marshy  woodlands  far  and 

wide 
Which    spread    beyond    the    soaring 

vulture's  eye, 
There  grew  on  Empalado's  southern 

side  ^  [supply 

Groves  of  that  tree  whose  leaves  adust 

(    The  .Spaniards  with  their  dailyluxury; 

A    beverage    whose    salubrious    use 

obtains 
Through  many  a  land  of  mines  and 

slavery,  [plains, 

Even   over   all    La   Plata's   sea-like 

v\nd  Chili's  mountain  realm,  and  proud 

Peru's  domains. 


But  better  for  the  injured  Indian  race 
Had  woods  of  manchineel  the  land 

o'erspread :  ii 

Yea,  in  that  tree  so  blest  by  Nature's 

grace 
A  direr  curse  had  they  inherited. 
Than  if  the  Upas  there  had  rear'd  its 

head 
And  sent  its  baleful  scions  all  around, 
Blasting    where'er  its   effluent   force 

was  shed,  [ground, 

In  air  and  water,  and  the  infected 

All  things  wherein  the  breath  or  sap  of 

life  is  found. 


The  poor  Guaranies  dreamt  of  no  such 

ill, 
)    When    for   themselves    in    miserable 

hour,  20 

The  virtues  of  that  leaf,  with  pure 

good  will, 
They  taught  their  unsuspected  visitor, 
New  in  the  land  as  yet.     They  learnt 

his  power 
Too  soon,  which  law  nor  conscience 

could  restrain, 
A  fearless  but  inhuman  conqueror, 
Heart-harden' d  by  the  accursed  lust 

of  gain. 
0  fatal  thirst  of  gold  !    O  foul  reproach 

for  Spain  ! 


i 


tie: 


For  gold  and  silver  had  the  Spania: 

sought. 
Exploring  Paraguay  with   despers 

pains,  1 

Their    way    through    forests   axe    i 

hand  they  wrought ;  » 

Drench' d  from  above  by  unremitti 

rains 
They  waded  over  inundated  plains 
Forward    by    hope    of    plunder   si 

allured ; 
So  they  might  one  day  count  th( 

golden  gains, 
They  cared  not  at  what  cost  of  t 

procured, 
All  dangers  they  defied,  all  sufferin 

they  endured. 

\ 
5 

Barren  alike  of  glory  and  of  gold 
That  region  proved  to   them ;    n 

would  the  soil  j 

Unto  their  unindustrious  hands  u' 

fold 
Harvests,  the  fruit  of  peace,  .  .  ai; 

wine  and  oil,  i 

The  treasures  that  repay  contented  U\ 
With  health  and  weal ;   treasures  th.| 

with  them  bring  |    ^ 

No  guilt  for  priest  and  penance  i 

assoil. 
Nor     with     their    venom    arm    tl 

awaken' d  sting 
Of  conscience  at  that  hour  when  life 

vanishing. 


6  |k 

But  keen  of  eye  in  their  pursuit  of  gaij 
The  conquerors  look'd  for  lucre  in  thll  ^* 

tree :  [attaiiil 

An  annual  harvest  there  might  the'f  ■- 
Without  the  cost  of  annual  industn  | 
'Twas  but  to  gather  in  what  thei   I 

grew  free  5 

And     share    Potosi's    wealth.      Nc 

thence  alone. 
But  gold  in  glad  exchange  they  soo 

should  see 
From  all  that  once  the  Incas  calld 

their  own. 
Or  where  the  Zijjpa's  power  or  Zaque' 

laws  were  known. 


CANTO    III 


079 


For  this,  iu  fact,  though  not  in  name 

a  slave, 
The  Indian  from  his  family  was  torn  ; 
And  droves  on  droves  were  sent  to 

find  a  grave 
In  woods  and  swamps,  by  toil  severe 

outworn, 
No  friend  at  hand  to  succour  or  to 

mourn. 
In  death  unpitied,  as  in  life  unblest.  60 
0  miserable  race,  to  slavery  born  ! 
Yet,    when    we     look     beyond     this 

world's  unrest, 
urc    miserable    then    the    oppressors 
I  than  the  opprest. 

8 
I  Often  had  Kings  essay'd  to  check  the 
ill  [meant ; 

By   edicts   not   so   well   enforced   as 

•  A  present  power  was  wanting  to  fulfil 
Remote  authority's  sincere  intent. 

i  To  Avarice,  on  its  present  purpose 
I  bent. 

The  voice  of  distant  Justice  spake  in 

vain  ; 
False   magistrates   and   priests   their 
influence  lent  70 

The  accursed  thing  for  lucre  to  main- 
tain : 
)  fatal  thirst  of  gold  !    0  foul  reproach 
for  Spain  I 

'   0  foul  reproach  !    but  not  for  Spain 

alone. 
But  for  all  lauds  that  bear  the  Chris- 
i  tian  name  ! 

Where'er     commercial      slavery      is 

known, 
0  shall  not  Justice  trumpet-tongued 

proclaim 
The  foul  reproach,  the  black  offence 

the  same  ? 

•  Hear,    guilty    France  !      and    thou, 

0  England,  hear  ! 
Thou  who  hast  half  redeem'd  thyself 

from  shame, 
When  slavery  from  thy  realms  shall 
disappear,  80 

riien  from  this  guilt,  and  not  till  then, 
wilt  thou  be  clear. 


10 


Uncheck'd   in    Paraguay    it   ran   iu 

course, 
Till  nil  the  gentler  childiTu  of  ilu-  land 
NN'ell  ni^h  had  been  consunutl  without 

remorse. 
The   bolder   tribes  meant  inn-,   whom) 

skilful  hnnd 
Had  tamed  the  horse,  in  many  a  wnr- 

like  bantl 
Kej)t   the    tield    well    with    bow    and 

dreatlful  spear. 
And  now  the  Spaniards  dared  no  more 

withstand 
Their  force,  but  in  their  towns  grew 

pale  with  fear 
If  the  ]Mocobio,  or  the  Abipou  drew  near. 

11 
Bear  witness,  Chaco,  thou,  from  thy 

domain  91 

With    Spanish    blood,    as    vni    with 

Indian,  fed  ! 
And  Corrientes,  by  whose  church  the 

slain 
Were    piled    in    heaps,    till    for    tlu- 

gather'd  dead 
One    common    grave    was    dug,    one 

service  said  ! 
Thou  too,  Parana,  thy  sad  witness  bear 
From  shores  with  many  a  mournful 

vestige  spread, 
And    monumental   crosses    here    and 

there, 
And  monumental  names  that  tell  whcro 

dwellings  were  ! 


Nor  would  with  all  their  power  th« 

Kings  of  Spain,  100 

Austrian   or   Bourbon,   have  at   l»«t 

avail'd 
This  torrent  of  destruction  to  rctitrnin, 
And  save  a  jKople  every  wht-rr  a^.-v/iild 
By    men    before    whoso    face    their 

courage  (luail'd. 
But  for  the  virtuous  agency  of  thorns 
^^■ilo  with  the  Cross  alone,  when  arm* 

had  fail'd. 
Achieved  a  i)caccful  triumph  o'er  the 

foes. 
And  gave  that  wmv  1  <.>,!  t),,-  I.I.-..mii-« 

of  repotic. 


680 


A  TALE    OF   PARAGUAY 


13 

For  whensoe'er  the  Spaniards  felt  or 
fear'd 

An  Indian  enemy,  they  call'd  for  aid 

Upon  Loyola's  sons,  now  long  en- 
dear d  III 

To  many  a  happy  tribe,  by  them  con- 
vey'd 

From  the  open  wilderness  or  woodland 
shade, 

In  towns  of  happiest  polity  to  dwell. 

Freely  these  faithful  ministers  essay' d 

The    arduous    enterprize,    contented 

well  [fell. 

If  with  success  they  sped,  or  if  as  martyrs 

14 

And  now  it  chanced  some  traders  who 

had  fell'd 
The  trees  of  precious  foliage  far  and 

wide 
On    Empalado's    shore,    when    they 

beheld  120 

The  inviting  woodlands  on  its  northern 

side, 
Crost  thither  in  their  quest,  and  there 

espied 
Yeruti's   footsteps :     searching    then 

the  shade 
At    length    a    lonely    dwelling    they 

descried, 
And  at  the  thought  of  hostile  hordes 

dismay' d 
To  the  nearest  mission  sped  and  ask'd 

the  Jesuit's  aid. 

15 

That  was  a  call  which  ne'er  was  made 

in  vain 
Upon  Loyola's  sons.     In  Paraguay 
Much  of  injustice  had  they  to  com- 
plain, 
Much     of     neglect ;      but     faithful 

labourers  they  130 

In  the  Lord's  vineyard,  there  was  no 

delay 
When    summon'd    to    his    work.     A 

little  band 
Of  converts  made  them  ready  for  the 

way  ;  [ hand 

Their  spiritual  father  took  a  Cross  in 

To  be  his  staff,  and  forth  they  went  to 

search  the  land. 


16 

He  was  a  man  of  rarest  qualities. 
Who   to   this  barbarous   region  ha* 

confined  ; 

A   spirit  ^with   the   learned   and  th  J 

wise  ' 

Worthy  to  take  its  place,  and  fror  1 

mankind  ' 

Receive  their  homage,  to  the  immorta 

mind  14' 

Paid  in  its  just  inheritance  of  fame. 
But  he  to  humbler  thoughts  his  hear 

inclined  ; 
From  C4ratz  amid  the  Styrian  hills  h  j 

came. 
And  Dobrizhotfer  was  the  good  man'; 

honour' d  name.  '■ 

17 

It  was  his  evil  fortune  to  behold         , 

The     labours     of     his     painful     lift' 
destroy' d  ; 

His  flock  which  he  had  brought  withiB' 
the  fold 

Dispersed  ;  the  work  of  ages  rendered 
void. 

And  all  of  good  that  Paraguay  en- 
joy'd 

By   blind   and   suicidal   Power   o'er- 
thrown.  150  | 

So  he  the  years  of  his  old  age  em- 
ploy'd, 

A  faithful. chronicler,  in  handing  down 
Names  which  he  loved,  and  things  well  1 
worthy  to  be  known.  I 

18 

And  thus,  when  exiled  from  the  dear- 
loved  scene. 

In  proud  Vienna  he  beguiled  the  pain 

Of     sad     remembrance ;      and     the 
Empress  Queen, 

That  great  Teresa,  she  did  not  disdain 

In  gracious  mood  sometimes  to  enter- 
tain 

Discourse  with  him  both  pleasurable 
and  sage  ; 

And  sure  a  willing  ear  she  well  might 
deign  160 

To  one  whose  tales  may  equally  en- 
gage 
The    wondering    mind    of    youth,    the 
thoughtful  heart  of  age. 


fertC! 


link 


CANTO   m 


081 


19 

But  of  his  native  speech  because  well 

I    Disuse     iu     liiui     foigetfulncss     had 

I  wrought, 

i   In  Latin  ho  composed  his  history  ; 
j  _  A  garrulous,   but  a   lively   tale,   and 

fraught 
^1  With  matter  of  delight  and  food  for 

I  thought. 

1    And,  if  he  could  in  Merlin's  glass  have 
seen 
By   whom   his   tomes   to   speak   our 
,  tongue  were  taught, 

The    old    man    would    have    felt    as 
pleased,  I  ween,  170 

3  when  ho  won  the  car  of  that  great 
Empress  Queen. 

20 
Little    he    deem'd,    when    with    his 

Indian  band 
He  through  the  wilds  set  forth  upon 

his  way, 
A  Poet  then  unborn,  and  hi  a  land 
Which  had  proscribed  hisordcr, should 

one  day 
Take  up  from  thence  his  moralizing 

lay, 
And  shape  a  song  that,  with  no  hction 

drcst, 
■Should    to    ids    worth    its    grateful 

tribute  pay. 
And,  sinking  deep  in  many  an  English 

breast, 
"oitcr  that  faith  divine  that  keeps  the 

heart  at  rest.  180 


j  Behold  him  on  his  way  !   the  breviary 

Which  from  his  girdle  hangs,  his  only 

shield  ; 

I   That  well-known  habit  is  his  panoply. 

,   That  Cross,  the  only  weapon  he  will 

wield  ; 
i    By  day  he  bears  it  for  his  staff  afield, 

By  night  it  is  the  pillar  of  his  bed  ; 
i    No  other  lodging  these  wild   woods 
can  yield 
Than  earth's  hard  lap,  and  rustling 
overhead 
A  canopy  of  deep  and  tangled  boughs 
far  spread. 


22 


Yet    may    they    not    without    somo 

cautious  earo  ,^ 

Take  up  their  inn  content  upon  Iho 

ground. 
First  it  behoves  to  clear  a  circle  there. 
And    trample    down    the    graea   aod 

plantage  round. 
Where  many  a  deadly  n-ptile  might 

be  found,  '  (heat 

Whom  with  its  bright  and  comfortablo 
The  llame   would   cl.-e  allure  :    euch 

plagues  abound 
In  these  thick  wood.'<,  and  thcrcforo 

mu.st  tlioy  beat 
The  earth,  and  tranij)le  well  the  hcrba 

beneath  their  feet. 

23 

And  now   they   heap  dry   reeds  and 

broken  wood  ; 
The   spark   is   struck,   the  crackling 

faggots  blaze,  aoo 

And  cheer  that  unaccustom'd  solitude. 
.Soon    have    the}'    made    their   frugal 

meal  of  maize  ; 
In  grateful  adoration  then  they  raise 
The  evening  hymn.     How  solemn  u» 

the  wild 
That  sweet   accordant  strain   where- 
with they  praise 
The  Queen  of  Angels,  merciful  and 

mild  : 
Hail,  holiest  Mary  !    Maid,  and  Mother 

undelilcd. 

24 
Blame  as  thou  may'st  the  Papist's 

erring  creed. 
But  not  their  salutary  rite  of  even  ! 
The  prayers  that  from  a  j  ious  »oul 

proceed,  "o 

Thouuh  misdirected,  reach  the  car  of 

Heaven. 
L's,  unto  whom  a  purer  faith  inf^ivcn. 
As  our  best  bhthright  it  bcLovoa  to 

hold 
The   precious  charge  ;     but,   oh,   bo- 
ware  the  leaven 
Which   makes   the   heart   of  charity 

grow  cold  I 
Wo  own  one  .Shepherd,  we  hhnll  be  at 

last  one  fold. 


Z3 


682 


A   TALE   OF   PARAGUAY 


25 

Thinkest  thou  the  little  company  who 

here 
Pour  forth  their  hymn  devout  at  close 

of  day, 
Feel  it  no  aid  that  those  who  hold 

them  dear 
At  the  same  hour  the  self -same  homage 

pay,  220 

Commending  them  to  Heaven  when 

far  away  ? 
That   the   sweet   bells   are   heard   in 

solemn  chime 
Through    all    the    happy    towns    of 

Paraguay, 
Where   now    their    brethren    in    one 

point  of  time 
Join  in  the  general  prayer,  with  sym- 
pathy sublime  ? 

26 
That  to  the  glorious  Mother  of  their 

Lord 
Whole    Christendom    that    hour    its 

homage  pays  ? 
From  court  and  cottage  that  with  one 

accord 
Ascends  the  universal  strain  of  jDraise? 
Amid  the  crowded  city's  restless  ways, 
One  reverential  thought  pervades  the 

throng ;  231 

The  traveller  on  his  lonely  road  obeys 

The  sacred  hour,  and,  as  he  fares  along. 

In  spirit  hears  and  joins  his  household's 

even-song. 

27 
What  if  they  think  that  every  prayer 

enroll' d 
Shall  one  day  in  their  good  account 

appear ; 
That  guardian  Angels  hover   round 

and  fold  [hear  ; 

Their  wings  in  adoration  while  they 
Ministrant  Spirits  through  the  ethereal 

sphere 
Waft  it  with  joy,  and  to  the  grateful 

theme,  240 

Well    pleased,    the    Mighty    Mother 

bends  her  ear  ? 
A  vain  delusion  this  we  rightly  deem  : 
Yet  what  they  feel  is  not  a  mere  illusive 

dream. 


28 

That  prayer  perform' d,   around  tt 

fire  reclined 
Beneath  the  leafy  canopy  they  lay 
Their   limbs :     the   Indians   soon  t 

sleep  resign' d  ; 
Aad  the  good  Father  with  that  toi 

some  day 
Fatigued,  full  fain  to  sleep,  .  .  if  slee 

he  may. 
Whom  all  tormenting  insects  thei 

assail ; 
More  to  be  dreaded  these  than  beast 

of  prey  25! 

Against  whom  strength  may  cope,  c 

skill  prevail. 
But  art  of  man  against  these  enemie 

must  fail. 

29 
Patience     itself     that     should     th  I 

sovereign  cure, 
For  ills  that  touch  ourselves  alonc'  • 

supply. 
Lends  little  aid  to  one  who  must  en 

dure 
This  plague  :  the  small  tormentors  fil 

the  sky. 
And  swarm  about  their  prey ;    ther 

he  must  lie 
And  suffer  v*hile  the  hours  of  darkne^ 

wear ;  [sigl 

At  times  he  utters  with  a  deep-drawi 
Some   name   adored,    in    accents  .0 

despair  26 

Breath' d  sorrowfully  forth,  half  murmu. 

and  half  prayer. 

30 

Welcome  to  him  the  earliest  gleam  0 

light ; 
Welcome  to  him  the  earliest  sound  0: 

day; 
That    from    the    sufferings    of    thai 

weary  night  (way 

Released,  he  may  resume  his  willing 
W^ell  pleased  again  the  perils  to  essa} 
Of  that  drear  wilderness,  with  hopf, 

renew' d  : 
Success  will  all  his  labours  overpay, 
A  quest  like  his  is  cheerfully  pursued, 
The  heart  is  happy  still  that  is  intent  on 

good.  27c 


CANTO    III 


683 


31 
And  now  where  Empalado's  waters 

creep 
Through  low  and  level  shores  of  wood- 
land wide, 
They  come  ;     prepared   to  cross  the 

sluggish  deep. 
An  ill-shaped  coracle  of  hardest  hide, 
lluder  than  ever  Cambrian  fisher  plied 
Where  Towey  and  the  salt-sea  waters 

meet, 
The  Indians  launch  ;    they  steady  it 

and  guide, 
Wiiming   their   way   with   arms  and 

practised  feet, 
hile  in  the  tottering  boat  the  Father 

keeps  his  seat. 


For  three  long  summer  days  ou  every 
side  280 

They  search  in  vain  the  sylvan  soli- 
tude ; 

The  fourth  a  human  footstep  is  espied, 

And  through  the  mazes  of  the  pathless 
wood 
.  With  hound-like  skill  and  hawk-like 

ieye  pursued  ;  [they 

For  keen  upon  their  pious  quest  arc 
As  e'er  were  hunters  on  the  track  of 
blood.  [betray 

I   Where  softer  ground  or  trodden  herbs 
'  The  slightest  mark  of  man,  they  there 
explore  the  way. 

33 
j    More  cautious,  when  more  certain  of 
j  the  trace, 

In   silence   they    proceed ;     not   like 

I  a  crew  290 

I    Of  jovial  hunters,  who  the  joyous  chase 

I    W^ith  hound  and  horn  in  open  field 

pursue,  j 

Cheering    their    way    with    jubilant 

halloo, 
And  hurrying  forward  to  their  spoil 

desired. 
The  panting  game  before  them,  full 

in  view  : 
Humaner   thoughts   this  little   band 
inspired. 
Yet  with  a  hope  as  high  their  gentle  , 
hearts  were  tired. 


34 

Nor  is  tiicir  virtuoua  hope  dovoid  of 

fear  ; 
The   perils   of    that   cntcrpriso    Ihcy 

know; 
Some    savage    horde    may    have    itx 

fastness  here,  jqq 

A  race  to  whom  a  nt ranger  is  a  foe. 
Who  not  for  friendly  words,  nor  prof- 
fer'd  si  low 
Of  gifts,  will  pt-acp  or  parley  entertain. 
If  by  such  haniis  their  blamclet*a  blood 

should  How 
To  serve  the  Lamb  who  for  their  sins 

was  slain. 
Blessed  indeed  their  lot,  for  so  to  die  is 

gain  ! 

35 

Them,  thus  pursuing  where  the  track 

may  lead, 
A   human   voice   arrests   upon   their 

way  ; 
They  stop,  and   thither,  whence  the 

sounds  j)rocet'd, 
All  eyes  are  turn'ii  m  wonder,  .  .  not 

dismay,  jio 

For  sure  such  sounds  might  charm 

all  fear  away  ; 
No  nightingale  whoso  brooding  mate 

is  nigh. 
From  some  scquester'd  bower  at  cloeo 

of  day. 
No  lark  rejoicing  in  the  orient  sky. 
Ever  pour'd  forth  so  wild  a  utraiu  of 

melody. 

3(1 
The  voice  which  through  the  ringing 

forest  floats 
Is    one    which,     having    ne'er    been 

taught  the  skill 
Of  marshalling  sweet  words  to  8»cctcr 

notes. 
Utters  all  unpremcditate,  at  will, 
A  modulate<l  Kequentc  loud  and  shrill 
Of    inarticulate    and    lung-breathed 

sound.  *** 

Varying  its  tones  with  rii>c  and  f*ll 

and  trill. 
Till  all  the  holitary  wootlM  aroun<l 
With  that  far -piercinir  power  of  melody 

resound. 


684 


A  TALE   OF   PARAGUAY 


37 

In  mute  astonishment  attent  to  hear, 
As  if  by  some  enchantment  held,  they 

stood, 
With  bending  head,   tix'd  eye,   and 

eager  ear. 
And  hand  upraised  in  warning  atti- 
tude 
To  check  all  speech  or  step  that  might 

intrude 
Un  that  sweet  strain.     Them  leaving 

thus  spell-bound,  330 

A  little  way  alone  into  the  wood 
The  Father  gently  moved  toward  the 

sound, 
Treading    with    quiet    feet    upon    the 

grassy  ground. 

38 

Anon  advancing  thus  the  trees  be- 
tween, 

He  saw  beside  her  bower  the  songs- 
tress wild. 

Not  distant  far,  himself  the  while  mi- 
seen. 

Mooma  it  was,  that  happy  maiden 
mild, 

Who  in  the  sunshine,  like  a  careless 
child 

Of  nature,  in  her  joy  was  caroling. 

A  heavier  heart  than  his  it  had  be- 
guiled 340 

So  to  have  heard  so  fair  a  creature 
sing 
The  strains  which  she  had  learnt  from  all 
sweet  birds  of  spring. 

39 

For  these  had  been  her  teachers,  these 

alone  ; 
And  she  in  many  an  emulous  essay, 
At  length  into  a  descant  of  her  own 
Had  blended  all  their  notes,  a  wild 

display 
Of  sounds  in  rich  irregular  array  ; 
And  now,  as  blithe  as  bird  in  vernal 

bower, 
Pour'd  in  full  flow  the  unexpressive 

Rejoicing    in    her    consciousness    of 
power,  350 

But  in  the  inborn  sense  of  harmony  yet 
more. 


I 


40 

In  joy  had  she  begun  the  ambitioi 


With  rapid  interchange  of  sink  ar 

swell ; 
And   sometimes   high   the  note  w; 

raised,  and  long 
Produced,    with    shake    and    effo 

sensible. 
As  if  the  voice  exulted  there  to  dwell 
But  when  she  could  no  more  thi 

pitch  sustain, 
80  thrillingly  attuned  the  cadence  fel 
That   with   the   music   of   its   dyiD 

strain 
.She  moved  herself  to  tears  of  pleasurabl 

pain.  3(: 

41 
It  might  be  deem'd  some  dim  presagi 

possess' d 
The  virgin's  soul ;    that  some  myt 

terious  sense 
Of  change  to  come,  upon  her  mini',' 

impress' d,  | 

Had   then  call'd  forth,  ere  she  de, 

parted  thence,  ' 

A  requiem  to  their  days  of  innocence;, 
For  what  thou  losest  in  thy  nativj 

shade  ! 

There  is  one  change  alone  that  ma;l 

compense,  j 

O  Mooma,  innocent  and  simple  maid! 

Only  one  change,  and  it  will  not  be  lon| 

delay' d  ! 

42  \ 

When  now  the  Father  issued  fron^ 

the  wood  37«! 

Into  that  little  glade  in  open  sight, 
Like  one  entranced,  beholding  him: 

she  stood  ; 
Yet  had  she  more  of  wonder  thar 

affright. 
Yet  less   of   wonder   than   of   dread 

delight. 
When  thus  the  actual  vision  came  in 

view  ; 
For  instantly  the  maiden  read  aright 
Wherefore   he  came  ;    his  garb  and 

beard  she  knew  ; 
All  that  her  mother  heard  had  then  in- 
deed been  true. 


'1 


CANTO   II [ 


685 


I-  wa3  tlio  Father  lilK'd   \vi(h  less 

surprise  ; 
H.^    too   strange   fancies    well    miuht 

entertain.  380 

When  this  so  fair  a  creature  met  his 

eyes. 
He  might  iiave  thought  her  not  of 

mortal  strain  ; 
IJather.  as  bards  of  yore  were  wont  to 

feign, 
A  nymph  divine  of  ^Fondai's  secret 

stream  ; 
Or  haply  of  Diana's  woodland  train  : 
lor    in     her    beauty    Mooma    such 

might  seem, 
.  _  less  a  child  of  earth  than  like  a 

poet's  dream. 

44 

Xo  art  of  barbarous  ornament  had 
scarr'd 
ii  And  stain'd  her  virgin  limbs,  or  'filed 
' '  her  face  ; 

Nor  ever  yet  liad  evil  passion  raarr'd 

'  In  her  sweet  countenance  the  natural 

grace  391 

Of  innocence  and  youth  ;    nor  was 

there  trace 
Of  sorrow,  or  of  hardening  want  and 

care. 
Strange  was  it  in  this  wild  and  savage 

place. 
Which  seem'd  to  be  for  beasts  a  fitting 
'  lair.  [fair. 

i-'hua  to  behold  a  maid  so  gentle  and  so 

45 
Across  her  shoulders  was  a  hammock 

flung. 

By  night  it  was  the  maiden's  bed,  by 

'  day  [hung, 

'   Her  only  garment.     Round  her  as  it 

In  short  unequal  folds  of  loose  array, 

I   The  open  meshes,  when  she  moves, 

'  display  4o» 

!   Her  form.    She  stood  with  fix'd  and 

wondering  eyes. 

And,  trembling  like  a  leaf  upon  the 

spray. 
Even  for  excess  of  joy.  with  eagercries 
>he  call'd  her  mother  forth   to  share 
that  glad  surprise. 


4rt 

At  that  unwonted  rail  with  quitkonM 

l)aee 
The  matron  hurried  thither,  hnlf  in 

fear. 
How  strange  to  Monnema  a  stranper'a 

face  ! 
How  strange  it  was  a  .st ranger' h  voice 

to  hear. 
How  strangely  to  her  disaccuptom'd 

ear  410 

Came  even  the  accents  of  lier  nativo 

tongue  ! 
But    when  she  saw  her  countrymen 

appear. 
Tears   for   that    unexpecte«l    blowing 

sjirung. 
And  once  again  she  felt  as  if  her  lienrt 

were  young. 

47 
Soon  was  her  melancholy  story  told, 
And  glad  consent  unto  that  Father 

good 
Was  given,  that  they  to  join  hifl  happy 

fold 
Would   leave   with   him   their  forest 

solitude. 
Why  comes  not  now  Yeruti  from  the 

wood  ? 
Why  tarrieth  he  so  late  this  blew»c<l 

day  ?  4» 

They    long   to   see    their  joy   in    hi« 

renew' d. 
And  look  impatiently  towanl  hifl  way. 
And  think  they  hear  his  step,  and  chide 

his  long  delay. 

48 
He  comes  at  length,  a  happy  man,  to 

find 
His  only  dream  of  hope  fulfil  I'd  a  1  l««t. 
The  sunshine  of  his  all-lMli' 
There  is  no  doubt  or  fear  • 
No   chilling    forethought    i 

bliss  ;    the  jinst 
Leaves  no  reirret  for  him,  an»l  all  to 

come 
Is  change  and    wonder  and  drliK-hl. 

How  fast  41® 

Hath  busy  fancy  conjunnl  up  11  sum 
Of  joys  unknown,  whereof  the  rxprc- 

tance  make?  him  dumb. 


686 


A  TALE    OF   PARAGUAY 


I 


49 
0  happy  da5%  the  Messenger  of  Heaven 
Hath    found    them    in    their    lonely 

dwelling-place  ! 
0  happy  day,  to  them  it  would  be 

given 
To   share   in   that  Eternal   Mother's 

grace. 
And  one  day  see  in  heaven  her  glorious 

face,  [adore  ! 

Where  Angels  round  her  mercy- throne 
Now    shall    they    mingle    with    the 

human  race, 
Sequestered  from  their  fellow-kind  no 

more ;  440 

0  joy  of  joys  supreme  !   0  bliss  for  them 

in  store  ! 

50 

Full  of  such  hopes  this  night  they  lay 

them  down. 
But  not  as  they  were  wont,  this  night 

to  rest. 
Their  old  tranquillity'-  of  heart  is  gone  ; 
The  peace   wherewith  till  now   they 

have  been  blest 
Hath    taken    its   departure.     In    the 

breast 
Fast    following    thoughts    and    bu.sy 

fancies  throng  ; 
Their    sleep    itself    is    feverish,    and 

possest  [belong  ; 

With  dreams  that  to  the  wakeful  mind 

To  Mooma  and  the  youth  then  first  the 

night  seem'd  long.  450 

51 
Day  comes,  and  now  a  first  and  last 

farewell 
To     that    fair    bower    within     their 

native  wood. 
Their  quiet  nest  till  now.     The  bird 

may  dwell 
Henceforth  in  safety  there,  and  rear 

her  brood. 
And  beasts  and  reptiles  undLsturb'd 

intrude ;  [go, 

Reckless  of  this,  the  simple  tenants 

Emerging  from  their  peaceful  solitude, 

'  To  mingle  with  the  world,  .  .  but  not 

to  know 
Its  crimes,  nor  to  partake  its  cares,  nor 

feel  its  woe. 


CANTO    IV 
I 

The    bells    rung    blithely    from    S; 

Mary's  tower, 
W^hen  in  St.  Joachin's  the  news  wa 

told  [hou 

That  Dobrizhoffer  from  his  quest  tha 
Drew  nigh  :  the  glad  Guaranies  youn 

and  old 
Throng  through  the  gate,  rejoicing  t 

behold  fgle 

His  face  again  :  and  all  with  heartfel 
Welcome  the  Pastor  to  his  peacefu 

fold,  [he 

Where  so  beloved  amid  his  flock  wa 

That    this    return    was   like    a    day    0 

jubilee. 

2 
How  more  than"  strange,  how  mar 

vellous  a  .sight  r 

To  the  new  comers  was  this  multitude 
Something  like  fear  was  mingled  witl 

affright  [view'd 

When  they  the  busy  scene  of  turmoi 
Wonder  itself  the  sense  of  joy  sub 

dued,  [oppress 

And  with  its  all-unwonted  weigh' 
These  children  of  the  quiet  solitude; 
And  now  and  then  a  sigh  that  heaveo 

the  breast 
Unconsciously  bewray' d  their  feeling  oi 

unrest. 


to' 
fell 


hi 


It! 


Not  more  prodigious  than  that  little 

town 
Seem'd    to    these   comers,    were   the 

pomp  and  power  2c 

To  us,  of  ancient  Rome  in  her  renown; 
Nor  the  elder  Babylon,  or  ere  that 

hour 
When  her  high  garden.?,  and  her  cloud- 

capt  tower, 
And  her  broad  walls  before  the  Per-i 

sian  fell ; 
Nor  those  dread  fanes  on  Nile's  for- 
saken shore 
Whose     ruins     yet     their     pristine 

grandeur  tell. 
Wherein   the  demon   Gods   themselves 

might  deign  to  dwell. 


CANTO   IV 


687 


But  if,  all   humblo  as  it  was,  that 

scene 
Possess' d   a   poor   and    uninstructed 

mind 
With  awe,  the  tlioughtful  spirit,  well 

I  ween.  30 

Something  to  move  its  wonder  there 

might  tind, 
Something  of  consolation  for  its  kind. 
Some  hope  and  earnest  of  a  happier 

age. 
When    vain    pursuits    no    more    the 

heart  shall  bHnd. 
But    Faith    the  evils    of    this    earth 

assuage, 
md  to  all  souls  assure  their  heavenly 

heritage. 


Yes ;   for  in  historj''s  mournful  map 

the  eye 
/On  Paraguay,  as  on  a  sunny  spot. 
May  rest  complacent :    to  humanity, 
There,  and  there  only,  hath  a  peaceful 

lot  40 

Been  granted,  by  Ambition  troubled 

not. 
By  Avarice  undebased,  exempt  from 

care. 
By    perilous    passions    undisturb'd. 

And  what 
If  Glory  never  rear'd  her  standard 

there, 
Sov  with  her  clarion's  blast  awoke  the 

slumbering  air  ? 


I    Content    and    cheerful    Piety    were 
I  found 

Within   those   humble   walls.     From 
youth  to  age 
,  The  simple  dwellers  paced  their  even 
'  round 

Of  duty,  not  desiring  to  engage 
Upon  the  busy   world's  contentious 
stage,  50 

Whose   ways  they   wisely   had  been 

train'd  tS^dread  : 
Their  inoffensive  lives  in  pupilage 
Perpetually,  but  peacefully  they  led. 
From  all  temptation  saved,  and  sure  of 
daily  bread. 


They  on  tlio  Jesuit,  who  waa  nothlno 

loth,  ■ 

Reposed   alike   thoir  eonscicnro  and 

their  raros:  (h„,|, 

And  lie,  with  equal  faitii,  tho  truHt  of 
Accepted  and  discharged.     The  hJifiN 

is  theirs  (parr^ 

Of  that  entire  dependence  that   pre- 
Entire  submission,  let  what  may  he- 

fall  ;  •      60 

And  his  whole  careful  courw  of  life 

declares 
That  for  their  good   he  holds  them 

thus  in  thrall. 
Their  Father  and  their  Friend.  Priest. 

Ruler,  all  in  all. 


Food,    raiment,    shelter,    safety,    bo 

proviiles  ; 
No  forecast,  no  anxieties  have  they  : 
The  Jesuit  governs,  and  instructs  and 

guides  ; 
Their  part  it  is  to  honour  and  obey. 
Like    children    under    wise    parental 

sway. 
All  thoughts  ami  wishes  are  to  him 

confess'd  ; 
And,   when   at    length    in    life's    la«t 

weary  day  70 

In  sure  and  certain  hoj>o  they  »ink 

to  rest. 
By  him  their  eyes  are  closed,  by  him 

their  burial  blest. 


Deem  not  their  lives  of  happinefw  do- 
void. 

Though  thus  the  years  their  eourao 
obscurely  till, 

In  rural  and  in  household  arts  cm- 
ploy' d,  (Mkiil: 

And  many  a  pleasing  ta^k  of  pliant 

For  emulation  here  unmix'tl  with  ill 

Sufiieient  scope  was  given.  Each 
had  assign'd 

His  proi>er  part,  which  yet  left  froo 
the  will  : 

So  well  they  knew  to  mould  the  duc- 
tile mind  •• 
By  whom  the  scheme  of  t».af  ul^r  order 
was  combine<l. 


688 


A   TALE   OF   PARAGUAY 


10 
It  was  a  land  of  priestcraft,  but  the 

Priest 
Believed  himself  the  fables  that  he 

taught : 
Corrupt  their  forms,  and  yet  those 

forms  at  least 
Preserved     a     salutary     faith     that 

wrought, 
Maugre  the  alloy,  the  saving  end  it 

sought.         "  [there. 

Benevolence  had  gain'd  such  empire 
That    even    superstition    had    been 

brought 
An  aspect  of  humanity  to  wear. 
And  make  the  weal  of  man  its  first  and 

only  care.  9° 

11 
Nor    lack'd   they   store   of   innocent 

delight, 
Music  and  song  and  dance  and  proud 

array, 
Whate'er  might  win  the  ear,  or  charm 

the  sight ;  [play 

Banners  and  pageantry  in  rich  dis- 
Brought  forth  upon  some  Saint's  high 

holyday, 
The  altar  drest,  the  church  with  gar- 
lands hung,  [way. 
Arches  and  floral  bowers  beside  the 
And  festal  tables  spread  for  old  and 

young, 
Gladness  in  every  heart,  and  mirth  on 

every  tongue. 

12 

Thou  who  despisest  so  debased  a  fate. 

As  in  the  pride  of  wisdom  thou  may'st 
call  loi 

These  meek  submissive  Indians'  low 
estate. 

Look  round  the  world,  and  see  where 
over  all 

Injurious  passions  hold  mankind  in 
thrall. 

How  barbarous  Force  asserts  a  ruth- 
less reign,  [ball. 

Or  Mammon,  o'er  his  portion  of  the 

Hath  learn'd  a  baser  empire  to  main- 
tain. 
Mammon,  the  god  of  all  who  give  their 
souls  to  gain. 


1.3 

Behold  the  fraudful  arts,  the  cover' 

strife. 
The    jarring    interests    that    engros.' 

mankind ;  ik 

The  low  pursuits,  the  selfish  aims  o 

life; 
Studies  that  weary  and  contract  tht 

mind. 
That  bring  no  joy,  and  leave  no  peace 

behind  ; 
And  Death  approaching  to  dissolve 

the  spell  ! 
The  immortal   soul,    which   hath  so 

long  been  blind. 
Recovers  then  clear  sight,  and  sees 

too  well 
The  error  of  its  ways,  when  irretrievable. 

14 
Far  happier  the  Guaranies'  humble' 
race,  [wise,  \ 

With  whom,  in  dutiful  contentment 
The  gentle  virtues  had  their  dwelling- 
place.  120 
With  them  the  dear  domestic  charities 
Sustain'd    no    blight   from   fortune; 

natural  ties 
There  suffer  d  no  divorcement,  save 
alone  [arise ; 

That  which  in  course  of  nature  might 
No    artificial    wants    and    ills    were 
known  ; 
But  there  they  dwelt  as  if  the  world 
were  all  their  own. 


^5 


15 


takes 


Obedience    in    its    laws    that 

delight 
Was  theirs ;    simplicity  that  knows 

no  art  : 
Love,  friendship,  grateful  duty  in  its 

lieight ; 
Meekness   and   truth,   that   keep   all 

strife  apart,  130 

And  faith  and  hope  which  elevate  the 

heart 
Upon  its  heavenly  h^^age  intent. 
Poor,  erring,  self-toriffntor  that  thou 

art.  [bent, 

0  Man  !    and  on  thine  own  undoing 

Wherewith  canst  thou  be  blest,  if  not 

with  these  content  ? 


w 

a 

(nto ' 

hi 

tJ 

Tiat 


I 


CANTO   IV 


If, 

Mild   pupils   in    submission'fj  porfort 

school. 
Two    thousand    sonls    were   gnthor'd 

hero,  and  here 
Beneath    the   Jesuit's   all-embracing 

rule 
They  dwelt,  obeying  him  with  love 

sincere. 
That  never  knew  distrust,  nor  felt  a 

fear,  140 

Nor  anxious  thought  whirli  wears  the 

heart  away.  [dear  ; 

Sacred  to  them  their  laws,  their  Ruler 
Humbler  or  happier  none  could   be 

than  they 
ilVho  knew  it  for  their  good  in  all  things 

to  obey. 


But  chiefly  (here  \\\o  Mother  of  our 

Ix)nl. 
His  l)les8e(l  daughter,  by  the  muUi. 

tude 
Was  for  their  special  patroncMadorwl. 
Amid  the  B<juare  on  liigh  hor  imogc 

stood, 
Cla.sping  the  Babe  in  her  beatitude. 
The  Babe  J)ivine  on  whom  nhe  tixM 

her  sight  ; 
And   in   their  hearts,   nibr   the   work 

was  rude. 
It  rais'd  the  thought  of  alleommnnd* 

ing  might,  170 

Combin'd     with     boundless    love    and 

mercy  infinite. 


20 


To     this    great     family     the    .Tesuit 
The  Patron  Saint,  from  whom  their  brought 

town  was  named.  His    new-found    children    now  ;     for 

Was  that  St.  Joachin,  who,  legends  !  yoimg  and  old 

say,  [clalm'd        He  deem'd  alike  his  children,  wlule  ho 

Unto  the  Saints  in  Limbo  fii'st  pro- 
The   Advent.     Being   permitted,    on 

the  day 
That  Death  enlarged  him  from  this 

mortal  clay, 
His  daughter's  high  election  to  behold, 
Thither  his  soul,  glad  herald,  wing'd 

its  way,  151 


And  to  the  Prophets  and  the  Patri- 
archs old 
The    tidings    of    great    joy    and    near 
deliverance  told. 


18 
Tliere  on  the  altar  was  his  image  set, 
The  lamp  before  it  burning  night  and 

day, 
And   there   was   incensed,   when   liis 

votaries  met 
Before  the  .sacred  shrine,  their  beads 

to  say. 
And  for  his  fancied  intercession  pray. 
Devoutly  as  in  faith  they  bent  the 

knee. 
Such  adoration  they  were  taught  to 

pay ;  160 

Good  man,  how  little  had  he  ween'd 

that  he  [idolatry  !    Hod  bid*!  us  love,  and  th. 

Should  thus  obtain  a  place  in  Rome's  |  perfectod. 


wrought 

For  their  salvation,  .  .  seeking  to  un- 
fold 

The   saving   mysteries   in    the   rrre«l 
enroll'd. 

To  their  slow  minds,  that  could  but 
ill  conceive  (told. 

The  import  of  the  mighty  tniths  ho 

But  errors  they  have  none  to  which 
they  cleave. 
And  whatsoe'er  he  tells  they  willingly 


believe. 


21 


Safe  from  that  pride  of  ignorance  were 

t  hey 
That    with   small   knowh^lgo   think>» 

itself  full  wis<\ 
How  at  l>elieving  aught  should  ihr.*** 

delay, 
\\h?n  every  where  new  object*  met 

their  eves 
To  till  the  Houl  with  womler  and  «ir. 

prise  ? 
Not  of  itself,  but  by  tompt^tjon  hm\. 
In  man  doth  impioijn  un' 
It  i.s  our  instinct  to  l)oli.  1. 

,   ; »« 


690 


A  TALE    OF   PARAGUAY 


Quick  to  believe,  and  slow  to  compre- 
hend, 190 

Like  children,  unto  all  the  teacher 
taught 

Submissive!}'  an  easy  ear  they  lend  : 

And  to  the  font  at  once  he  might  have 
brought 

These  converts,  if  the  Father  had  not 
thought 

Theirs  was  a  case  for  wise  and  safe 
delay. 

Lest  lightly  learnt  might  lightly  be 
forgot ; 

And  meanwhile  due  instruction  day 
by  da  J' 
Would  to  their  openmg  minds  the  sense 
of  truth  convey. 

23 

Of  this  they  reck'd  not  whether  soon 

or  late  ;  199 

For  overpowering  wonderment  possest 
Their  faculties ;  and  in  this  new  estate 
Strange     sights     and     sounds     and 

thoughts  well  nigh  opprest 
Their  sense,  and  raised  a  turmoil  in 

the  breast 
Resenting   less  of   pleasure   than   of 

pain  ; 
And  sleep  afforded  them  no  natural 

rest,  [train, 

But  in  their  dreams,  a  mix'd  disorder' d 

The  busy  scenes  of  day  disturb'd  their 

hearts  again. 

24 
Even  when  the  spirit  to  that  secret 

wood 
Return'd,  slow  Mondai's  silent  stream 

beside. 
No  longer  there  it  found  the  solitude 
Which  late  it  left  :  strange  faces  were 

descried,  211 

Voices,  and  sounds  of  music  far  and 

wide. 
And  buildings  seem'd  to  tower  amid 

the  trees. 
And   forms   of   men   and   beasts   on 

every  side. 
As  ever  wakeful  fancy  hears  and  sees. 
All  things  that  it  had  heard,  and  seen. 

and  more  than  these. 


For  in  their  sleep  strange  forms  de- 
form'd  they  saw 

Of  frightful  fiends,  their  ghostly 
enemies. 

And  souls  who  must  abide  the  rigorous 
law 

Weltering  in  fire,  and  there  with 
dolorous  cries  220 

Blaspheming  roll  around  their  hope- 
less eyes  ; 

And  those  who,  doomed  a  shorter  term 
to  bear 

In  penal  flames,  look  upward  to  the 
skies, 

Seeking  and  finding  consolation  there, 
And  feel,  like  dew  from  heaven,  the 
precious  aid  of  prayer. 

26 
And  Angels  who  around  their  glorious 

Queen 
In  adoration  bent  their  heads  abased  ; 
And  infant  faces  in  their  dreams  were 

seen 
Hovering     on     cherub -wings ;      and 

Spirits  placed 
To    be    their   guards   invisible,    who 

chased  230 

With  fiery  arms  their  fiendish  foes 

away  : 
Such  visions  overheated  fancy  traced. 
Peopling  the  night  with  a  confused 

array 
That  made  its  hours  of  rest  more  rest- 
less than  the  day. 

27 
To  all  who  from  an  old  erratic  course 
Of  life,  within  the  Jesuit's  fold  were 

led, 
The  change  was  perilous.     They  felt 

the  force 
Of  habit,  when,  till  then  in  forests  bred, 
A  thick  perpetual  umbrage  overhead. 
They  came  to  dwell  in  open  light  and 

air.  240 

This  ill  the  Fathers  long  had  learnt  to 

dread. 
And  still  devised  such  means  as  might 

prepare 
The   new-reclaim'd    unhurt    this    total 

change  to  bear. 


CANTO    IV 


091 


28 
All  thoualits  and  oooupations  to  poni- 

muto. 
To  chango  their  air.  their  water,  and 

tlieir  food. 
And  those  oUl  habits  suddenly  uproot, 
C'onforui'd  to  whieh  the  vit^l  powers 

pursued 
Their  functions.  Btich  mutation  is  too 

rude 
For   man's   tine   fiame   unshaken    to 

sustain. 
And  these  poor  children  of  the  soli- 
tude 250 
Began   ere   long    to   pay   the   hittei- 

pain 
Tliat  their  new  way  of  life  brought  with 

it  in  its  train. 

20 
On  ^^fonnema  the  apprehended  ill 
Came  first ;   the  matron  sunk  beneath 

the  weight 
Of  a  strong  malady,  whose  force  no 

skill 
In  healing  might  avert,  or  mitigate. 
Yet,  happy  in  herchildren's  safe  estate. 
Her  thanlcfulness  for  them  she  still 

exprest  ; 
And,  yielding  then  complacently  to 

fate. 
With  Christian  rites  her  passing  hour 

was  blest,  260 

And  with  a  Christian's  hope  she  was 

consign' d  to  rest. 

30 
They  laid  her  in  the  Garden  of  the 

Dead  ; 
Such  as  a  Ciiristian  burial-place  should 

be 
Was  that  fair  spot,  where  every  grave 

was  spreacl 
With  flowers,  and  not  a  weed  to  spring 

was  free  ; 
But  the  pure  blossoms  of  the  orange 

tree 
Dropt  like  a  shower  of  fragrance  on 

the  bier  ; 
And  palms,  the  type  of  immortality. 
Planted  in  .stately  colonnades  appear. 
That  all  was  verdant  there  throughout 

the  unvarying  year.  270 


31 
Nor  over  di<l  irrovcrent  feet  intnidc 
Within  tluit  .sncrrd  »|K)t :    nor  iMJund 

of  mirth, 
rnse(  inly  there,  profane  the  nolitudc. 
Where  .soh-mnly  conimitt<»<l  enrth  to 

earth. 
Waiting  the  summons  for  tlirjr  f«ooond 

birth. 
Whole  generations  in  Death'n  iieace- 

ful  fold 
Collected  hiy  ;    green  innoconco,  ripe 

worth. 
Youth   full   of   hope,   and   nge   ^^\\n^c 

days  were  told. 
Compress'd    alike    into    that    maw    of 

mortal  moidd. 


Mortal,  and  yet   at  the  ArchangerH 

voice  ato 

To  put  on  immortality.     That  call 
Shall  one  day  make  tlie  sentient  dust 

rejoice  ; 
These  bodies  then  shall  ri^e  and  caat 

off  all 
Corruption,  with  whate'er  of  earthy 

thrall 
Had  cloifii'd  the  heavenly  image,  then 

set  free. 
How  then  should  Death  a  Christ i.in'« 

heart  apjial  ? 
Lo,  Heaven  for  you  is  open  :  .  .  enter 

Children  of  (loi\,  and  heirs  of  hia  eternity ! 

This  hope  supported  Mooma,  hand  in 
hand 

When  with  Yeruti  at  the  grave  ahe 
stood.  »9o 

I.,<'ss  even  now  of  de.it h  they  under- 
stand 

Than   of    the  joys  eternal    that    en- 
sued ; 

The  bli.sH  of  infinite  beatitud<» 

To    them    had    be<-n    their    teacher** 
favourite  theme. 

Wherewith  their  heart*  ao  fully  werr» 
imbued. 

That  it  the  sole  n-alitv  might  •eem. 
Life,  death,  and  all  things  ••"-  ■■  -»  -l..u 
or  a  dream. 


692 


A  TALE   OF   PARAGUAY 


34 

Yea,  so  possest  with  that  best  hope 

were  they. 
That,  if  the  heavens  had  open'd  over- 
head, 
And  the  Archangel  with  his  trump 

that  day  300 

To  judgement  had  convoked  the  quick 

and  dead, 
They  would  have  heard  the  summons 

not  with  dread. 
But  in  the  joy  of  faith  that  knows  no 

fear ; 
Come,  Lord  !    come  quickly  !    would 

this  pair  have  said. 
And  thou,  O  Queen  of  men  and  Angels 

dear. 
Lift  us  whom  thou  hast  loved  into  thy 

happy  sphere  ! 

35 

They  wept  not  at  the  grave,  though 

overwrought 
With  feelings  there  as  if  the  heart 

would  break. 
\     Some  haply  might  have  deem'd  they 

suffer' d  not ; 
Yet  they  who  look'd  upon  that  Maiden 

meek  310 

Might  see  what  deep  emotion  blanch' d 

her  cheek. 
An  inward  light  there  was  which  fiU'd 

her  eyes. 
And  told,  more  forcibly  than  words 

could  speak. 
That  this  disruption  of  her  earliest  ties 
Had  shaken  mind  and  frame  in  all  their 

faculties. 

36 
It  was  not  passion  only  that  disturb' d 
Her  gentle  nature  thus  ;    it  was  not 

grief  ; 
Nor  human  feeling  by  the  effort  curb'd 
Of  some  misdeeming  duty,  when  relief 
Were  surely  to  be  found,  albeit  brief, 
If  sorrow  at  its  springs  might  freely 

flow ;  321 

Nor  yet  repining,  stronger  than  belief 
In  its  first  force,  that  shook  the  Maiden 

so. 
Though   these  alone   might   that   frail 

fabric  overthrow. 


37 


The  seeds  of  death  were  in  her  at  tha 

hour, 
8oon  was  their  quick' ning  and  theii! 

growth  display'd  ;  j 

Thenceforth  she  droop' d  and  wither' dj 

like  a  flower. 
Which,  when  it  flourish' d  in  its  native 

shade, 
Some  child  to  his  own  garden  hath 

convey' d. 
And  planted  in  the  sun,  to  pine  away. 
Thus  was  the  gentle  Mooma  seen  to^ 

fade,  331  j 

Not  under  sharp  disease,  but  day  by 

day  ^  ■         , 

Losing  the  powers  of  life  in  visible  decay, 

38 
The  sunny  hue  that  tinged  her  cheek 

was  goYie, 
A  deathy  paleness  settled  in  its  stead ; 
The  light  of  joy  which  in  her  eyes  had 

shone, 
,  Now,  like  a  lamp  that  is  no  longer  fed. 
Grew  dim  ;    but,  when  she  raised  her 

heavy  head 
Some  proffer' d  help  of  kindness  to 

partake, 
Those  feeble   eyes   a   languid   lustre 

shed,  340 

And   her  sad  smile  of   thankfulness 

would  wake 
Grief  even  in  callous  hearts  for  that 

sweet  sufferer's  sake, 

39 

How  had  Yeruti  borne  to  see  her  fade  ? 

But  he  was  spared  the  lamentable 
sight. 

Himself  upon  the  bed  of  sickness  laid, 

Joy  of  his  heart,  and  of  his  eyes  the 
light 

Had  Mooma  been  to  him,  his  soul's 
delight. 

On  whom  liis  mind  for  ever  was  in- 
tent. 

His  darling  thought  by  day,  his  dream 
by  night. 

The  playmate  of  his  youth  in  mercy 
sent,  350 

With  whom  his  life  had  pass'd  in  peace- 
fullest  content. 


CANTO    1\' 


603 


40 


for 


Well  was  it  for  the  youth,  and  we 

her, 

As  there  in  placid  helplessness  she  lay, 
He  was  not  present  with  his  love  to 

stir  [clay, 

Emotions  that  might  shake  her  feeble 
And  rouse  up  in  her  heart  a  strong 

array 
Of  feelings,  hurtful  only  when  they 

bind  [away. 

To  earth  the  soul  that  soon  must  pass 
But  this  was  spared  them  ;    and  no 

pain  of  mind 
To   trouble  her  had   she,   iustiuctively 

resign"  d.  360 

•il 

Nor  was  there  w  anting  to  the  sufferers 
aught 

Of  earetul  kindness  to  alleviate 

The    affliction ;      for    the    universal 
thought 

In  that  poor  town  was  of  their  sad 
estate, 

And  what  might  best  relieve  or  miti- 
gate 

Their  case,  what  help  of  nature  or  of 
art; 

And  many  were  the  prayers  compas- 
sionate 

That  the  good  Saints  their  healing 
would  impart. 
Breathed  in   that   maid's  behalf  from 
many  a  tender  heart. 

42 
And  vows  were  made  for  her,  if  vows 

might  save  ;  370 

JShc  for  herself  the  while  preferred  no 

prayer ; 
For,    when    she    stood     beside     her 

Mother's  grave, 
Her  earthly  hopes  and  thoughts  had 

ended  there. 
Her  only  longing  now  was,  free  as  air 
From  this  obstructive  flesh  to  take 

her  Might 
For  Paradise,   and  seek   her  Mother 

there. 
And  then  regauiing  her  beloved  sight 
Rest  in  the  eternal  seuse  of  uudisturb'd 

delight. 


43 


Her  heart  was  there,  and  ibcit)  aho 

felt  and  knew 
That    soon    full    surely    should    her 

spirit  be.  ^ 

And  whoean  tell  what  forcta*tc«migbl 

ensue 
Tu  one,  whose  soul,  from  all  cartb'a 

thraldom  free. 
Was  waiting  thus  for  imiuortality  7 
.Sometimes  she  spake  with  abort  and 

hurried  breath  [ttcv. 

As  if  some  hap[>y  sight  she  K-cmd  to 

^  U  hile  in  the  fulness  of  a  ])crfcct  faith. 

Even  with  a  lover's  hope,  she  lay  and 

look'd  for  death. 


I   said   that   for   herself    the   patient 

maid 
Treferr'd    no    prayer ;     but    oft    her 

feeble  tongue 
And  feebler  breath  a  voice  of  praiiio 

essay' d  :  390 

And  duly,  when  the  vesi>er  1k-II  waa 

rung,  |«"ng 

Her  evening  hymn  in  faiut  accord  eho 
So  inously,  that  they  who  gathcr'd 

round  (huuK. 

Awe-stricken  on  her  heavenly  acccnta 
As  though  they  thought  it  wcro  no 

mortal  sound. 
But  that  the  place  whereon  tbcy  atood 

was  holy  ground. 

45 
At  such  an  hour  when  Dobrizboffer 

stood 
Beside  her  bed,  oh  I    how  unlike,  bo 

thought. 
This    voice    to    that    which    ringing 

through  the  wockI 
Had  led  him  to  the  aecTct  bower  bo 

sought  !  4fio 

And  was  it  then  for  thin  ibat  be  had 

brought 
That  harmless  houitebuld  from  tbcir 

native  shade  ?  (lot  ; 

])cath  had  ainady  been  ibr  mother'* 
And  this  fair  Mooma,  w««  alio  fonn'd 

to  fade 
.So  soon,  .  .  so  aoon  niuat  aho  in  cATth'a 

cold  lap  be  laid  7 


694 


A  TALE   OF   PARAGUAY 


40 

Yet  he  had  no  misgiving  at  the  sight ; 

And  wherefore  should  he  ?  he  had 
acted  well, 

And,  deeming  of  the  ways  of  God 
aright,  [befell 

Knew  that  to  such  as  these,  whate'er 

Must  needs  for  them  be  best.  But 
who  could  dwell  410 

Unmoved  upon  the  fate  of  one  so 
young, 

So  blithesome  late  ?  What  marvel  if 
tears  fell,  [liung, 

From  that  good  man  as  over  her  he 
And  that  the  prayers  he  said  came  fal- 
tering from  his  tongue ! 

47 
She  saw  him   weep,   and  she  could 

understand 
The  cause  thus  tremulously  that  made 

him  speak. 
By  his  emotion  moved  she  took  his 

hand ;  [cheek 

A  gleam  of  pleasure  o'er  her  pallid 
Pass'd,  while  she  look'd  at  him  with 

meaning  meek. 
And  for  a  little  while,  as  loth  to  part. 
Detaining  him,  her  fingers  lank  and 

weak,  421 

Play'd  with  their  hold  ;    then  letting 

him  depart 
She  gave  him  a  slow  smile  that  toucH'd 

him  to  the  heart. 

48 
Mourn  not  for  her  !    for  what  hath 

life  to  give  •  [here  ? 

That  should  detain  her  ready  spirit 
Thinkest  thou  that  it  were  worth  a 

wish  to  live. 
Could  wishes  hold  her  from  her  proper 

sphere  ? 
That   simple   heart,    that   innocence 

sincere 
The  world  would  stain.     Fitter  she 

ne'er  could  be 
For  the  great  change  ;    and  now  that 

change  is  near,  43° 

Oh  who  would  keep  her  soul  from 

being  free  ? 
Maiden  beloved  of  Heaven,  to  die  is  best 

for  thee  ! 


49 


She  hath  pass'd  away,  and  on  her  lips 

a  smile 
Hath  settled,  fix'd  in  death.    Judged 

they  aright. 
Or  sufier'd  they  their  fancy  to  beguile  ^  ^e^^ 
The  reason,   who   beUeved  that  she 

had  sight 
Of  Heaven  before  her  spirit  took  its 

flight ; 
That  Angels  waited  round  her  lowly 

bed; 
And  that  in  that  last  effort  of  delight, 
When,  lifting  up  her  dying  arms,  she 

said,  440 

I  come  !    a  ray  from  heaven  upon  her 

face  was  shed  ? 


50 
St.  Joachin's  had  never  seen  a  day 
Of   such   profuse   and   general   grief 

before. 
As  when  with  tapers,  dirge,  and  long 

array 
.  The  Maiden's  body  to  the  grave  they 

bore. 
All  eyes,  all  hearts,  her  early  death 

deplore ; 
Yet,  wondering  at'  the  fortune  they 

lament. 
They   the  wise  ways  of   Providence  i' 

adore,  ; 

By  whom  the  Pastor  surely  had  been   ji 

sent,  ! 

When  to  the  Mondai  woods  upon  his   . 

quest  he  went.  450    i 

51  1 

This  was,  indeed,  a  chosen  family. 
For  Heaven's  especial  favour  mark'd, 

they  said  ; 
Shut    out    from    all    mankind    they 

seem'd  to  be, 
Y'et  mercifully  there  were  visited. 
That  so  within  the  fold  they  might 

be  led,  [two 

Then  call'd  away  to  bliss.     Already 
In    their    baptismal    innocence    were 

dead  ; 
The  third  was  on  the  bed  of  death, 

tiiey  knew, 
And    in    the    appointed    course    must 

presently  ensue. 


CANTO   IV 


tiU5 


Thoy  marveU'd  therefore,  wheu  the 
youth  once  more  460 

Rose  from  his  bed  iiud  walk'd  abroad 
I         agam ; 

/  Severe  had  been  the  malady,  and  sore 
The  trial,  while  life  struggled  to  main- 
tain 
Its  seat  against  the  sharp  assaults  of 

pain  : 
But  life  in  him  was  vigorous  ;  long  he 
lay 
.  Ere  it  could  its  ascendency  regain, 
(  Then,  when   the  natural  powers  re- 
sumed their  sway, 
trace  of  late  disease  pass'd  rapidly 
away. 

53 
The  first  inquiry,  when  his  mind  was 

free, 
Was  for  his  ISister.  She  was  gone,  they 

said,  470 

Gone  to  her  Mother,  evermore  to  be 
With  her  in  Heaven.   At  this  no  tears 

he  shed, 
Nor  was  he  seen  to  sorrow  for  the 

dead  ; 
But  took  the  fatal  tidings  in  such  part 
As  if  a  dull  unfeeling  nature  bred 
His  unconcern  ;   for  hard  would  seem 

the  heart 
To  which  a  loss  like  his  uo  sulfering 

could  impart. 

54 
How  little  do  they  see  what  is,  who 

frame 
Their    hasty    judgement    upon    that 

which  seems  ! 
Waters  that  babble  on  their  way  pro- 
claim 480 
A  shallowness  :    but  in  their  strength 

deep  streams 
Flow     silently.       Of     death     Yeruti 

deems 
Not  as  an  ill,  but  as  the  last  great 

good, 
Compared    wherewith    all    other    he 

esteems 
Transient  and  void  :   how  then  should 

thought  intrude 
Of  sorrow  in  his  heart  for  their  beatitude  ? 


56 

While  dwelling?  in  their  nylvan  nohtudu 

Less  had  Yeruti  leurnt  to  enl<.'rt«in 

A  sense  of  ago  than  death.  Ho  under- 
stood 

{Something  of  death  from  ca^aturm 
he  had  slain  ;  490 

But  hero  the  ills  which  follow  in  the 
train 

Of  ago  had  first  to  him  been  mani- 
fest, .  . 

The  shrunken  form,  the  limbs  ihot 
move  with  pain, 

The  failing  sense,  inlirniify,  unrest.  .  . 
That  in  his  heart  he  said  to  die  bctimca 
was  beat. 

50 
Nor  had  he  lost  the  dead  :   they  wore 

but  gone 
Before  him,  whither  he  should  tthortly 

go- 
Their  robes  of  glory  they   had   linst 

put  on  ; 
He,  cumber'd  with  mortality.  l>olow 
Must   yet   abide   awhile,   content   to 

know  500 

He  should  not  wait  in  long  expectance 

here. 
What  cause  then  for  repining,  or  for 

woe  ? 
tSoon    shall    he    join    them    in    their 

heavenly  sphere. 
And  often,  even  now,  hu  knew  that  they 

were  near. 


'Twas  but  in  u^Kn  day  to  cloeo  hiu 

eyes 
And  shut  out  the  unprolitablo  view 
Of  all  this  weary  world's  rcaliticn. 
And  forthwith,  even  as  if  they  lived 

anew. 
The  dead  were  with  him  ;    featurr*. 

form  and  hue, 
And  looks  and  gc«turc8  were  rv«torrd 

again :  **• 

Their  actual  prcacnco  in  bia  heart  bo 

knew  ; 
And,  when    their  convorao  waa  dia- 

turb'd,  oh  thrn 
How  Mat  and  stalt?  it  waa  to  mix  with 

living  men  ! 


696 


A   TALE    OF   PARAGUAY 


.!' 


58 
But  not  the  less,  wliate'er  was  to  be 

done. 
With  living   men   he   took    his    part 

content, 
At  loom,  in  garden,  or  a-tield,  as  one 
Whose   spirit,    wholly    on    obedience 

bent, 
To  every  task  its  prompt  attention 

lent. 
Alert  in  labour  he  among  the  best ; 
And  when  to  church  the  congregation 

went,  520 

None  more  exact  than  he  to  cross  his 

breast. 
And  kneel,  or  rise,  and  do  in  all  things 

like  the  rest. 

59 

Cheerful  he  was,  almost  like  one  elate 
With  wine,  before  it  hath  disturbed 

his  power 
Of  reason.     Yet  he  seem'd  to  feel  the 

weight 
Of    time ;    for    always,    when    from 

yonder  tower 
He  heard  the  clock  tell  out  the  passing 

hour, 
The  sound  appear" d  to  give  him  some 

delight : 
And,  when  the  evening  shades  began 

to  lower. 
Then  was  he  seen  to  watch  the  fading 

light  530 

As  if  his  heart  rejoiced  at  the  return  of 

night. 

60 
The  old  man  to  whom  he  had  been 

given  in  care  [said. 

To  Dobrizhoffer  came  one  day  and 
The    trouble    v/hich    our   youth    was 

thought  to  bear 
With  such  indifference  hath  deranged 

his  head. 
He  says  that  he  is  nightly  visited  ; 
His  Mother  and  his  Sister  come  and 


;ive  this  message  from 


say 
That  he  must 
the  dead. 
Not  to  defer  his  baptism,  and  delay 
A  soul  upon  the  earth  which  should  no 
longer  stay.  540 


61 
A  dream  the  Jesuit  deem"  d  it ;  a  decei 
Upon  itself  by  feverish  fancy  wrought 
A  mere  delusion  which  it  were  no 

meet 
To  censure,  lest  the  youth's  distem 

per'd  thought 
Might   thereby    be    to   farther   erroj 

brought ; 
But    he    himself    its    vanity    would 

find,  .  .  [not. 

They  argued  thus, .  .  if  it  were  noticed 
His    baptism    was    in    fitting    time 

design*  d 
The  Father  said,  and  then  dismissed  it 

from  his  mind. 

62 
But  the  old  Indian  came  again  ere 

long  550 

With  the  same  tale,  and  freely  then 

confest  [wrong ; 

His  doubt  that  he  had  done  Yeruti ' 
For   something   more   than   common  , 

seem'd  imprest ; 
And  now  he  thought  that  certes  it 

were  best 
From  the  youth's  lips  his  own  account 

to  hear, 
Haply  the  Father  then  to  his  request 
Might    yield,    regarding    his    desire 

sincere. 
Nor  wait  for  farther  time,  if  there  were 

aught  to  fear. 

63 

Considerately  the  Jesuit  heard,  and 

bade 
The   youth   be   called.     Yeruti    told 

his  tale.  560 

Nightly  these  blessed  spirits  came,  he 

said. 
To  warn  him  he  must  come  within 

the  pale 
Of  Christ  without  delay  ;    nor  must 

he  fail 
This  warning  to  their  Pastor  to  repeat, 
Till  the  renewed  entreaty  should  pre- 
vail. 
Life's  business  then  for  him  would  be 

complete. 
And  'twas  to  tell  him  this  they  left  their 

starry  seat. 


( 


CANTO   IV 


<)97 


64 
Came  they  to  him  in  dreams  ?  .  .  he 

could  not  tell. 
Sleeping  or  waking  now  small  differ- 
ence made  ; 
l\)r  even  while  he  slept  ho  knew  full 

well  570 

That  his  dear  Mother  and  that  darling 

Maid 
Both  in  the  Garden  of  the  Dead  were 

laid :  [same, 

And  yet  he  saw  them  as  in  life,  the 
Sa\e  only  that  in  radiant  robes  array 'd. 
And  round  about  their  presence  when 

they  came 
liere  shone  an  effluent  light  as  of  a 

harmless  tiame. 

Go 
And  where  he  was  he  knew,  the  time, 

the  place,  .  . 
All  circumstantial  things  to  him  were 

clear. 
His    own    heart    undisturbed.      His 

Mother's  face 
How  could  he  choose  but  know  ;   or, 

knowing,  fear  580 

Her  presence  and  that  Maid's,  to  him 

more  dear  [below  '! 

Than  all  that  had  been  left  him  now 
Their  love  had  drawn  them  from  their 

happy  sphere  ; 
That   dearest   love   unchanged   they 

came  to  show  ; 
.\nd  he  must  be  baptized,  and  then  he 
I         too  might  go. 

66 
With  searching  ken  the  Jesuit  while 

he  spake 
Perused  him,  if  in  countenance  or  tone 
Aught  might  bo  found  appearing  to 

partake 
Of  madness.     Mark  of  passion  there 

was  none ; 
None   of   derangement :     in   his  eye 

alone,  590 

As  from  a  hidden  fountain  emanate. 
Something  of  an  unusual  brightness 

shone :  [state 

But  neither  word  nor  look  betray'd  a 

Of  wandering,  and  his  speech,  though 

earnest,  was  sedate. 


67 
Regular  his  pulho,  from  all  disorder 

free, 
The  vital  powers  ixjrform'd  their  part 

assign'il  ; 
And  to  whate'er  was  nnkW  rollcclnlly 
He  answertl.     Nothing  troubled  him 

in  mind  ; 
W  hy  shouUl  it  /    Were  not  all  around 

him  kind ".' 
Did    not   all    love    him    with    a   love 

sincere.  600 

And  seem  in  serving  him  a  joy  to  find? 
He  had  no  want,  no  jiain,  no  grief,  no 

fear  ; 
But  he  must  be  baptized  ;   he  could  not 

tarry  here. 

i;s 
Thy  will  be  done,  Father  in  heaven 

w  ho  art ! 
The    Pastor    said,    nor    longer    now 

denied  ; 
But  with  a  weight  of  awe  uj>on  hi« 

heart 
Enter'd   the  church,  and   there,  the 

font  beside, 
^^'ith    holy    water,    chrit^m    and    Halt 

applied, 
Pcrform'd  in  all  solenuiity  tlie  rite. 
His  feeling  was  that  hour  with  fear 

allied ;  610 

Yeruti's  was  a  sense  of  pure  delight. 
And    while    he   knelt    his   cyca   Bccm'd 

larger  and  more  bright. 


00 


md  th 


His  wish  hath  been  obtain'd, 

being  done 
His  soul  was  to  its  full  de.-^irc  content. 
The    day    in    its    accuBtom'd    counw 

pass'd  on, 
The  Indian  mark'd  him  ere  to  rrnt  he 

went, 
How  o'er  his  beads,  aa  ho  waa  wonl, 

he  IxTit. 
And  then,  hkc  one  who  caata  all  care 

aside,  (cvrnt. 

Lay  down.    The  old  man  fear'u  no  ill 
When,  *  Yo  arc  conio  for  mc  !  *  Vcruti 

crie<l ;  *** 

Yes,  I  am  ready  now  ! '   and  in«tttntly 

ho  died. 


THE  POET'S   PILGRIMAGE  TO 
WATERLOO. 

ETAN0EA   A'  ANABA20MAI 
2TOAON  AM*'   APETA 
KEAAAEflN.— Pindar,  Pyth.  2. 

TO 

JOHN   MAY, 

AFTER   A    FRIENDSHIP    OF   TWENTY    YEARS, 

THIS   POEM   IS   INSCRIBED, 

IN   TESTIMONY   OF   THE   HIGHEST   ESTEEM   AND    AFFECTION, 

BY 

EGBERT  SOUTHEY. 


ARGUMENT 

The  first  part  of  this  Poem  describes  a 
journey  to  the  scene  of  war.  The  second 
is  in  an  allegorical  form  ;  it  exposes  the 
gross  material  philosophy  which  has  been 
the  guiding  principle  of  the  French  poli- 
ticians, from  Mirabeau  to  Buonaparte ;  and 
it  states  the  opinions  of  those  persons  who 
lament  the  restoration  of  the  Bourbons, 
because  the  hopes  which  they  entertained 
from  the  French  Revolution  have  not  been 
realized  :  and  of  those  who  see  only  evil,  or 
blind  chance,  in  the  course  of  hunian  events. 

To  the  Christian  philosopher  all  things  are 
consistent  and  clear.  Our  first  parents 
brought  with  them  the  light  of  natural 
religion  and  the  moral  law  ;  as  men  de- 
parted from  these,  they  tended  towards 
barbarous  and  savage  life  ;  large  portions  of 
the  world  are  in  this  degenerated  state ; 
still,  upon  the  great  scale,  the  human  race, 
from  the  beginning,  has  been  progressive. 
But  the  direct  object  of  Buonaparte  was  to 
establish  a  military  despotism  wherever  his 
power  extended  ;  and  the  immediate  and 
inevitable  consequence  of  such  a  system  is 
to  brutalize  and  degrade  mankiiid.  The 
contest  in  which  this  country  was  engaged 
against  that  Tyrant,  was  a  struggle  between 
good  and  evil  ])rinciples,  and  never  was  there 
a  victory  so  important  to  the  best  hopes 


of  human  nature  as  that  which  was  won  by 
British  valour  at  Waterloo,  .  .  its  effects 
extending  o  ver  the  whole  civilized  world,  and 
involving  the  vital  interests  of  all  mankind. 
That  victory  leaves  England  in  security 
and  peace.  In  no  age  and  in  no  country 
has  man  ever  existed  under  circumstances 
so  iavourable  to  the  full  developement  of 
his  moral  and  intellectual  faculties,  as  in 
England  at  this  time.  The  peace  which  she 
has  won  by  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  leaves 
her  at  leisure  to  pursue  the  great  objects 
and  duties  of  bettering  her  own  condition, 
and  diffusing  the  blessings  of  civilization  and 
Christianity. 


PROEM 

1 
Once  more  I  see  thee,  Skiddaw  !    once 
again 
Behold  thee  in  thy  majesty  serene, 
Where,  like  the  bulwark  of  this  favour' d 
jilain, 
Alone  thou  standest,  monarch  of  the 
scene  .  . 
Thou  glorious  Mountain,  on  whose  ample 

breast 
The  sunbeams  love  to  play,  the  vapom-s 
love  to  rest ! 


!kl»' 


p 


PROEM 


699 


3nce  more,  0  Derwent,  to  thy  aweful 

shores 
I  come,  insatiate  of  the  accustom' d 
I  sight  : 

[And,   listening  as   the   eternal    torrent 

roars, 
I    Drink  in  with  eye  and  ear  a  fresh 

deUght :  lo 

IFor  I  have  wander' d  far  by  hvnd  and 


all  my  wanderings  still  remembering 
thee. 


3 

Twelve   years,    (how    large    a    part    of 

man's  brief  day  !) 
Nor  idly,  nor  ingloriously  spent. 
Of  evil  and  of  good  have  held  their  way, 
Since  first  upon  thy  banks  I  pitch' d 

my  tent. 
Hither    I    came   in    manhood's   active 

prime, 
And  here  my  head  hath  felt  the  touch 

of  time. 


Heaven  hath  with  goodly  increase  blest 

me  here. 
Where    childless    and    opprest    with 

grief  I  came  ;  20 

With    voice    of    fervent    thankfulness 

sincere 
Let  me  the  blessings  which  are  mine 

proclaim ; 
Here  I  possess,  .  .  what  more  should 

I  require  ': 
Books,  children,  leisure, . .  all  my  heart's 

desiie. 


0   joyful   hour,    when    to   our   longing 
home 
The  long-expected  wheels  at  length 
drew  nigh  ! 
When  the  first  sound  went  forth,  '  They 
come,  they  come  ! ' 
I       And    holme's    impatience     quicken' d 
'  every  eye  ! 

*  Never  had  man  whom  Heaven  would  ' 
heap  with  bliss  | 

More   glad    return,    more    happy    hour  | 
than  this.'  30  ' 


Aloft    on    yonder    bench,    with    arm* 

dispread. 
My    boy    ^^to<K^.    Bhouting    there    hia 

father' .^  iianir, 
Wavhig  his  hat  around  hia  hapny  head  ; 
And  there,  a  younger  group,  hu  »ij»tcre 

came  : 
Smiling  they  stootl  with  looks  of  pleaacd 

.surjjrizc. 
While  tears  of  joy  were  seen  in  ildcr 

eyes. 

7 
Soon  each  and  all  camo  crowding  round 
to  sliarrt 
Tlic    cordial    greeting,    the    1k'Io\i-<I 
sight;  [there! 

What  welcoinings  of  hand  and  lip  were 
And,    when     those    overflowings    of 
delight  40 

Subsided  to  a  sonso  of  quiet  bliss. 
Life  hath  no  purer,  deej)cr  happiness. 

8 
The  young  companion  of  our  weary  way 
Fomid  here  the  end  desired  of  all  her 
ills; 
She,  who  in  sickness  pining  many  a  day 
Huuger'd  and  thireted  for  her  nati\c 
hills. 
Forgetful  now  of  sutlcring.s  paiit  and  [tarn. 
Rejoiced  to  see  her»wn  dear  home  again. 

0 
Recover* d    now,    the    homesick    moun- 
taineer 
Sate  by  the  playmate  of  her  infancy*. 
Her    twin- like    comrade,    .    .    render  d 
doubly  dear  5« 

For  that  long  absence  :  full  of  life  w«» 
she. 
With  voluble  discourno  and  ea^'rr  mien 
Telling  of  all  the  wonders  she  had  hccii. 

10 

Here  silently  Ixtwecn  her  jwirent^  stood 

My  dark-eyeti  Bertha,  timid  •« » dove; 

And' gently  oft  from  time  to  tinir  she 

woo'd  l>"^<'; 

I'resHure  of  hand.  t>r  word,  or  Icwk  ol 

With  impulse  MJiy  cif  bashful  tcndrrncj*. 

Soliciting  again  the  wiah'd  carci^v       *• 


700    THE   POET'S   PILGRIMAGE   TO   WATERLOO 


11 

The  younger  twain  in  wonder  lost  were 

they, 
My  gentle  Kate,  and  my  sweet  Isabel : 
Long  of  our  promised  coming,  day  by  day, 
It  had  been  their  delightf  to  hear  and 

tell ; 
And  now,  when  that  long-promised  hour 

was  come. 
Surprize   and   wakening   memory   held 

them  dumb. 


For  in  the  infant  mind,  as  in  the  old, 
When   to   its   second   childhood   life 
declines, 

A     dim     and     troubled     power     doth 
Memory  hold  : 
But  soon  the  light  of  young  Remem- 
brance shines  70 

Renew'd,  and  influences  of  dormant  love 

Waken' d   within,   with   quickening   in- 
fluence move. 

13 

O  happy  season  theirs,  when  absence 
brings  [pain. 

Small  feeling  of   privation,  none  of 
Yet  at  the  present  object  love  re-springs, 
As  night-closed  flowers  at  mom  ex- 
pand again  ! 
Nor  deem  our  second  infancy  unblest. 
When  gradually  composed  we  sink  to 
rest.  78 

14 
Soon   they  grew   blithe  as   they   were 
wont  to  be  ;  [seek  : 

Her  old  endearments  each  began  to 
And  Isabel  drew  near  to  climb  my  knee. 
And    pat    with    fondling    hand    her 
father's  cheek  ;  [thuis 

With  voice  and  touch  and  look  reviving 
The  feelings  which  had  slept  in  long 
disuse. 


But  there  stood  one  whose  heart  could 

entertain 

And  comprehend  the  f  ulnesaof  the  joy ; 

The  father,  teacher,  playmate,  was  again 

"  Come  to  his  only  and  his  studious  boy  : 

And  he  beheld  again  that  mother's  eye, 

Which    with    such    ceaseless    care    had 

watch' d  hia  infancy.  90 


16 

Bring  forth  the  treasures  now, .  .  a  prou 

display,  .  .  [return 

For   rich   as   Eastern    merchants   w 

Behold  the  black  Bcguine,  theSister  grej 

The  Friars  whose  heads  with  sobe 

motion  turn,  [hive; 

The  Ark  well-fiird  with  all  its  numerou 

Noah  and  Shem  and  Ham  and  Japhet 

and  their  wives. 

17 
The     tumbler,     loose     of     limb  ;      th« 
wrestlers  twain  ;  [device  ;ij 

And   many   a  toy   beside   of   quaint' 
Which,  when  his  fleecy  troops  no  mon 
can  gain 

Their  pasture  on  the  mountains  hoai, 

with  ice,  loojl 

The    German    shepherd    carves    withi 

curious  knife,  [life. 

Earning  in  easy  toil  the  food  of  frugal 

18 

It  was  a  group  which  Richter,  had  he 

view'd,  [feet  skill ; 

Might  have  deem'd  worthy  of  his  per- 

The  keen   impatience   of   the  youn^i^er 

brood,  [still ; 

Their  eager  eyes  and   fingers  never 

The  hope,  the  wonder,  and  the  restlf.'.ss 

joy  [boy! 

Of  those  glad  girls,  and  that  vociferous 

19 
The  aged  friend  serene  with  quiet  smile, 
Who  in  their  pleasure  finds  her  own 
delight  ;  no 

The  mother's  heart-felt  happiness  the 
while  ;  [sigl't  ; 

The   aunts,    rejoicing    in    the   joyful 
And  he  who,  in  his  gaiety  of  heart. 
With  glib  and  noisy  tongue  perform'd 
the  showman's  part. 

20 

Scoff  ye  who  will  !   but  let  me,  gracious 

Heaven,  [day ! 

Preserve  this  boyish  heart  till  life's  last 

For  so  that  inward  light  by  Nature  given 

Shall  still  direct,  and  cheer  me  on  my 

way,  [des<^^'end, 

And,  brightening  as  the  shades  of  age 

Shine  forth  with  heavenly  radiance  at 

the  end.  120 


PROEM 


Tnl 


21 

'his  was  the  morning  light  vouchsafed, 
which  KhI 
My  favourM  footsteps  to  the  Muses' 
hill. 
\'liosc  arduous  paths  I  have  not  ceased 
to  tread, 
From  good  to  better  persevering  still  ; 
I  iVnd,  if  but  self-approved,  to  praise  or 
f  blame 

Indifferent,  while  I  toil  for  lasting  fame. 


And  0  ye  nymphs  of  Castaly  divine  ! 
!  '    Whom   I    have   dutifully    served    so 
long. 

I  (Benignant  to  your  votary  now  incline. 
That  I  may  win  your  ear  with  gentle 
f  song,  130 

I  fSuch  as,  I  ween,  is  ne'er  disown'd  by 
I  you, . . 

[(A  low  prelusive  strain,  to  nature  true. 


23 


But  when  I  reach  at  themes  of  lofiirr 
thought. 
And  tell  of  things  surpoiwing  earthly 
sense, 

(Which  by  yourselves,  ()  Muhcs,  I  am 
taught.) 
Then  aid  me  with  yourfuUer  influence. 

And  to  the  height  of  that  great  argu- 
ment 

Support  my  spirit  in  her  strong  ascent ! 

24 
So  may  I  boldly  round  my  temples  bind 
The  laurel  which  my  mo^tor  S|H5nser 
wore ;  140 

And,  free  in  spirit  as  the  mountain  wind 
That   makes   my   symphony    in    this 
lone  hour. 
No  perishable  song  of  triumph  rai«o, 
But  sing  in  worthy  strains  my  Country's 
praise. 


THE  POET'S  PILGRIMAGE 


PART   I 
THE   JOURNEY 

TON    nOATKTONflN    TAP 
OTK    A2KOnOI    0EOI. 

.ESCHYLUS. 

I.    FLANDERS 

1 

OrR  world  hath  seen  the  work  of  war's 

debate 
Consummated    in    one     momentous 

day 
Twice  in  the  course  of  time  ;   and  twice 

the  fate 
Of    unborn    ages     hung    upon    the 

fray  : 
First  at  Platsea,  in  that  aweful  hour 
When  Greece  united  smote  the  Persian's 

power. 


2 
For,  had  the  Persian  triuraph'd,  then  tlto 
spring 
Of  knowledge  from  that  living  source 
luwl  ceast ; 
All  would  have  fallen  before  the  bar- 
barous King, 
Art,  Science,  Freedom  ;    the  di*«polic 
East,  «o 

Setting  her  mark  upon  the  racesubiluwl. 
Had   stamp'd    them    in    the   mould   of 
sensual  st^rvitude. 


The  second  day  was  that  when  Martcl 

broke     '  [opprewt. 

The    Mussel  men.    delivering    France 

And, in  one  mighty  conflict,  from  the  yoke 

Of    misbelieving     Mecca    saved    ihc 

West ; 

Else  bad  the  Impostor's  law  dcstroy'd 

the  ties 
Of  public  weal  and  private  charitiea. 


702    THE   POET'S   PILGRIMAGE   TO   WATERLOO 


Such  was  the  danger,  when  that  Man  of 

Blood 
Burst  from  the  iron  Isle,  and  brought 

again,  20 

Like  Satan  rising  from  the  sulphurous 

flood, 
His   impious   legions    to    the    battle 

plain :  [field 

Such  too  was  our  deliverance,  when  the 
Of  Waterloo  beheld  his  fortunes  yield. 


I,  who  with  faith  unshaken  from  the  first, 

Even    when   the   Tyrant   seem'd    to 

touch  the  skies, 

Had  look'd  to  see  the  high-blown  bubble 

burst. 

And  for  a  fall  conspicuous  as  his  rise, 

Even  in  that  faith  had  look'd  not  for 

defeat  29 

So  swift,  so  overwhelming,  so  complete. 


Me  most  of  all  men  it  behoved  to  raise 

The  strain   of  triumph  for  this  foe 

subdued, 

To  give  a  voice  to  joy,  and  in  my  lays 

Exalt  a  nation's  h3'mn  of  gratitude. 

And  blazon  forth  in  song   that    day's 

renown,  .  . 
For  I  was  graced  with  England's  laurel 
crown. 


And,  as  I  once  had  journey' d  to  behold 

Far  off,  Ourique's  consecrated  field, 

Where  Portugal  the  faithful  and  the  bold 

Assumed  the  symbols  of  her  sacred 

shield,  40 

More  reason  now  that  I  should  bend  my 

way 
The  field  of  British  glory  to  survey. 


So  forth  I  set  upon  this  pilgrimage, 

And  took  the  partner  of  my  life  with 

me,  [age 

And  one  dear  girl,  just  ripe  enough  of 

Retentively  to  see  what  I  should  see  ; 

That   thus,  with   mutual    recollections 

fraught. 
We  might  bring  home  a  store  for  after- 
thought. 


We  left  our  pleasant  Land  of  Lakes,  anc 

went 
Throughout  whole  England's  length. 

a  weary  way,  5c 

Even  to  the  farthest  shores  of  eastern 

Kent: 
Embarking   there  upon   an   autumn 

day. 
Toward  Ostend  we  held  our  course  air 

night, 
And  anchor'd  by  its  quaj^  at  morning's 

earliest  light. 

10 

Small  vestige  there  of  that   old  siege, 

appears. 
And  little  of  remembrance  would  be 

found, 
When  for  the  space  of  three  long  painful 

years 
The    persevering    Spaniard    girt    it 

round, 
And  gallant  youths  of  many  a  realm 

fi'om  far 
Went  students  to  that  busy  school  of 

war.  60 

11 

Yet  still  those  wars  of  obstinate  defence 
Their   lessons   offer   to   the   soldiers 

hand  ; 
Large  knowledge  may  the  statesman 

draw  from  thence  : 
And  still  from  underneath  the  drifted 

sand, 
Sometimes  the  storm,  or  passing  foot 

lays  bare 
Part  of  the  harvest  Death  has  gatherd 

there. 

12 

Peace  be  within  thy  walls,  thou  famous 
town. 
For  thy  brave  bearing  in  those  times 
of  old ; 
May   plenty    thy   industrious   children 
crown, 
And   prosperous   merchants  day   by 
day  behold  70 

Many  a  rich  vessel  from  the  injurious 

sea 
I  Enter  the  bosom  of  thy  quiet  quay. 


jgaiy. 


fet 

!! 


1, 


FLANDERS 


'03 


13 

Embarking  there,  we  glided  on  between 
Strait   banks  raised  liigli  above  tlie 

level  land. 

Tith  many  a  cheerful  dwelling  white 

and  green  [hand. 

In   goodly   neighbourhood   on   either 

fugc-timber'd  bridges  o'er  the  passage 

lay,  [way. 

Vhich  wheel'd  aside  and  gave  us  easy 


14 
aided    by 


the   favouring 


'our   horses, 
breeze, 

Drew  our  gay  vessel,  slow  and  sleek 

and  large  ;  8o 

rack  goes  the  whip,  the  steersman  at 

his  ease  [barge. 

Directs  the  way.  and  steady  went  the 

Iro  evening  closed  to  Bruges  thus  wo 

came,  .  . 
■^air  city,  worthy  of  her  ancient  fame. 

15 

Ilie  season  of  her  splendour  is  gone  by, 
I  Yet  every  where  its  monuments 
I  remain ;  [on  high. 

Temples  which  rear  their  stately  heads 
Canals  that  intersect  the  fertile  plain, 
Wide  streets  and  squares,  with  many 

a  court  and  hall 
iSpacious  and  undefaced,  but  ancient  all. 

I 

iTime  hath  not  wrong' d  her,  nor  hath 
Ruin  sought  91 

i  Rudely  her  splendid  structures  to 
destroy,  [fraught, 

Save  in  those  recent  days  with  evil 
When  Mutability,  in  drunken  joy 

Triumphant,  and  from  all  restraint 
released,  [beast. 

Let  loose  the  tierce  and  many-headed 

17 
But  for  the  scars  in  that  unhappy  rage 
Inflicted,  firm  she  stands  and  unde- 
cay'd  ; 
Like  our  first  sires',  a  beautiful  old  age 
Is  hers,  in  venerable  years  array' d  ; 
And  yet  to  her  benignant   stars  may 
bring,  loi 

What  fate  denies  to  man,  .  .  a  second 
spring. 


18 


When  I  may  read  of  tilts  in  day(.  of  old. 
And  tourneys  graced  by  chief iftinn  o( 
renown.  '  (hold, 

lames,  grave  citi/.t'n««.  uud  wurnor» 


Fair 


If  Fancy  would  pourtray  homo  Htatvly 

town,  (be. 

Which  for  such  |X)mp  fit  theatre  dhould 

Fair  Bruges,  I  shall  then  rcmoml>or  thoo. 

19 

Nor  did   thy   landscape  yield    me   \vnn 

delight. 

Seen  from  the  deck  as  slow  it  glidwi 

by,  no 

Or  when  beneath  us,  from  thy  Bt-lfroy's 

height,  [sky ; 

Its  boundless  circle  met  the  licndinf? 

The  waters  smooth  and  straight,  thy 

proper  boast. 
And    lines   of    roadside    trees   >a    long 
perspective  lost. 

20 

No  happier  land.scape  may  on  earth  be 

seen,  [grovc.H, 

Rich  gardens  all  around  and  fruitful 

White    dwellings    trim    relieved    with 

lively  green,  [love.M, 

The  pollard  that  the  Flemish  painter 

With  aspins  tall  and  poplars  fair  to  view, 

Ca.sting   o'er  all   thf   land   a   prey   and 

willowy  hue.  lao 

21 

My  lot  hath  lain  in  scenes  sublime  and 

rude. 

Where  still  devoutly  I   have  served 

and  sought  (tudo. 

The  Power  divine  which  dwells  in  »oli- 

In  boyhood  wa.s  1  wont,  with  rapture 

fraught,  (frrf. 

Amid  those  rocks  and  woods  to  wander 

Where  Avon  hastens  to  the  Severn  j»i'a. 


In  Cintra  also  liave  I  dwelt  rrrwhilr. 

That  earthly  Kden.  and  have  "icen  at 

eve  (t*"»  !»»'*•• 

The  .sea-mists,  gathering  rouml  it«  moun 

Whelm  with  their  billowii  all  below. 

but  leave  »J» 

One  pinnacle  sole  acen,  whereon  it  atood 

Like  the  Ark  on  Ararat,  above  the  flood. 


704     THE   POET'S   PILGRIMAGE   TO   WATERLOO 


23 
And   now    am    I   a    Cumbrian    moun- 
taineer ; 
Their    wintry   garment   of   unsullied 
snow 
The  mountains  have  put  on,  the  heavens 
are  clear, 
And  yon  dark  lake  spreads  silently 
below  ; 
Who  sees  them  only  in  their  summer 

hour 
Sees  but  their  beauties  half,  and  knows 
not  half  their  power. 

24 

Yet  hath  the  Flemish  scene  a  charm  for 

me 
That    soothes    and    wins    upon    the 

willing  heart ;  140 

Though    all   is   level    as    the   sleeping 

sea, 
A  natural  beauty  springs  from  perfect 

art. 
And  something  more  than  pleasure  fills 

the  breast 
To  see  how  well-directed  toil  is  blest. 

25 

Two  nights  have  pass'd  ;    the  morning 

opens  well, 
Fair  are  the  aspects  of  the  favouring 

sky; 
Soon  yon  sweet  chimes  the  appointed 

hour  will  tell, 
For  here  to  music  Time  moves  merrily: 
Aboard  !    aboard  !    no  more  must  we 

delay,  .  . 
Farewell,  good  people  of  the  Fleur  de 

Bled !  150 

26 
Beside  the  busy  wharf  the  Trekschuit 
rides. 
With  painted  plumes  and  tent-like 
awning  gay  ; 
Carts,  barrows,  coaches,  hurry  from  all 
sides, 
And  passengers  and  porters  throng 
the  way. 
Contending   all   at   once   in   clamorous 

speech, 
French,  Flemish,  English,  each  confusing 
each. 


27 


All  disregardant  of  the  Babel  sound 

A  swan  kept  oaring  near  with  upraise 

eye,  .  .  i< 

A  beauteous  pensioner,  who  daily  foun 
The  bounty  of  such  casual  company 

Nor  left  us  till  the  bell  said  all  was  dom 

And  slowly  we  our  watery  way  begun. 

28 

Europe  can  boast  no  richer,  goodlie,. 

scene,  1 

Than  that  through  which  our  pleasan 

passage  lay,  [green: 

By   fertile   fields   and  fruitful  garden' 

The  journey  of  a  short  autumnal  day 

Sleek  well-fed  steeds  our  steady  vesse' 

drew. 
The  heavens  were  fair,  and  Mirth  wai 
of  our  crew.  \ 

29 
Along  the  smooth  canal's  unbending  line . 
Beguiling  time  with  light  discourse,! 
we  went,  17c 

Nor  wanting  savoury  food  nor  generom 
wine. 
Ashore    too    there    was    feast    and 
merriment ; 
The  jovial  peasants  at  some  village  fail 
Were     dancing,      drinking,      smoking, 
gambling  there, 

30 

Of  these,  or  of  the  ancient  towers  ofi 
Ghent  [tell ; " 

Renown' d,  I  must  not  tarry  now  to 

Of  picture,  or  of  church,  or  monument 
Nor  how  we  mounted  to  that  pon- 
derous bell. 

The  Belfroy's    boast,  which   bears  old 
Roland's  name. 

Nor  yields  to  Oxford  Tom,  or  Tom  of 
Lincoln's  fame.  180 

31 

Nor  of  that  sisterhood,  whom  to  their  rule 

Of  holy  life  no  hasty  vows  restrain, 

Who,   meek  disciples  of  the  Christian 

school. 

Watch  by  the  bed  of  sickness  and  of 

pain  :  [impart 

Oh  what  a  strength  divine  doth  Faith 

To  inborn  goodness  in  the  female  heart  !• 


& 
Be  its 

% 
Sri 


k 


! 


FLANDERS 


'05 


.  gentle  party  from  the  shores  of  Kent 
Thus  far  had  been  our  comrades,  as 
.  ;  befell  ; 

I  iortuno  had  link'd  us  first,  and  now 
r  ;  Consent,  .  . 

If  I  For  why  should  Choice  divide  whom 

;'  Chance  so  well  190 

[ad    join'd,    and    they    to    view    the 

famous  ground, 
.iko  us,  were  to  the  Field  of  Battle 
bound. 

33 
1  farther  as  yet  they  look'd  not  than  that 
quest,  .  . 
The  land  was  all  before  them  where 

to  choose. 
o  we  consorted  here  as  seemed  best ; 
Who  would  such  pleasant  fellowship 
refuse 
)f    ladies    fair    and    gentle    comrades 

free  ?  .  . 
yertea  we  were  a  joyous  company. 

I  34 

■{et  lack'd  we  not  discourse  for  graver 

times, 

Such  as  might  suit  sage  auditors,  I 

ween  ;  200 

•'or  some  among  us  in  far  distant  climes 

The  cities  and  the  ways  of  men  had 

seen ;  [well 

^o    unobservant    travellers    they,    but 

)t  what  they  there  had  learnt  they  knew 

to  tell. 

35 

rhe  one  of  frozen  Moscovy  could  speak, 

And  well  his  willing  listeners  entertain 

vVith    tales    of    that    inclement    region 

bleak,  [reign. 

The  pageantry  and  pomp  of  Catherine's 

\nd  that  proud  city,  which  with  wise 

intent 
The   mighty   founder   raised,   his   own 
great  monument.  210 

36 

And  one  had  dwelt  with  Malabars  and 

Moors,  [dispense 

Where  fertile  earth  and  genial  heaven 

Profuse  their  bounty  upon  Indian  shores; 

Whate'er  delights  the  eye,  or  charms 

the  sense. 


The    valleys    with    perpetual    fruitAgo 

blest. 
The   mount Jiins    with    unfftding   foUago 
drest. 

37 
Ho  those  barbaric  palacts  had  poen, 

Tlie  work  of  Eastern  potonluirs  of  oU\ ; 

And  in  the  Temples  of  the  K(xk  had 

been, 

Awe-struck    their  dread   rcccsecM   to 

behold  ;  aao 

A  gifted  hand  was  his,  which  by  its  skill 

Could  to  the  eye  pourtraysuch  wondrous 

scenes  at  will. 

38 
A  third,  who  from  the  Land  of  Lakes 
with  mo 
Went  out  upon  this  pleasant  pilgrim- 
age. 
Had  sojourn'd  long  beyond  the  Atlantic 
sea ; 
Adventurous  was  his  spirit  as  his  age. 
For  he  in  far  Brazil,  through  wood  and 

waste. 
Had  travell'd  many  a  day,  and  there 
his  heart  was  placed. 

39 
Wild  region,  .  .  happy  if  at  night  ho 
found 
The  shelter  of  some  rude  Tapuya's 
shed  ;  tjp 

Else  would  ho  take  his  lodgement  on 
the  ground, 
Or  from  the  tree  suspend  his  hardy 
bed; 
And  sometimes,  starting  at  the  jaguar  s 

cries. 
See    through    the    murky    night    the 
prowler's  fiery  eyes. 

40 
And    sometimes    over    thirsty    de«ert« 
drear. 
And  sometimes  over  Hooded  plaina 
he  went ; .  . 
A  joy  it  was  his  fire-side  l&\cn  to  hear. 
And  ho  a  comrade  to  my  heart* h  con- 
tent : 
For  he  of  what  I  mo«t  dt*ire<l  could  tril. 
And    loved    the   PortugaU    becauBO    ho 
knew  them  well.  *¥» 


706     THE   POET'S   PILGRIMAGE   TO   WATERLOO 


41 
Here  to  the  easy  barge  we  bade  adieu  ; 
Land-travellers  now  along  the  well- 
paved  way, 
Where  road-side  trees,  still  lengthening 
on  the  view. 
Before  us  and  behind  unvarying  lay  : 
Through  lands  well-labour'd  to  Alost  we 

came, 
Where  whilome  treachery  stain' d  the 
English  name. 

42 
Then  saw  we  Afflighem,  by  ruin  rent, 
Whose  venerable  fragments  strew  the 
land ; 
Grown    wise    too   late,    the    multitude 
lament 
The  ravage   of   their   own   unhappy 
hand ;  250 

Its   records  in   their  frenzy   torn    and 

tost, 
Its  precious  stores  of  learning  wreck' d 
and  lost. 

43 

Whatever  else  we  saw  was  cheerful  all, 
The  signs  of  steady  labour  well  re- 
paid ; 

The  grapes  were  ripe  on  every  cottage 
wall. 
And   merry  peasants  seated  in  the 
shade 

Of  garner,  or  within  the  open  door. 

From  gather'd  hop-vines  pluck'd  the 
plenteous  store. 

44 

Through  Assche  for  water  and  for  cakes 

renown' d 
We  pass'd,   pursuing  still  our  way, 

though  late  ;  260 

And   when   the   shades   of   night   were 

closing  round, 
Brussels    received    us    through    her 

friendly  gate,  .  . 
Proud  city,   fated    many  a  change   to 

see, 
And     now     the     seat    of     new-made 

monarchy. 


11.   BRUSSELS 

1 

Where   might  a  gayer  spectacle  V 

found 
Than  Brussels  offer' d  on  that  festiA 

night, 
Her  squares  and  palaces  irradiate  roun 
To  welcome  the  imperial  Muscovite 
Who  now,  the  wrongs  of  Europe  twi( 

redress'd, 
Came  there  a  welcome  and  a  glorioi 

guest  ? 


Her  mile-long  avenue  with  lamps  wf' 

hung, 
Innumerous,   which  diffused  a  ligh 

like  day  ; 
Where  through  the  line  of  splendour,  ol 

and  young 
Paraded  all  in  festival  array  ;  1 

While  fiery  barges,  plying  to  and  fro, 
Illumined  as  they  moved  the  liquid  glas. 

below. 


By  day  with  hurrying  crowds  the  street 

were  throng'd. 
To  gain  of  this  great  Czar  a  passin 

sight ; 
And    music,    dance,    and    banqueting 

prolong' d 
The  various  work  of  pleasure  throug] 

the  night. 
You  might  have  deem'd,   to  see  tha 

joyous  town. 
That  wretchedness  and  pain  were  ther 

unknown. 


Yet  three  short  months  had  scarceb 

pass'd  away. 
Since,  shaken  with  the  approaching 

battle's  breath,  21 

Her   inmost   chambers   trembled    witl 

dismay  ; 
And  now  within  her  walls  insatiate 

Death, 
Devourer  whom  no  harvest  e'er  can  fill 
The  gleanings  of  that  field  was  gathering 

still. 


ii 


BRUSSELS 


'07 


»'ithia  those  walls  there  linger'd  at  that 

hour  [pain. 

Many  a  brave  soldier  on  the  bed  of 

^'hom  aid  of  human  art  should  ne'er 

restore  [again  ; 

To  see   his  country  and   his  friends 

ind  many  a  victim  of  that  fell  debate, 

Vhose  life  yet  waver'd  in  the  scales  of 

fate.  30 


:ome  I  beheld,  for  whom  the  doubtful 

sc^le  [length  ; 

Had   to   the  side  of  life  inclined   at 

Emaciate  was  their  form,  their  features 

pale,  [strength ; 

The  limbs  so  vigorous  late,  bereft  of 

Vnd,  for  their  gay  habiliments  of  yore, 

Lhe  habit  of  the  House  of  Pain  they 


^ome  in  the  courts  of  that  gre^t  hospital, 
That  they  might  taste  the  sun  and 
open  air, 

Trawl' d    out ;     or    sat«    beneath    the 
southern  wall ; 
Or,  leaning  in  the  gate,  stood  gazing 
there  40 

[n  listless  guise  upon  the  passers  by, 

rt'hiling   away   the   hours   of   slow   re- 
covery. 

8 

Others  in  waggons  borne  abroad  I  saw. 
Albeit   recovering,    still    a   mournful 

sight : 
'Languid     and     helpless     some     were 

stretch' d  on  straw, 
I    Some  more  advanced  sustain'd  them- 
!  selves  upright, 

!And  with  bold  eye  and  careless  front, 

methought, 
iSeem'd  to  set  wounds  and  death  again 

at  nought. 


I  Well  had  it  fared  with  these  ;  nor  went 

it  ill 

With  those  whom  war  had  of  a  limb 

bereft,  50 

Leaving  the  life  un touch" d,  that   they 

had  still  [left ; 

Enough  for   health   as  for  existence 


But  some  tlieiv  were  who  lived  to  dr*w 
the  breath 

Of  pain  through  hopeless  ycara  of  linger- 
ing death. 

10 
Here  might  the  hideous  faco  of  war  I  o 
seen, 
Stript  of  all  pomp,  adonimenl,  and 
disguise ;  «■• 

It  was  a  dismal  spectacle,  I  ween, 
Such  as  might  well  to  the  beholders' 
oyoH  (mind 

Bring  sudden  tears,  and  make  the  piouM 
Grieve  for  the  crimes  and  folliea  of  man- 
kind. 60 

11 
What  had  it  been  then  in  the  recent 
days 
Of  that  great  triumph,  when  the  open 
wound  [wavH 

Was  festering,  and  along  the  crowded 
Hour  after  hour  was  heard  the  inces- 
sant sound 
Of  wheels,   which  o'er  the  rough  and 

stony  road 
Convey'd  their  living  agonizing  load  ! 

12 
Hearts  little  to  the  melting  moot!  in- 
clined 
Grew  sick  to  see  their  suflferings  ;  and 
the  thought 
Still  comes  with  horror  to  the  shuddering 
mind 
Of  those  sad  days  when  Belgian  earn 
were  taught  70 

The  British  soldier's  cry,  half  groan, half 

prayer. 
Breathed  when  his  pain  is  more  than  he 
can  bear. 

13 
Brave  spirits,  nobly  had  their  part  been 
done  ! 
Brussels  could  show,   where  Senne'i 
slow  waters  glide. 
The    cannon     which    their    matchltM 
valour  won. 
Proud   trophies  of  the  field,   raogrd 
side  by  side. 
Where  as  they  utootl  in  inofTensive  row. 
The  solitary  guard  paeed  to  and  fro. 


708    THE   POET'S   PILGRIMAGE   TO   WATERLOO 


14 

Unconscious  instruments  of  human  woe, 
Some  for  their  mark  the  royal  lilies 

bore,  80 

Fix'd    there    when    Britain    was    the 

Bourbon's  foe  ; 
And  some  emboss'd  in  brassen  letters 

wore 
The  sign  of  that  abhorr'd  misrule,  which 

broke 
The  guilty  nation  for  a  Tyrant's  yoke. 

15 

Others  were  stampt  with  that  Usurper's 

name,  .  . 
Recorders   thus   of   many   a   change 

were  they. 
Their  deadly  work  through  every  change 

the  same  ; 
Nor  ever  had  they  seen  a  bloodier  day. 
Than  when,  as  their  late  thunders  roU'd 

around, 
Brabant  in  all  her  cities  felt  the  sound. 

16 
Then  ceased  their  occupation.     From 
the  field  91 

Of  battle  here  in  triumph  were  they 
brought ; 
Ribands  and  flowers  and  laurels  half 
conceal'd 
Their  brazen  mouths,  so  late  with  ruin 
fraught ; 
Women  beheld  them  pass  with  joyful 

eyes. 
And  children  clapt  their  hands  and  rent 
the  air  with  cries. 

17 

Now  idly  on  the  banks  of  Senne  they 

lay, 
Like  toys  with  which  a  child  is  ple«ised 

no  more : 
Only   the  British  traveller   bends   his 

way 
To  see  them  on  that  unfrequented 

shore,  100 

And,  as  a  mournful  feeling  blends  with 

pride. 
Remembers  those  who  fought,  and  those 

who  died. 


III.    THE  FIELD  OF  BATTLE 

1 
Southward  from  Brussels  lies  the  fiel- 
of  blood. 
Some  three  hours'  journey  for  a  well 
girt  man ; 
A  horseman  who  in  haste  pursued  hi' 
road 
Would  reach  it  as  the  second  hott 
began. 
The  way  is  through  a  forest  deep  am 

wide. 
Extending  many  a  mile  on  either  side, 


No  cheerful  woodland  this  of  antic  trees 
With  thickets  varied  and  with  sunnj 

glade ; 
Look  where  he  will,  the  weary  travellei 

sees 
One    gloomy,     thick,     impenetrable 

shade  ic 

Of   tall   straight   trunks,    which   move 

before  his  sight. 
With  interchange  of  lines  of  long  green 

light. 


Here,  where  the  woods  receding  from' 

the  road 
Have  left  on  either  hand  an  open 

space 
For  fields  and  gardens  and  for  man's 

abode, 
Stands  Waterloo  ;  a  little  lowly  place. 
Obscure  till  now,  when  it  hath  risen  to 

fame. 
And  given  the  victory  its  English  name. 


^:^ 


W 


What  time  the  second  Carlos  ruled  in 
Spain, 
Last  of  the  Austrian  line  by  Fate 
decreed,  20 

Here  Castanaca  reared  a  votive  fane. 
Praying  the  Patron  Saints  to  bless 
with  seed 

His  childless  sovereign  ;  Heaven  denied 
an  heir. 

And  Europe  moum'd  in  blood  the  frus- 
trate prayer. 


THE   FIELD    OF   BATTLE 


Too 


5 

hat  temple  to  our  hearts  was  hallow'd 

now  : 
For  many   a   wounded   Briton   there 

was  laid,  [allow 

'ith  such  poor  help  as  time  might  then 
From  the  fresh  carnage  of  the  field 

convey' d  ; 
ml  they  whom  human  succours  could 

not  save 
ere   in    its   precincts   found    a   hasty 

grave.  30 


nd  here  on  marble  tablets  set  on  high, 
In  English  lines  by  foreign  workmen 

traced, 
re  names  familiar  to  an  English  eye  ; 
Their  brethren  here  the  fit  memorials 

placed,  [tell 

Those    unadorned    inscriptions    briefly 
heir    gallant    comrades'     rank,     and 

where  they  fell. 


"lie  stateliest  monument  of  public  pride 

Enrich'd  with  all  magnificence  of  art, 

'o   honour   Chieftains  who  in  victory 

died. 

Would   wake  no  stronger  feeling  in 

the  heart  4° 

'han  these  plain  tablets,  by  the  soldier's 

hand  i^ 

laiscd  to  his  comrades  in  a  foreign  land. 


NOt  far  removed  you  find  the  burial- 
ground, 
Yet  so  that  skirts  of  woodland  inter- 
vene ; 

\  small  enclosure,  rudely  fenced  around; 
Three  grave-stones  only  for  the  dead 
are  seen  : 

)ne  bears  the  name  of  some  rich  villager, 

rhe  first  for  whom  a  stone  was  planted 
there, 

9 

Beneath  the  second  is  a  German  laid, 

Whom     Bremen,     shaking     off     the 

Frenchman's  yoke,  50 

Sent  with  her  sons  the  general  cause  to 

aid  ;  [stroke. 

He  in  the  fight  received  his  mortal 


Yet  for  his  country's  apRravatrd  wora 
Lived   to  («co  vengeance  on  her  haUd 
fo«8. 

10 

A  son  of  Erin  sleeps  below  the  third  ; 
By  friendly  hands  his  body  whcnJ  it 

lay 
Upon  the  field  of  blood  had  hern  in- 

terr'd, 
And    thenre   by  those  who  moum'd 

him  borne  nway 
In  pious  reverence  for  departed  worth. 
Laid  here  with  holy  rites  in  consecrated 

earth.  60 

11 
Repose   in   peace,   brave  soldiers,   who 
have  found 
In  Waterloo  and  Soigny's  shade  your 
rest  ! 
Ere  this  hath  British  valour  made  that 
ground 
Sacred  to  you,  and  for  your  icn-H  un- 
blest, 
W^hen  Marlborough  here,  victorious  in 

his  might 
Surprized  the  French,  and  smote  them 
in  their  flight. 

12 

Those  wars  are  as  a  tale  of  times 

by. 

For  so  doth  perishftble  fame  decay.  .  . 

Here  on  the  ground  wherein  the  slaugh- 

ter'd  lie. 

The  memory  of  that   fight   iH  paA.«'«l 

away  ;  .  .  70 

And  even  our  glorious  Blenheim  to  th© 

field 
Of  Waterloo  and  Wellington  must  yield. 

13 
Soon  shall  we  reach  that  scene  of  mightj 
deeds. 
In  one  unbending  line  a  short  league 
hence  ; 
Aricbt  the  forest  from  the  road  rrcrdca. 
With  wide  Hwe<-p  trending  aoulh  and 
westwanl  thence  ; 
Aleft  along  the  line  it  keeps  its  place. 
Some  half  hour's  diutance  at  a  IravrlW* 


710    THE   POET'S   PILGRIMAGE   TO   WATERLOO 


u 

The    country    here    expands,    a    wide- 
spread scene  ; 
No    Flemish    gardens    fringed    with 
willows  these,  80 

Nor  rich  Brabantine  pastures  ever  green, 
With  trenches  lined  and  rows  of  aspin 


In  tillage  here  the  unwooded  open  land 
Returns  its  increase  to  the  farmer' s  hand. 

15 
Behold  the  scene  where  Slaughter  had 
full  sway  ! 
A  mile  before  us  lieth  Mount  St.  John, 
The  hamlet  which  the  Highlanders  that 
day 
Preserved  from  spoil ;    yet  as  much 
farther  on 
The  single  farm  is  placed,  now  known 

to  fame. 
Which  from  the  sacred  hedge  derives 
its  name.  90 

16 

Straight  onward  yet  for  one  like  distance 

more,  [stands. 

And  there  the  house  of  Belle  Alliance 

So  named,  I  guess,  by  some  in  days  of 

yore,  [hands : 

In  friendship  or  in  wedlock  joining 

Little  did  they  who  call'd  it  thus  foresee 

The  plice  that  name  should  hold  in 

history  ! 

17 
Beyond  these  points  the  fight  extended 
not  .  . 
Small  theatre  for  such  a  tragedy  ! 
Its  breadth  scarce  more,  from  eastern 
Papelot 
To  where  the  groves  of  Hougoumont 
on  high  100 

Rear  in  the  west  their  venerable  head. 
And  cover  with  their  shade  the  countless 
dead. 

18 
But  wouldst  thou  tread  this  celebrated 
ground,  [scene 

And  trace  with  understanding  eyes  a 
Above  all  other  fields  of  war  renown'd. 
From  western  Hougoumont  thy  way 
begin  ; 


There  was  our  strength  on  that  side,  an* 

there  first, 
In  all  its  force,  the  storm  of  battle  burst 

19 
Strike  eastward  then  across  toward  L. 
Haye, 
The  single  farm  :   with  dead  the  field 
between  ir 

Are  lined,  and  thou  wilt  see  upon  tb 
way 
Long  wave-like  dips  and  swells  whicl 
intervene. 
Such  as  would  breathe  the  war-horse 

and  impede. 
When  that  deep  soil  was  wet,  his  martia 


tit 


20 

This  is  the  ground  whereon  the  youn^ 

Nassau, 
Emuling    that    day    his    ancestor'^ 

renown,  [savt;! 

Received  his  hurt ;    admiring  Belgium 
The    youth    proved    worthy    of    hif|   , 

destined  crown  :  '■^'''- 

All  tongues  his  prowess  on  that  day 

proclaim. 
And  children  lisp  his  praise  and  bless 

their  Prince's  name.  120 


21 

When  thou  hast  reach' d  La  Haye,  sur- 
vey it  well. 
Here  was  the  heat  and  centre  of  the 
strife ; 

This  point  must  Britain  hold  whate'er 
befell. 

And  here  both  armies  were  profuse  of 
life :  [by 

Once  it  was  lost,  .  .  and  then  a  stander 

Belike  had  trembled  for  the  victory. 


kli 


22 
Not  so  the  leader,  on  whose  equal  mind 
Such  interests  hung  in  that  momen- 
tous day  ; 
So  well  had  he  his  motley  troops  assign'd, 
That  where  the  vital  points  of  action 
lay,  130 

There  had  he  placed  those  soldiers  whom 

he  knew 
No  fears  could  quail,  no  dangers  could 
subdue. 


iii 


THE   FIELD   OF   BATTLE 


11 


23 
nail  was  his  British  force,  nor  had  he 

hero 

The  Portugals,  in  heart  so  near  allied, 

he  worthy  comrades  of  his  late  career, 

.  Who  fought  so  oft  and  concjucrVl  at 

his  side,  [advance, 

!ion,  with  the  Red  Cross  join'd  in  bravo 

glorious  Quinaa  mock'd  the  air  of 

France. 


'ow  of  the  troops  with  whom  he  took 

the  field 
i>ome   were   of    doubtful   faith,    and 

others  raw  ;  140 

Ic  illation' d  the^e  where  they  might 

stand  or  yield  ;  [saw, 

But  where  the  stress  of  battle  he  fore- 
There   were  his  links   (his  own  strong 

words  I  speak) 
Vud  rivets  which  no  human  force  could 

break. 

25 

3  my  brave  countrymen,  ye  answer'd 

well 
To  that  heroic  trust !   Nor  less  did  ye. 
Whose  worth  your  grateful  country  aye 

shall  tell. 
True  children  of  our  sister  Germany, 
Who,  while   she   groan' d   beneath   the 

oppressor's  chain. 
Fought  for  her  freedom  in  the  fields  of 
I  iSpain.  150 

26 

La  Haye,  bear  witness !  sacred  is  it  hight. 

And  sacred  is  it  truly  from  that  day  ; 

For  never  braver  blood  was  s{)ent  in  fight 

Than  Britain  here  hath  mingled  with 

the  clay. 

Set  where  thou  wilt  thy  foot,  thou  scarce 

can'st  tread 
Here  on  a  spot  unhallow'd  by  the  dead. 

27 
Here  was  it  that  the  Highlanders  with- 
stood [weight 
The  tide  of  hostile  power,  received  its 
With  resolute  strength,   and  stemm'd 
and  turn'd  the  flood  ; 
And  fitly  here,   as  in  that  Grecian 
strait,  x6o 


The    funeral    stone    might    uy     Go 

traveller,  tell 
Scotland,   that    in   our   duty   here    we 

fell. 

28 
Still  eastward  from  thia  jwint  thy  way 
pursue. 
There  grows  a  single  hedge  along  the 
lane,  .  . 
No  other  is  there  far  or  near  in  view  : 

The  raging  enemy  essay 'd  in  vain 
To  pass  that  line,  .  .  a  braver  foe  with- 
stood, 
And  this  whole  ground  was  moistcu'd 
with  their  blood. 

21> 

Leading  his  gallant  men  a.s  he  was  wont. 

The  hot  assailants'  onset  to  re}>c!,  170 

Advancing    hat    in    hand,   lier<!   in    the 

front 

Of  battle  and  of  danger,  Picton  fell  ; 

Lamented  Chief  !   than  whom  no  bra\er 

name 
His  country's  annals  shall  consign  to 
fame. 

30 
Scheldt  had  not  seen  us,  had  his  voice 
been  heard, 
Return  with  shame  from  hcrdisaetrous 
coast : 
But  Fortune  soon  to  fairer  ticldu  pre- 
ferr'd 
His  worth  approve*!,  which  Cambria 
long  may  boast  : 
France  felt  him  then,  and  Portugal  and 

Spain 
His  honour'd  memory  will  for  aye  retain. 

31 
Hence    to    the    high-wall'd    houtw    of 
Papelot,  ««« 

The   battle's   boundary   on   tl»r   Kfi. 
incline  ; 
Here  thou  seest  Friachennont  not  l^r 
remote. 
From  whence,  like  mioistera  of  wralh 
divine, 
The  Prussians,  issuing  oa  the  jioWiof 

foe, 
Consummatod    their   gnU   mk!    UiU 
overthrow. 


712     THE   POET'S    PILGRIMAGE    TO    WATERLOO 


32 

Deem  not  that  I  the  martial  skill  should 

boast 
Where  horse  and  foot  were  station' d 

here  to  tell, 
What  points  were  occupied  by  either 

host, 
And  how  the  battle  raged,  and  what 

befell,  190 

And  how  our  great  Commander's  eagle 

eye, 
Which  comprehended  all,  secured  the 

victory. 

33 

This  were  the  historian's,  not  the  poet's 

part ; 
Such  task  would  ill  the  gentle  Muse 

beseem, 
Who  to  the  thoughtful  mind  and  pious 

heart 
Comes   with   her   offering   from   this 

aweful  theme  ; 
Content  if  what  she  saw  and  gather' d 

there 
She  may  in  unambitious  song  declare. 

34 

Look  how  upon  the  Ocean's  treacherous 
face 
The    breeze    and    summer    sunshine 
softly  play,  200 

And  the  green-heaving  billows  bear  no 
trace 
Of  all  the  wrath  and  wreck  of  yester- 
day ;  .  . 

So  from  the  field  which  here  we  look'd 
upon 

The  vestiges  of  dreadful  war  were  gone. 

35 
Earth    had    received    into    her    silent 
womb 
Her  slaughter' d  creatures  :   horse  and 
man  they  lay. 
And  friend  and  foe,  within  the  general 
tomb. 
Equal  had  been  their  lot ;    one  fatal 
day 
For  all,  .  .  one  labour,  .  .  and  one  place 

of  rest 
They     found     within     their     common 
parent's  breast.  210 


36 
The  passing  seasons  had  not  yet  effacet 
The  stamp   of   numerous  hoofs  im 
press' d  by  force 
Of  cavalry,  whose  path  might  still  b< 
traced. 
Yet  Nature  every  where  resumed  hei 
course ; 
Low  pansies  to   the  sun  their  purpk 

gave, 
And  the  soft  poppy  blossom' d  on  the 
grave. 


In   parts  the    careful  farmer   had   re- 

new'd 
His  labours,  late  by  battle  frustrated ; 
And  where  the  unconscious  soil  had  been 

imbued 
With  blood,  profusely  there  like  water 

shed,  220 

There  had  his  plough-share  tum'd  the 

guilty  ground, 
And  the  green  corn  was  springing  all 

around. 

38 
The  graves  he  left  for  natural  thought 
humane 
LTntouch'd ;     and    here    and    there, 
where  in  the  strife 
Contending  feet  had  trampled  down  the 
grain. 
Some     hardier     roots     were    found, 
which  of  their  life 
Tenacious,    had    put    forth    a   second 

head, 
And  sprung,  and  ear'd,  and  ripen' d  on 
the  dead. 

39 
Some  marks  of  wreck  were  scatter' d  all 
around, 
As  shoe,  and  belt,  and  broken  bando- 
leer, 230 
And  hats  which  bore  the  mark  of  mortal 
wound  ; 
Gun-flints  and   balls  for  those   who 
closelier  peer  ; 
And  sometimes  did  the  breeze  upon  its 

breath 
Bear  from  ill-cover'd  graves  a  taint  of 
death. 


If 
iKc; 


\r. 


THE   FIELD   OF   BATTLE 


ill 


I  40 

lore  vestigo  of  destructive  man  was 

seen 
Where  man  in  works  of  peace  had 

labour'd  more  ; 
t  Hougoumout  the  hottest  strife  had 

been, 
Where  trees  and  walls  the  mournful 

record  bore 
'f  war's  wild  rage,  trunks  pierced  with 

many  a  wound, 
.nd  roofs  and  half- burnt  rafters  on  the 

ground.  240 

li  .  *i  . 

\  goodly  mansion  this,   with  gardens 
fair. 
And    ancient    groves    and    fruitful 
orchard  wide, 
ts  dove-cot  and  its  decent  house  of 
I  prayer, 

It6  ample  stalls  and  garners  well  sup- 
f  plied, 

ind  spacious  bartons  clean,  well-wall'd 
[  around, 

I'tVhere  all  the  wealth  of  rural  life  was 
found. 


Chat  goodly  mansion  on  the  ground 

was  laid, 
Save    here    and    there    a    blacken' d 

broken  wall ; 
The  wounded  who  were  borne  beneath 

its  shade 
Had  there  been  crush' d  and  buried  by 

the  fall ;  250 

And  there  they  lie  where  they  received 

their  doom,  .  . 
3h  let  no  hand  disturb  that  honourable 

tomb  ! 

43 

Contiguous    to    this    wreck    the   little 

fane, 
For  worship  hallow'd,  etill  uninjured 

stands, 
Save    that    its    Crucifix    displays    too 

plain 
The  marks  of  outrage  from  irreverent 

hands. 
Alas,  to  think  such  irreligious  deed 
Of  wrong  from  British  soldiers  should 

proceed  I 


44 


The  dove-cot  too  remains;    acArcd  at 

the  tight 
The  birds  sought  shelter  iu  tbo  forwt 

shade ;  ^^ 

But  still  they  kept  their  native  LaunU 

in  sight, 
And  when  few  days  their  terror  had 

allay'd, 
Forsook  again  the  solitary  wood, 
For  their  old  liome  and  human  nt-uL 

bourhood. 

45 

The  gardener's  dwelling  was  untouch' d  ; 
his  wife 
Fled  with  her  children  to  some  near 
retreat. 

And  there  lay   trembling  for  her  hus- 
band's life  : 
Ho   stood    the   issue,    saw    the    fiK*- 
retrcat. 

And  lives  unhurt  where  thousands  fell 
around. 

To  tell  the  story  of  that  famous  ground. 

40 
His  generous  dog  was  well  approved  that 
hour,  271 

By    courage    as    by    love    to    man 
allied  ; 
He  through  the  fiery  Btorm  and  iron 
shower 
Kept    the    ground    bravely    by    his 
master's  side  : 
And  now  when  to  the  stranger's  hand 

he  draws. 
The   noble    beast   seems   conacious    of 
applause. 

47 
Toward  the  grove  the  wall  with  musket 
holes 
Is  pierced  ;    our  soldiers  here  their 
station  held 
Against  the  foe,  and  many  were  thfl 
souls 
Then   from    their   fleshly   tcncmcnU 
exjH'li'd.  ■•• 

Six    hundred    Frenchmen    havo    been 

burnt  clone  by, 
And  underneath  one  mound  tiieir  booM 
and  anhcs  lie. 


714     THE   POET'S   PILGRIMAGE   TO   WATERLOO 


48 
One  streak  of  blood  upon  the  wall  was 
traced, 
In  length  a  man's  just  stature  from 
the  head  ; 
There  where  it  gushed  you  saw  it  unef- 
faced  ; 
Of  all  the  blood  which  on  that  day 
was  shed 
This  mortal  stain  alone  remain' d  im- 
press'd,  .  . 
The  all-devouring  earth  had  drunk  the 
rest. 

49 
Here  from  the  heaps  who  strew' d  the 
fatal  plain 
Was  Howard's  corse  by  faithful  hands 
convey'd,  290 


52 

The  pears  had  ripen' d  on  the  garde- 
wall  ; 
Those  leaves  which  on  the  autumna 
earth  were  spread 

The  trees,  though  pierced  and  Bcarr'( 
with  many  a  ball. 
Had    only    in    their   natural    seasoi 
shed :  31. 

Flowers  were  in  seed  whose  buds  ti 
swell  began 

When  such  wild  havoc  here  was  mad' 
of  man  ! 

53  i 

Throughout    the    garden,    fruits    anc 
herbs  and  flowers 
You  saw  in  growth,  or  ripeness,  01 
decay  ; 


ji 


And,  not  to  be  confounded  with  the    The  green  and  well-trimm'd  dial  mark't 


slain. 
Here  in  a  grave  apart  with  reverence 

laid. 
Till  hence  his  honour' d  relics  o'er  the 

seas 
Were  borne  to  England,  there  to  rest  in 

peace. 

50 
Another  grave  had  yielded  up  its  dead, 
From  whence  to  bear  his  son  a  father 
came. 
That  he  might  lay  him  where  his  own 
grey  head 
Ere  long  must  needs  be  laid.     That 
soldier's  name 
Was  not  remember' d  there,  yet  may  the 

verse 
Present   this   reverent   tribute   to   his 
herse.  300 

61 
Was  it  a  soothing  or  a  mournful  thought, 
Amid  this  scene  of  slaughter  as  we 
stood, 
Where   armies   had    with    recent   fury 
fought. 
To  mark  how  gentle  Nature  still  pur- 
sued 
Her  quiet  course,  as   if    she   took   no 

care 
For  what  her  noblest  work  had  suffer'd 
there  ? 


! 


the  hours 
With  gliding  shadow  as  they  pass'c 

away  ; 
Who  would  have  thought,  to  see  this 

garden  fair. 
Such  horrors  had  so  late  been  acted 

there  ! 

54 
Now    Hougoumont,    farewell    to    thy 
domain  ! 

Might  I  dispose  of  thee,  no  wood, 
man's  hand  320 

Should  e'er  thy  venerable  groves  pro-; 
fane ; 
Untouch' d,  and  like  a  temple,  should 
they  stand. 
And,  consecrate  by  general  feeling,  wave 
Their  branchey  o'er  the  ground  where 
sleep  the  brave. 

o5 

Thy    ruins    as    they    fell    should    aye 

remain,  .  . 
What    monument    so    fit   for    those 

below  ? 
Thy  garden  through  whole  ages  should 

retain 
The    form    and    fashion    which    it 

weareth  now, 
That   future   pilgrims   here   might   all 

things  see,  339 

•Such  as  they  were  at  this  great  victory. 


THE   SCENE   OF   WAR 


IT) 


IV.   THE  SCENE   OF  WAR 

1 
NVi  cloud   the   azure   vault    of   heaven 
distain'd 
That  day,  when  we  the  tield  of  war 
survey'd  ; 
The  leaves  were  falling,  but  the  groves 
retain'd 
Foliage  enough   for   beauty   and   for 
shade  ; 
Soil   airs    prevail'd,    and    through    the 

sunny  hours 
The  bees  were  busy  on  the  year's  last 
flowers. 


Well  was  the  season  with  the  scene  com- 
I  bined. 

I     The  autumnal  sunshine  suited   well 

the  mood 

Which   here   possess'd    the   meditative 

mind,  .  . 

A   human   sense    upon    the   field   of 

blood,  10 

A    Christian    thankfulness,    a    British 

pride. 
Tempered  by  solemn  thought,  yet  still 
to  joy  allied. 

3 
What  British  heart  that  would  not  feel 
a  flow. 
Upon  that  ground,  of  elevating  pride? 
What  British  cheek  is  there  that  would 
not  glow 
To  hear  our  country  blest  and  magni- 
fied ?.  . 
For  Britain  here  was  blest  by  old  and 

young, 
Admired  by  every  heart  and  praised  by 
every  tongue. 


Not    for    brave    bearing    in    the    field 
alone 
Doth    grateful     Belgium     bless    the 
British  name  ; 


For  this  wo  heard  the  admiring  ikx>i.Io 

raise 
One  universal  voice  bincero  of  praJM'. 


Yet  with  indignant  fooling  they  onquirwl 
Wherefore  we  spared  the  author  o( 

this  strife? 
Why  had   we  not,  as   highc«t   law  re- 

(juircd. 
With   ignominy  closod   the  culprit'* 

life?  ^ 

For  him  alone  had  all  this  blood  boon 

shed, .  . 
Why    had   not    vengeance   etrurk    iho 

guilty  head  ?  j» 

0 
0  God  !    they  said,  it   waa  a  pitoouj* 
thing 
To  see  the  after- horrors  of  the  fight. 
The     lingering     death,     the     ho|)clcM 
sufTering,  .  . 
What  heart  of  flesh  unmovo<i  could 
bear  the  sight  ? 
One  man  was  cause  of  all  tins  world  of 

woe,  .  . 
Ye  had  him,  .  .  and  yc  did  not  strike  iho 
blow  ! 


How  will  ye  answer  to  all  after  time 
For  that  great  lesson  which  yo  fail'd 
to  give? 
As  if  excess  of  guilt  excuMxi  the  crim»'. 
Black  as  he  is  witli  blood  yc  lot  him 
live !  40 

Children  of  evil,  take  your  course  hence- 
forth. 
For  what  is  Justice  but  a  name  on  earth  ! 

8 
Vain  had  it  boon  with  these  in  glueing 
speech 
Of    precedents    to   uao    the   uprcioua 
tongue  : 
This  might  perplex  the  oar,  but  fail  to 
reach 
The  heart,  from  whence  that  honctit 
fooling  Hprung 


The  order  and  the  perfect  honour  shown  !  And,  had  I  daro<l  my  inner  MOi 

In    all    things,    have    enhanced    tholTho  voice  of  bloorl  wa«  tb«»  lo  |ota 

boldier'a  fame  :  them  in  their  cry. 


716    THE   POET'S   PILGRIMAGE   TO   WATERLOO 


9 

We  left  the  field  of  battle  in  such  mood 
As  human  hearts  from  thence  should 

bear  away,  50 

And  musing  thus  our  purposed  route 

pursued, 
Which  still  through  scenes  of  recent 

bloodshed  lay. 
Where   Prussia   late   with   strong   and 

stern  delight 
Hung  on  her  hated  foes  to  persecute 

their  flight. 

10 
No    hour    for    tarriance    that,    or    for 
remorse  ! 
Vengeance,  who  long  had  hunger' d, 
took  her  fill, 
And    Retribution    held    its   righteous 
course  : 
As  when  in  elder  time  the  Sun  stood 
still 
On  Gibeon,  and  the  Moon  above  the 

vale 
Of  Ajalon  hung  motionless  and  pale.  60 

11 

And  what  though  no  portentous  day 

was  given 
To  render  here  the  work  of  wrath 

complete, 
The  Sun,  I  ween,  seem'd  standing  still 

in  heaven 
To  those  who  hurried  from  that  dire 

defeat ; 
And,  when  they  pray'd  for  darkness  in 

their  flight. 
The  Moon  arose  upon  them  broad  and 

bright. 

12 

No  covert  might  they  find  ;    the  open 

land, 
O'er  which  so  late  Qxultingly  they 

pass'd. 
Lay   all    before    them   and   on    either 

hand  ; 
Close   on    their   flight   the   avengers 

foUow'd  fast,  70 

And  when  they  reach' d  Genappe  and 

there  drew  breath. 
Short  respite   found   they   there  from 

fear  aod  death. 


13 

That  fatal  town  betray' d  them  to  more 

loss ;  I 

Through   one   long   street   the   only' 

passage  lay. 
And  then  the  narrow  bridge  they  needs 

must  cross 
Where    Dyle,    a    shallow    streamlet, 

cross' d  the  way  : 
For  life  they  fled, . ,  no  thought  had  they 

but  fear. 
And   their   own   baggage  choak'd   the 

outlet  here. 

14 

He    who    had    bridged    the    Danube's 

affluent  stream. 

With  all  the  unbroken  Austrian  power 

in  sight,  80 

(So  had  his  empire  vanish'  d  like  a  dream) 

Was  by  this  brook  impeded  in  his 

flight ;  .  .  [there  .  . 

And  then  what  passions  did  he  witness 

Rage,  terror,  execrations,  and  despair  ! 

15 

Ere  through  the  wreck  his  passage  could 
be  made. 
Three  miserable  hours,  which  seem'd 
like  years, 
Was  he  in  that  ignoble  strait  delay' d  ; 
The  dreadful  Prussian's  cry  was  in 
his  ears,  [hell 

Fear  in  his  heart,  and  in  his  soul  that 
Whose  due  rewards  he  merited  so  well. 


16 
Foremost  again  as  he  was  wont  to  be 
In  flight,  though  not  the  foremost  in      i 
the  strife,  92 

The  Tyrant  hurried  on,  of  infamy 
Regardless,  nor  regarding  ought  but 
life  ;  .  .  [faith 

Oh  wretch  !   without  the  courage  or  the 
To  die  with  those  whom  he  had  led  to 
death  ! 

17 

Meantime  his  guilty  followers  in  disgrace,       j 
Whose  pride  for  ever  now  was  beaten        ' 
down,  [place ;        ' 

Some  in   the  houses  sought  a  hiding- 
While  at  the  entrance  of  that  fatal 
town  100 


THE   SCENE    OF   WAR 


717 


Others,   who  yet  some  show  of   heart 

display' d, 
A  short  vain  effort  of  resistance  made  : 

18 
Feeble  and  ill-sustain'd  !   The  foe  burst 
through  : 
With   unabating   heat   they  search' d 
around  ; 
Tlic  wretches  from  their  lurking-holes 
they  drew,  .  . 
Such  mercy  as  the  French  had  given 
they  found  ; 
Death  had  more  victims  there  in  that 

one  hour 
Than  fifty  years  miglit  else  have  ren- 
der'd  to  his  power. 

19 
Here  did  we  inn  upon  our  pilgrimage, 

After  such  day  an  unfit  resting-place  : 

For  who  from  ghastly  thoughts  could 

disengage  m 

The  haunted  mind,  when  every  where 

the  trace 

Of  death  was  seen,  .  .  the  blood-stain  on 

the  wall. 
And  musquet-marks  in  chamber  and  in 
hall ! 

20 
All  talk  too  was  of  death.     They  shew'd 
us  here 
The  room   where  Brunswick's  body 
had  been  laid. 
Where  his  brave  followers,  bending  o'er 
the  bier, 
In  bitterness  their  vow  of  vengeance 
made ;  [Chief, 

Where  Wellington  beheld  theslaughter'd 
And  for  awhile  gave  way  to  manly  grief. 

21 

Duhesme,   whose  crimes  the  Catalans 

may  tell,  121 

Died  here  ;  .  .  with  sabre  strokes  the 

posts  are  scored 


Too  much  of  lifo  Imth  on  thy  plain*  b«»o 

slu'd, 
Brabant  !    so  oft  the  sccno  o(  war'i 

debate  ; 
But    ne'er    with    l)lood    were    Ujey    to 

largely  fed 
As   in   tiiis  rotit   and   wreck  ;    wbeo 

righteous  Fato  ijs 

Brought  on  the  French,  in  warning  to 

all  times, 
A  vengeance  wide  and  sweeping  m  thoir 

crimes  : 

23 

Vengeance  for  Egypt  and  for  Syria'.H 

wrong  ; 
For  Portugal's  unutterable  woes  ; 
For    Germany,    who    sufTer'd    all    too 

long 
Beneath  these  lawless,  faithless,  god- 

lesfl  foes  ; 
For  blood  which  on  the  Ix)nl  so  long 

had  cried. 
For  Earth  opprcst,  and  Heaven  insulted 

and  aefied. 

24 

Wo  foUow'd  from  Genappo  their  line  of 

flight 
To  the  Cross  Roads,  where  Britain's 

sons  sustain'd  140 

Against  such  perilous  force  the  dc^jxratc 

fight : 
Deserving  for  that  field  so  well  main- 

tain'd. 
Such    fame    as    for    a    like    devotioo's 

meed 
The  world  hath  to  the  Spartan  band 

decreed. 


Upon  this  ground  tho  nobio  Brunuwick 
died, 
Led    on    too    rashly    by   his    ardcot 
heart  ; 


Hewn  down  upon  the  threshold  where  1  Long  shall  his  grateful  country  tell  wiih 


he  fell. 

Himself  then  tasting  of  the  ruthless 
sword  :  f  Spain 


pride 

How   manfully  ho  choae  the  better 
part : 


A  Brunswicker  discharged  the  debt  of   When  groaning  Germany  in  chains  waa 
And  where  he  dropt  tho  stone  preserves  bound,  .  ,  ,  -        ,*' 

the  stain.  He  only  of  her  Princca  faithful  foumL 


t09 


718    THE   POET'S   PILGRIMAGE   TO   WATERLOO 


26 
And  here  right  bravely  did  the  German 
band 
Once  more  sustain  their  well-deserved 
applause  ; 
As  when,  revenging  there  their  native 
land, 
In  Spain  they  labour' d  for  the  general 
cause. 
In  this  most  arduous  strife  none  more 

than  they 
Endured  the  heat  and  burthen  of  the 
day. 

27 
Here  too  we  heard  the  praise  of  British 
worth, 
Still  best  approved  when  most  severely 
tried  ; 
Here  were  broad  patches  of  loose-lying 
earth, 
Sufficing  scarce  the  mingled  bones  to 
hide,  .  .  i6o 

And  half- uncover' d  graves,  where  one 

might  see 
The  loathliest  features  of  mortality. 

28 
Eastward  from  hence  we  struck,  and 
reach' d  the  6eld 
Of  Ligny,  where  the  Prussian,  on  that 
day 
By  far-outnumbering  force  constrain' d 
to  yield. 
Fronted  the  foe,  and  held  them  still 
at  bay  ; 
And  in  that  brave  defeat  acquired  fresh 

claim 
To  glory,  and  enhanced  his  country's 
fame. 

29 
Here  was  a  scene  which  fancy  might 
delight 
To  treasure  up  among  her  cherish' d 
stores,  170 

And    bring    again    before    the    inward 
sight 
Often  when  she  recalls  the  long-past 
hours  ;  .  . 
Well-cultured  hill  and  dale  extending 

wide, 
Hamlets   and   village   spires   on   every 
side ; 


30 
The  autumnal-tinted  groves ;    the  up 
land  mill 
Which  oft  was  won  and  lost  amid  th( 
fray: 
Green  pastures  water' d  by  the  silent  rill 
The  lordly  Castle  yielding  to  decay, 
With  bridge  and  barbacan  and  moat  ant 

tower, 
A  fairer  sight  perchance  than  when  ii 
frown' d  in  power  :  i8< 

31 
The  avenue  before  its  ruin'd  gate, 
Which  when  the  Castle,  suffering  less 
from  time 
Than  havoc,  hath  foregone  its  strength 
and  state,  [prime 

Uninjured     flourisheth     in    nature'.' 
To  us  a  grateful  shade  did  it  supply, 
Glad  of  that  shelter  from  the  noontide 
sky: 

32 

The  quarries  deep,  where  many  a  mas-, 

sive  block 
For  some  Parisian  monument  of  pride 
Hewn  with  long  labour  from  the  granite; 

rock, 
Lay  in  the  change  of  fortune  cast; 

aside ;  190) 

But  rightly  with  those  stones  should: 

Prussia  build 
Her  monumental  pile  on  Ligny' s  bloody: 

field  ! 

33 

The  wealthy  village  bearing  but  too  plain 
The  dismal  marks  of  recent  fire  and 
spoil ; 
Its  decent  habitants,  an  active  train, 
And  many  a  one  at  work  with  needful 
toil 
On  roof  or  thatch,  the  ruin  to  repair,  .  . 
May  never  War  repeat  such  devastation 
there  ! 

34 

III  had  we  done  if  we  had  hurried  by 
A    scene    in   faithful    history    to    be 
famed  200 

Through    long    succeeding    ages ;     nor 
may  I 
The  hospitality  let  pass  unnamed, 


THE   SCENE   OF   WAR 


TI'J 


\tul  courteous  kindness  on  that  distant 
ground, 

\\'liiob,  strangers  as  wo  were,  for  Eng- 
land's sake  we  found. 

35 

And  dear  to  England  should  be  Ligny's 
name. 
Prussia  and  England  both  were  proved 
that  day  ; 
Eacii   generous   nation    to   the   other's 
fame 
Her  ample  tribute  of  applause  will 

pay; 

fi  .Long  as  the  memory  of  those  labours 
past, 
(Unbroken  may  their  Fair  Alliance  last! 

36 

The  tales  which  of  that  field  I  could 
unfold  211 

Better  it  is  that  silence  should  con- 
ceal. 
They    who    had   seen   them   shudder' d 
Lj  while  they  told 

F      Of  things  so  hideous  ;    and  they  cried 
with  zeal, 
One  man  hath  caused  all  this,  of  men 

the  worst,  .  . 
0  wherefore  have  ye  spared  his  head 
accurst  I 

i  37 

It  fits  not  now  to  tell  our  farther  way 
Through  many  a  scene  by  bounteous 
nature  blest, 
Xor  how  we  found,  where'er  our  journey 
lay. 
An  Englishman  was  still  an  honour'd 
guest ;  220 

But  still  upon  this  point,  where'er  we 

went, 
The  indignant  voice  was  heard  of  discon- 
tent. 

38 
And  hence  there  lay,  too  plainly  might 
we  see. 
An  ominous  feeling  upon  every  heart: 
What  hope  of  lasting  order  could  there 
be, 
They  said,  where  Justice  has  not  had 
her  part  ? 


Wisdom  doth  rule  with  Ju8tic«  by  b«r 

side  ; 
Justice   from    Wistlom    none   may   e'er 

divide. 

3U 
The  shaken  mind  felt  all  thingnini.w'ure: 
Accustom' d    long    to    wx?    iiucccMfui 
crimes,  ,,, 

And  helplessly  the  heavy  yoke  cndurr. 
They    now    look'd    back    ujion    ihcir 
fathers'  times. 
Ere  the  wild  rule  of  Anarchy  l^oRan, 
As  to  some  happjrr  world,  or  goldon  ago 
of  man. 

40 
As   they  who  in   the  vale  of  years  ad- 
vance. 
And  the  dark  eve  is  cloning  on  their 
way. 
When  on   their   mind   the  recollectionH 
glance  (day, 

Of  early  joy,   and   H()|>e's  ddi^jhlful 
Behold,  in  brighter  hues  than  those  of 

truth. 
The  light  of  morning  on  the  fields  of 
youth :  a^o 

41 
Those    who    amid    these    troubles    had 
grown  grey 
Recurr'd  with  mournful  feeling  to  the 
past ; 
Blest  had  we  known  our  blessings,  they 
would  say. 
We  were  not   worthy  that  our  bliM 
should  last  ! 
Peaceful  we  were,  and  flouriMhing  and 

free, 
But  madly  we  required  more  liJ>rrty  ! 


Remorseless  France  had  long  op|>rca«'d 

the  land, 
And  for  her  frantic  projects  drain'd 

its  blootl  : 
And  now  they  felt  the  PruasUn'a  h««Ty 

hand  : 
He  came  to  aid  them  ;    bravely  bad 

he  HtfKKl  'J" 

In  their  dt-fincr  ;  .  .  but  oh  !    in  iwact) 

how  ill  I  will ! 

The  soldier's  deed^   bow   insolent   his 


720     THE   POET'S   PILGRIMAGE   TO   WATERLOO 


43 

One  general  wish  prevail'd,  .  .  if  they 

might  see 

The  happy  order  of  old  times  restored ! 

Give  them  their  former  laws  and  liberty, 

This  their  desires  and  secret  prayers 

implored  ;  .  . 

Forgetful,  as  the  stream  of  time  flows  on. 

That  that  which  passes  is  for  ever  gone. 


,PART  II 
THE  VISION 

EHEXE  NTN  SKOnfl  TOHON, 

APE  eTME.— Pindar. 
L    THE   TOWER 

1 

I  THOUGHT  upon  thcse  things  in  solitude, 
And  mused  upon  them  in  the  silent 
night ; 

The  open  graves,  the  recent  scene  of 
blood, 
Were  present  to  the  soul's  creative 
sight ; 

These  mournful  images  my  mind  pos- 
sess'd. 

And  mingled  with  the  visions  of  my  rest. 

2 
Methought  that  I  was  travelling  o'er  a 
plain 
Whose  limits,  far  beyond  all  reach 
of  sense, 
The  aching  anxious  sight  explored  in 
vain. 
How  I  came  there  I  could  not  tell,  nor 
whence ;  lo 

Nor  where  my  melancholy  journey  lay  ; 
Only  that  soon  the  night  would  close 
upon  my  way. 


Behind  me  was  a  dolorous,  dreary  scene. 
With    huge    and    mouldering    ruins 
widely  spread  ; 
Wastes     which     had     whilome    fertile 
regions  been. 
Tombs  which  had  lost  all  record  of 
the  dead ; 


And  where  the  dim  horizon  seem'd  t 

close, 
Far  off  the  gloomy  Pyramids  arose. 


Full  fain  would  I  have  known  what  la 

before. 
But  lifted  there  in  vain  my  morts 

eye;  2 

That  point  with  cloud  and  mist  wa 

cover' d  o'er, 
As  though  the  earth  were  mingle< 

with  the  sky. 
Yet    thither,    as    some    power    unseei 

impell'd, 
My  blind  involuntary  way  I  held. 


Across  the  plain  innumerable  crowds 
Like  me  were  on  their  destined  joumej 

bent, 
Toward  the  land  of  shadows  and  oi 

clouds  : 
One  pace  they  travelled,  to  one  point 

they  went ;  .  .  , 

A  motley  multitude  of  old  and  young,   ; 
Men  of  all  climes  and  hues,  and  every; 

tongue.  30J 

6  '; 

Ere  long  I  came  upon  a  field  of  dead,     ! 
Where  heaps  of  recent  carnage  fiU'd^ 
the  way  ; 
A  ghastly  sight,  .  .  nor  was  there  where 
to  tread,  ' 

So  thickly  slaughter'd,  horse  and  man, 
they  lay. 
Methought  that  in  that  place  of  death 

I  knew 
Again  the  late-seen  field  of  Waterloo. 


Troubled  I  stood,  and  doubtful  where  to 
go,  .  . 
A  cold  damp  shuddering  ran  through 
all  my  frame  ; 

Fain  would  I  fly  from  that  dread  scene, 
when  lo  ! 
A  voice  as  from  above  pronounced 
my  name ;  40 

And,  looking  to  the  sound,  by  the  way- 
side 

I  saw  a  lofty  structure  edified. 


THE    TOWER 


8 
[ost   like   it    soom'd    to   that   aspiring 

Tower 
Which  old  Ambition  rear'd  on  Babel's 
plain.  [power 

,s  if  ho  wcen'd   in   his  presum})tuous 
To   scale   high    Heaven    with   daring 
pride  profane  ; 
:  iuch  was  its  giddy  height :    and  round 
1  i  and  round 

'he  spiral  steps  in  long  ascension  wound. 

9 
k.ts  frail  foundations  upon  sand   were 
I  placed. 

And     round     about     it     mouldering 
rubbish  lay  ;  50 

•'or  easily  by  time  and  storms  defaced 
The    loose    materials    crumbled    in 
decay  : 
Rising  so  high,  and  built  so  insecure, 
A\  might  such  perishable  work  endure. 

10 
[  not  the  less  went  up,  and,  as  I  drew 
Toward  the  top,  more  firm  the  structure 

seem'd,  [view : 

With  nicer  art  composed,  and  fair  to 

Strong    and    well-built    perchance    I 

might  have  deem'd 
The  pile,  had  I  not  seen  and  understood 
jOf  what  frail  matter  form'd,  and  on 

what  base  it  stood.  60 

11 
There  on  the  summit  a  grave  personage 
Received  and  welcomed  me  in  cour- 
teous guise  ; 
On  his  grey  temples  were  the  marks  of 
age. 
As  one  whom  years  methought  should 
render  wise, 
I  saw  that  thou  wert  fill'd  with  doubt 

and  fear. 
He  said,   and   therefore  have   I  call'd 
thee  here. 

12 
Hence  from  this  eminence  sublime  I  see 
The  wanderings  of  the  erring  crowd 
below. 
And,  pitying  thee  in  thy  perplexity. 
Will  tell  thee  all  that  thou  canst  need 
to  know  70 


To  guide  thy  Ptops  aright.    I  bent  my 
head  ' 

And  who  »rt  thou?    I 


As  if  in  thanks, 
said. 


1:1 
I  am   Wisdom 


Mother 

vigour    self -conceiving. 


Ho  answcr'd 
Earth 
Me,    in    her 
bore  ; 
And,  as  from  eldest  time  I  date  mv  birth. 

Eternally  with  her  shall  I  rn«iurr  ; 
Her  noblest  otTspring  I,  to  whom  alono 
The  course  of  sublunary  things  ifl  knowTi. 

It 
Master!     quoth    I.    regarding    him.    I 
thought 
That  Wi8<lom  was  the  child  divine  of 
Heaven.  go 

So,  he  replied,  have  fabling  proachcm 
taught. 
And  the  dull  World  a  light  belief  hath 
given. 
But  vainly  would  these  fools  my  claim 

decry.  .  . 
Wisdom  I  am,  and  of  the  Earth  am  T. 

1") 
Thus    while    he    spake    I    scnnn<i    his 
features  well : 
Small    but    audacious    was    the    Old 
Man's  eye  ; 
His  countenance  was  hard,  and  »<miM 
to  tell 
Of  knowledge  less  than  of  ofFront^ry. 
Instruct    me    then.    I    said,    for    thou 

.should'yt  know. 
From  whence  I  came,  and  whi'^"'"  T 
must  go. 

1() 
Art  thou  then  one  who  would  his  mind 
peqilex 
With     know]e<lgo    bootlcM    even    if 
attain'd  ? 
Fond  man  !    ho  answer'd  ;  .  .  whrrrforo 
phouldht  thou  vex 
Thy  heart  with  socking  what  mar  nol 
bo  gain'd  ! 
Regard  not  what   has  b«en.  nor  what 

niav  Ih', 
0  Child  of  Earth,  this  Now  m  »1I  lUl 
toucheth  theo  ! 


'22     THE   POET'S   PILGRIMAGE   TO   WATERLOO 


17 
He  who  performs  the  journey  of  to-day 
Cares  not  if  yesterday  were  shower  or 
sun: 
To-morrow   let   the   heavens   be   what 
they  may, 
And  what  recks  he  ? . .  his  way  fare  will 
be  done.  loo 

Heedless  of  what  hereafter  may  befall, 
Live  whilst  thou  li vest,  for  this  life  is  all ! 

18 
I  kept  my  rising  indignation  down, 
That  I  might  hear  what  farther  he 
would  t«ach  ; 
Yet  on  my  darken' d  brow  the  instinc- 
tive frown. 
Gathering  at  that  abominable  speech, 
Maintain'd  its  place  :   he  mark'd  it  and 

pursued. 
Tuning  his  practised  tongue  to  subtle 
flattery's  mood  : 

19 

Do  I  not  know  thee, . .  that  from  earliest 

youth 

Knowledge  hath  been  thy  only  heart' s- 

desire  ?  no 

Here  seeing  all  things  as  they  are  in  truth, 

I  show  thee  all  to  which  thy  thoughts 

aspire :  [sense. 

No  vapours  here  impede   the  exalted 

Nor  mists  of  earth  attain  this  eminence. 

20 
Whither  thy  way,  thou  askest  me,  and 
what  [tend. 

The  region  dark  whereto  thy  footsteps 
And  where  by  one  inevitable  lot 

The  course  of  all  yon  multitude  must 
end. 
Take    thou    this    glass,    whose    perfect 

power  shall  aid 
Thy  faulty  vision,  and  therewith  ex- 
plore the  shade.  120 

21 

Eager  I  look'd  ;  but,  seeing  with  sur- 
prize 
That  the  same  darkness  still  the  view 
o'erspread, 
Half  angrily  I  turn'd  away  mine  eyes. 
Complacent  then  the  Old  Man  smiled 
and  said, 


Darkness  is  all !    what  more  wouldi 

thou  descry  ? 
Rest  now  content,  for  farther  none  ca 

spy- 

22 

Now  mark  me.  Child  of  Earth  !  he  tW 

pursued ;  [blinc 

Let  not   the  hypocrites   thy  reaso 
And  to  the  quest  of  some  unreal  good 
Divert  with  dogmas  vain  thine  errin 

mind :  13 

Learn  thou,  whate'er  the  motive  the 

may  call. 
That  Pleasure  is  the  aim,  and  Self  th 

spring  of  all. 


23 

This  is  the  root  of  knowledge.     Wis] 

are  they  ■  • 

Who  to  this  guiding  principle  attend 
They,  as  they  press  along  the  world'  | 

high- way,  [end 

With  single  aim  pursue  their  stead} 

No  vain  compunction  checks  their  sun 

career ; 
No  idle  dreams  deceive ;    their  heart  i 

here. 


24 

They  from  the  nature  and  the  fate  01 

man. 
Thus  clearly  understood,  derive  theii 

strength ;  14c 

Knowing  that,  as   from   nothing   thej 

began. 
To  nothing  they  must  needs  return 

at  length  ; 
This  knowledge   steels   the  heart   and 

clears  the  mind. 
And  they  create  on  earth  the  Heaven 

they  find. 

25 

Such,  I  made  answer,  was  the  Tyrant's 
creed 
Who  bruised  the  nations  with  his  ironj 
rod,  [meed 

Till  on  yon  field  the  wretch  received  his 

From  Britain,  and  the  outstretch'd 

arm  of  God  !  [view, 

Behold  him  now,  .  .  Death  ever  in  his 

The  only  change  for  him,  .  .  and  Judg- 
ment to  ensue  !  150 


! 


THE   TOWER 


'23 


20 
Piold  him  when  the  unbidden  thoughts 
arise 
H    his   old    passions    and   unbridled 
power  ; 
/  the  lierce  tiger  in  confinement  lies, 
Viui  dreams  of  blood  tliat  lie  must 
taste  no  more.  .  . 
Ten,  waking  in  that  appetite  of  rage, 
iHs  to  and  fro  within  his  narrow  eage. 

27 
l.th  he  not  chosen  well  ?   the  Old  Man 

replied  ; 
Bravely  he  aim'd  at  universal  sway ; 
.id  never  earthly  Chief  was  glorified 
Like  this  Napoleon  in  his  prosperous 
day.  i6o 

l-ruling  Fate  itself  hath  not  the  power 
)  alter  what  has  been  :  and  he  has  had 
his  hour  ! 

28 
ake  him,  I  answer'd,  at  his  fortune's 

flood; 
Russia  his  friend,  the  Austrian  wars 

surceased. 
Then  Kings,  his  creatures  some,  and 

some  subdued. 
Like  vassals  waited  at  his  marriage 
feast ; 
ind  Europe  like  a  map  before  him  lay, 
')f  which  he  gave  at  will,  or  took  away. 

29 

2si[\  then  to  mind  Navarre's  heroic  chief, 

'  Wandering  by  night  and  day  through 
wood  and  glen,  170 

His  country's  sufferings  like  a  private 

grief  [then 

Wringing  his  heart :  would  Mina  even 

rhose  perils  and  that  sorrow  have  fore- 
gone 

To  be  that  TjTant  on  his  prosperous 
throne? 

30 
But  wherefore  name  I  him  whose  arm 
was  free  ? 
A  living  hope  hisnoble  heart  sustain'd, 
A   faith    which   bade   him   through   all 
dangers  see 
The   triumph   his   enduring   country 
gain'd. 


See  Hofcr  with  no  cartlilv  hope  to  »id. 
His  country  lost,  liimmMf  to  chains  anii 
death  betrayd!  iio 

31 
By  those  he  serve<l  doscrto<l  in  hin  newl ; 
Given    to   the   unrelenting   Tyr%nl'« 
power. 
And  by  his  mean  revenge  oondomnM  to 
bleed,  .  . 
Would  he  have  bartor'd  in  that  awrful 
hour 
Hia  heart,  his  conscienee,  and  hid  mire 

renown. 
For  the   malignant    murderer's  crimM 
and  crown  ': 


Him  too,  I  know,  a  worthy  thouyht  of 

fame 
In  that  dread  trance  upheld  ;  .  .  the 

foresight  sure 
That  in  his  own  dear  country  his  pood 

name 
Long  as  the  streams  and  mountains 

should  endure  ;  190 

The  herdsmen  on  the  hills  should  sing 

his  praise. 
And  children  learn  his  deeds  through 

all  succeeding  days. 

33 

Turn  we  to  those  in  whom  no  glorious 

thought 
Lent  its  strong  succour  to  the  paasive 

mind  ; 
Nor    stirring    enterpriio    within    them 

wrought  ;  .  . 
Who,  to  their  lot  of  bitterness  resign'd. 
Endured    their   sorrows    by   th©   world 

unknown, 
And  look'd  for  their  reward  to  IVath 

alone  : 

34 

brothers  within  f.Vrona's  l«^fer'd  wall. 
Who  saw  their  famish'd  childrm  pine 
and  die  ;  .  .  ^  **> 

Widows  surviving  Zaragoza's  fall 

To  linger  in  abhorrd  captivity  ;  .  . 
Yet   would   not   have  f--   ' '    ?*'  •■ 

saorod  woe 
For  all   the  empire  of 

foe! 


724    THE   POET'S  PILGEIMAGE    TO   WATERLOO 


Serene  the  Old  Man  replied,  and  smiled 
with  scorn,  [wear 

Behold  the  effect  of  error  !    thus  to 
The  days  of  miserable  life  forlorn. 

Struggling    with   evil   and   consum'd 

with  care  ;  .  . 

Poor  fools,  whom  vain  and  empty  hopes 

mislead !  [meed. 

They  reap  their  sufferings  for  their  only 

36 
O  false  one!  I  exclaim' d,  whom  canst 
thou  fool  211 

With  such  gross  sophisms,   but  the 
wicked  heart  ? 
The  pupils  of  thine  own  unhappy  school 
Are   they  who  chuse  the  vain   and 
empty  part ; 
How  oft  in  age,  in  sickness,  and  in  woe, 
Have    they    complain' d    that    all    was 
vanity  below  ! 

37 
Look  at  that  mighty  Gaznevide,  Mah- 
mood. 
When,  pining  in  his  Palace  of  Delight, 
He  bade  the  gather' d  spoils  of  realms 
subdued  [sight, 

Be  spread  before  him  to  regale  his 
Whate'er  the  Orient  boasts  of  rich  and 
rare,  .  .  221 

And  then  he  wept  to  think  what  toys 
they  were ! 

38 
Look  at  the  Russian  minion  when  he 
play'd 
With  pearls  and  jewels  which  sur- 
pass'd  all  price  ; 
And    now    apart    their    various    hues 
array' d,  [nice, 

Blended  their  colours  now  in  union 
Then  weary  of  the  baubles,  with  a  sigh, 
Swept  them  aside,  and  thought  that  all 
was  vanity  ! 

39 
Wean'd  by  the  fatal  Messenger  from 
pride,  229 

The  Syrian  through  the  streets  ex- 
posed his  shroud ;  [wide 
And  one  that  ravaged  kingdoms  far  and 
Upon  the  bed  of  sickness  cried  aloud, 


What  boots  my  empire  in  this  mort' 

throe, 
For  the  grave  calls  me  now,  and  I  mua 

go! 

40 

Thus  felt  these  wretched  men,  becaus 

decay 
Had  touch' d  them  in  their  vitals 

Death  stood  by  ; 
And  Reason  when  the  props  of  flesh  gav  \ 

way,  [eye 

Purged  as  with  euphrasy  the  morta 

Who  seeks  for  worldly  honours,  wealtl 

or  power, 
Will    find   them   vain   indeed   at   tha 

dread  hour  !  24t 

41  I 

These  things  are  vain  ;    but  all  things  | 
are  not  so, 
The  virtues  and  the  hopes  of  human 
kind  !  .  . 
Yea,    by    the    God  who,   ordering  all 
below,  [mind, 

In  his  own  image  made  the  immortal 
Desires  there  are  which  draw  from  Him  I 


their  birth. 
And    bring    forth    lasting 
Heaven  and  Earth. 


JIOO 
21« 


fruits    for. 


jhtW; 
■''    bio 


42  I 

Therefore,   through   evil   and    through  1 

good  content. 
The  righteous  man  performs  his  part  | 

assign' d ;  [spent, 

In  bondage  lingering,  or  with  suffering 

Therefore    doth    peace    support    the 

heroic  mind  ;  250 

And  from  the  dreadful  sacrifice  of  all 
Meek  woman  doth  not  shrink  at  Duty's 

call. 

43 

Therefore  the  Martyr  clasps  the  stake 

in  faith. 
And    sings    thanksgiving    while    the 

flames  aspire  ; 
Victorious  over  agony  and  death, 
Sublime  he  stands  and  triumphs  in 

the  fire, 
As  though  to  him  Elijah's  lot  were  given. 
And  that  the  Chariot  and  the  steeds  of 

Heaven. 


Is: 

Si' 


THE    EVIL    PROPHET 


725 


II.    THE   EVIL   PROPHET 

1 
Vtu  that  my  passionate  discourso  I 

brake  ; 
Too  fast  the  thought,  too  strong  the 

feeling  came, 
(luposed  the  Old  Man  listen'd  while 

I  spake. 
Nor  moved  to  wrath,  nor  capable  of 

shame  ; 
ul,  when  I  ceased,  unalter'd  was  his 

mien, 
[  s    hard    eye    unabash'd,    his    front 

serene. 


ml  is  it  error  from  the  mind  to  weed, 
He  answer'd,  where  it  strikes  so  deep 

a  root. 
t  us  to  other  argument  proceed, 
And,  if  we  may,  discover  what  the 

fruit  10 

f  this  long  strife,  .  .  what  harvest  of 

great  good 
he  World  shall  reap  for  all  this  cost  of 

blood  ! 


ssuming  then  a  frown  as  thus  he  said, 
He    stretch' d    his    hand    from    that 

commanding  height, 
•ehold,    quoth    he,    where    thrice    ten 

thousand  dead 
Are  laid,  the  victims  of  a  single  fight ! 
i.nd  thrice  ten  thousand  more  at  Ligny 

lie, 
lain  for  the  prelude  to  this  tragedy  I 


This  but  a  page  of  the  great  book  of 

war,  .  . 
A    drop    amid    the    sea    of    human 

woes  !  .  .  20 

Chou  canst  remember  when  the  morning 

Star 
Of  Freedom  on  rejoicing  Franco  arose, 
Jver  her   vine-clad   hills  and    regions 

gay. 
Fair  even  as  Phosphor  who  foreruns  the 

dav. 


Such  and  so  beautiful  that  Star's  vp. 

rise  ; 
Uut  soon  the  glorioua  dawn  waa  over- 
cast : 

A    baleful    track    it    held    acroM    the 
skies, 
Till  now  through  nil  ita  fatal  cbangM 
past. 

Its  course   fuHili'd,   its  aiii>ccta  under- 
stood, 

On    Wntt^rloo    it    hath   gone   down    in 
blood.  w 


Where  now  the  hopes  with  which  thine 

ardent  youtli 
Rejoicingly  to  run  its  race  l>epan? 
Where  now   the  reign  of   liberty  and 

Truth, 
The    Rights    Omniiwtcnt    of    E(jual 

Man, 
The  principles  should  make  all  di«cord 

cease. 
And    bid    poor    humankind    rc^>cec    at 

length  in  i)eace? 


Behold  the  Bourbon  to  tliat  throne  by 

force 
Restored,   from   whence  by  fury   he 

was  cast : 
Thus  to  the  ix)int  where  it  began  its 

course 
The  melancholy  cycle  comes  at  last ; 
And    what    are    all    the    intermediate 

years  ?  .  .  4i 

What,  but  a  bootless  waste  of  blood  and 


tears  ? 


8 


The  peace  which  ihua  at  Waterloo  >-o 
won, 
Shall  it  endure  with  this  oxasperaU 
foo? 
In  gratitude  for  all  that  yo  have  doo« 
Will  Franco  her  anciaot 


Her    wounded    Bpiril,    her   aoTaoooi'd 

Yo  know,  .  .  and  ample  mmo»  a*«  Wt 
her  still. 


726     THE   POET'S   PILGRIMAGE    TO   WATERLOO 


9 

What  though  the  tresses  of  her  strength 

be  shorn, 
The  roots  remain  untouch'd;  and,  as 

of  old  50 

The  bondsman  Samson  felt  his  power 

return 
To  his  knit  sinews,  so  shall  ye  behold 
France,  like  a  giant  fresh  from  sleep, 

arise 
And  rush  upon  her  slumbering  enemies. 

10 
Woe  then  for  Belgium  !    for  this  ill- 
doom' d  land. 
The  theatre  of  strife  through  every 
age! 
Look  from  this  eminence  whereon  we 
stand,  .  .  [stage 

What  is  the  region  round  us  but  a 
For  the  mad  pastime  of  Ambition  made, 
Whereon  War's   dreadful   drama   may 
be  play'd  ?  60 

11 
Thus  hath  it  been  from  history's  earliest 
light, 
When   yonder   by   the   Sabis   Csesar 
stood,  [fight. 

And  saw  his  legions,  raging  from  the 
Root  out  the  noble  nation  they  sub- 
dued ;  [there 
Even  at  this  day  the  peasant  findeth 
The  relics  of  that  ruthless  massacre. 

12 

Need  I  recall  the  long  religious  strife  ? 
Or  William's  hard-fought  fields?  or 

Marlborough's  fame 
Here  purchased  at  such  lavish  price  of 

life,  .  . 
Or  Foutenoy,  or  Fleurus'  later  name  ? 
W^herever  here  the  foot  of  man  may 

tread,  71 

The  blood  of  man  hath  on  that  spot  been 

shed. 

13 

Shall  then  Futurity  a  happier  train 

Unfold,  than  this  dark  picture  of  the 

past  ? 

Dream' st  thou  again  of  some  Saturnian 

reign,  [last  ? 

Or  that  this  ill-compacted  realm  bhould 


Its  wealth  and  weakness  to  the  foe  a: 

known, 
And  the  first  shock  subverts  its  basele 

throne. 

14 

0  wretched  country,  better  should  tb 

soil 
Be  laid  again  beneath  the  invadin 

seas,  ]j 

Thou  goodliest  masterpiece  of  huma 

toil. 
If  still  thou  must  be  doom'd  to  seem 

like  these  ! 
0  Destin}^  inexorable  and  blind  ! 
0  miserable  lot  of  poor  mankind !        . 

15  j 

Saying  thus,  he  fix'd  on  me  a  searchin 
eye  ; 

Of  stern  regard,  as  if  my  heart  t, 
reach  : 
Yet  gave  he  now  no  leisure  to  reply ; 
For,  ere  I  might  dispose  my  thought,  \^ 
for  speech. 
The  Old  Man,  as  one  who  felt  and  under '1  ^i 

stood 
His  strength,  the  theme  of  his  discoursi 
pursued.  9< 


toil 


16 

If  we  look  farther,  what  shall  we  behok' 
But  everywhere  the  swelling  seeds  0 

ill. 
Half -smother' d  fires,  and  causes  mani 

fold 
Of    strife    to    come ;     the    powerfu 

watching  still 
For  fresh  occasion  to  enlarge  his  power 
The  weak  and  injured  waiting  for  theh 

hour  ! 

17  ! 

Will  the  rude  Cossack  with  his  spoik 

bear  back 
The  love  of  peace  and  humanizing 

art? 
Think  ye  the  mighty  Moscovite  shall  lack 
Some     specious     business     for     the 

ambitious  heart ;  100 

Or  the  black  Eagle,  when  she  moults  her 

plume. 
The   form    and    temper    of    the   Dove 

assume  ? 


THE   EVIL   PKOrilET 


18 

m  the  old  Oormanic  chaos  hath  there 
risen 
A  happier  order  of  establish'd  thinps? 
id   is  the  Italian  Mind  from   papal 

prison 
Set  free  to  soar  upon  its  native  wings? 
r  look  to  vSpain,  and  let  her  Despot  tell 
there    thy    high-raised    hopes    are 
answer' d  well ! 

19 
t   that  appeal  my  spirit   breathed  a 

groan. 

But    he    triumphantly    pursued    his 

speech  :  xio 

■  Child  of  Earth,  he  cried  with  loftier 

tone,  [teach ; 

The  present  and  the  past  one  lesson 

iOok  where  thou  wilt,  the  history  of  man 

s  but  a  thorny  maze,  without  a  plan  ! 

20 

The    winds    which    have    in    viewless 

heaven  their  birth, 

The  waves  which  in  their  fury  meet 

the  clouds,  [earth, 

The  central  storms  which  shake  the  solid 

And   from   volcanoes   burst   in   tiery 

floods,  [blind. 

Are  not  more  vague  and  purport  less  and 

Than   is   the   course   of   things   among 

mankind !  120 

21 
Rash  hands  unravel  what  the  wise  have 
spun  ; 
Realms  which  in  story  fill  so  large 
a  part, 
Rear'd  by  the  strong  are  by  the  weak 
undone ; 
Barbarians  overthrow  the  works  of  art, 
And  what  force  spares  is  sapp'd  by  sure 

decay, .  . 
So  earthly  things  are  changed  and  pass 
away. 

22 

And  think  not  thou  thy  England  hath 
a  spell,  [elude  ; 

That  she  this  general  fortune  should  | 
Easier  to  crush  the  foreign  foe,  than  quell 
The  malice  which  misleads  the  multi-  ! 
tude,  130 ' 


And  that  dread  malady  of  crrinff  ted. 
Which  like  a,  cancer  cats  into  the  com- 
monweal. 

23 
The  fabric  of  her  power  is  undermined  : 
The   earthquake   underneath   il    will 
have  way 
And  all  that  glorious  structure,  m  the 
wuid  [4w«y  : 

Scatters  a  summer  cloud,  be  swept 
For  Destiny  on  this  trrre.striul  ball 
Drives  on  her  iron  car,  and  crushes  all. 


Thus  as  he  ended,  his  mysterious  fcrm 
Enlarged,    grew    dim,    and    vanish'd 

from  my  view.  140 

At  once  on  all  sides  rush'd  the  gatber'd 

storm. 
The  thunders  roU'd  around,  the  wild 

winds  blew. 
And,  as  the  tempest  round  the  summit 

beat, 
The  whole  frail  fabric  shook  beneath 

my  feet. 


III.    THE  SACRED  MOUNTAIN 

1 
But  then  methought  1  heard  a  voic« 
exclaim. 
Hither,  my  Son,  Uh,  hither  take  ihv 
flight  ! 
A  heavenly  voice  which  call'd  me  by 
my  name. 
And    bade    me    hasten    from    th«l 
treacherous  height  : 
The  voice  it  was  which  I  wm  wool  to 
hear, 
Sweet  asaMothcr's  to  her  iixfant's  ear. 


I  hesitated  not.  but  at  tiie  call 

Sprung    from    the    summit    of    thai 

tottering  tower. 

There  is  a  motion  known  indrwunaloall. 

\N'hen,  buoymt  by  some  •olI'MiaUiD* 

ing  i>owi'r.  »• 

Through  air  we  stxm  to  glide,  mi  if  tcl 

free 
From  all  cutumbrautc  of  mortAbty. 


728 


THE   POET'S   PILGRBIAGE   TO   WATERLOO 

Alas !    the  thorns  and   old  inveterat* 


Thus  borne  aloft  I  reach' d  the  Sacred 

Hill,  [behind : 

And  left  the  scene  of  tempests  far 

But  that  old  tempter's  parting  language 

still  [mind ; 

Press' d  like  a  painful  burthen  on  my 

The  troubled  soul  had  lost  her  inward 

light,  [Night. 

And  all  within  was  black  as  Erebus  and 


The  Thoughts  which  I  had  known  in 

youth  return' d, 
But,  oh,  how  changed  !    a  sad  and 

spectral  train  :  20 

And,  while  for  all  the  miseries  past  I 

mourn' d, 
And  for  the  lives   which   had  been 

given  in  vain, 
In  sorrow  and  in  fear  I  turn'd  mine  eye 
From  the  dark  aspects  of  futurity. 


I  sought  the  thickest  woodland's  shade 

profound, 
As  suited  best  my  melancholy  mood, 
And    cast    myself    upon    the    gloomy 

ground ; 
When  lo  !    a  gradual  radiance  fill'd 

the  wood  ; 
A  heavenly  presence  rose  upon  my  view. 
And  in  that  form  divine  the  awef ul  Muse 

I  knew.  30 

6 
Hath  then  that  Spirit  false  perplex' d  thy 
heart, 
O  thou  of  little  faith  !  severe  she  cried. 
Bear  with   me.   Goddess,   heavenly   as 
thou  art,  [plied. 

Bear  with  my  earthly  nature  !    I  re- 
And  let  me  pour  into  thine  ear  my  grief  : 
Thou  canst  enlighten,  thou  canst  give 
relief. 


The  ploughshare  had  gone  deep,   the 

sower's  hand 

Had  scatter' d  in  the  open  soil  the 

grain  ;  [land  ; 

The  harrow  too  had  well  prepared  the 

I  look'd  to  see  the  fruit  of  all  this 

pain  !  .  .  40 


Have  sprung  again,  and  stifled  the  gooc' 
seed. 

8 
I   hoped  that  Italy  should  break  hei 
chains. 
Foreign  and  papal,  with  the  world'a 
applause,  \ 

Knit  in  firm  union  her  divided  reigns, 
And  rear  a  well-built  pile  of  equal! 
laws : 
Then  might  the  wrongs  of  Venice  be 
forgiven,  ^ 

And  joy  should  reach  Petrarca's  soul  in 
Heaven. 

9 
I  hoped  that  that  abhorr'd  Idolatry      1 
Had  in  the  strife  received  its  mortal ' 
wound :  50 

The  Souls  which  from  beneath  the  Altar 
cry, 
At  length,  I  thought,  had  their  just 
vengeance  found  ;  .  . 
In  purple  and  in  scarlet  clad,  behold 
The  Harlot  sits,  adorn' d  with  gems  and 
gold! 

10 

The  golden  cup  she  bears  full  to  the  brim 

Of  her  abominations  as  of  yore  ! 
Her   eyeballs    with    inebriate    triumph 
swim  ; 
Though  drunk  with  righteous  blood, 
she  thirsts  for  more. 
Eager  to  reassert  her  influence  fell. 
And  once  again  let  loose  the  Dogs  of 
Hell.  60 

11 
Woe  for  that  people  too  who  by  their 
path 
For  these  late  triumphs  first  made 
plain  the  way  ; 
Whom  in  the  Valley  of  the  Shade  of 
Death 
No  fears  nor  fiery  sufferings  could  dis- 
may : 
Art  could  not  tempt,  nor  violence  en- 
thrall 
Their    firm    devotion,    faithful    found 
'  through  all. 


WE* 


w 


hi 


THE    SACRED   iMOUNTAIN 


29 


12 

^•,^ngc    rare    of    Imughty    heart    and 

stubborn  will, 
>l;ivery   they   love   and   chains   with 
pride  they  wear  ; 

]  l.'xiblo  alike  in  good  or  ill, 
Jhe    inveterate    stamp    of    servitude 
they  bear.  70 

<i  fate  perverse,  to  see  all  change  with- 
stood, 

'icre  only  where  all  change  must  needs 
be  good  ! 

13 

:t  them  no  foe  can  force,  nor  friend 

persuade  ; 
Impassive  souls  in  iron  forms  inclosed, 
i  though  of  human  mould  they  were 

not  made. 
But  of  some  sterner  elements  cora- 


ls this  the  issue,  this  the  happy  birth 
In   those  long   throew  and   that 


jainst  offending  nations  to  be  sent, 
lie  ruthless  ministers  of  punishment. 

U 

'here  are  those  Minas  after  that  career 
Wherewith  all  Europe  rang  from  side 
to  side?  80 

1  exile  wandering  !    Where  the  Moun- 
taineer, .  . 
Late,  like  Pelayo,  theAsturian's  pride? 
[ad  Ferdinand  no  mercy  for  that  life, 
Ixposed  so  long  for  him  in  daily,  .  . 
hourly  strife  ! 

15 

Vom  her  Athenian  orator  of  old 
Greece    never    listen' d    to    sublimer 

strain 
."■han  that  with   which,  for  truth  and 

freedom  bold, 
Quintana  moved  the  inmost  soul  of 

Spain. 
rVhat  meed  is  his  let  Ferdinand  declare . . 
!^ains,   and   the   silent   dungeon,   and 

despair !  90 

10 

Por  this  hath  England  borne  so  brave 

a  part  !  [slain, 

Spent   with  endurance,   or  in   battle 

[s  it  for  this  so  many  an  English  heart 

Lies  mingled  with  the  insensate  soil 

of  Spain  ! 


agony  brought  forth 


hat  Mronf 


And  oh  !    if  England's  fatal  hour  draw 

nigh,  .  . 
I  f  t  hat  most  glorious  edifice  nhould  (all 
By  the  wild  hands  of  l^entiHl  Anarrhy.  . 
Then    might   it    soom    that    Hr '»ho 

ordoreth  nil  loe 

Doth    take    for    sublunary    things    no 

care :  .  . 
The  burthen  of  that  thought  is  more 

than  I  can  bi'ar. 

18 
Even  as  a  mother  listens  to  her  child. 
My  plaint  the  Muse  divine  l>rnignant 
heard. 
Then    answer'd    in    rej)roving    accent* 
mild, 
W'hat  if  thou  seest  the  fruit  of  hope 
deferr'd. 
Dost   thou   for   this   in   faltering   faith 

repine  ? 
A    manlier,    wiser    virtue    should    Ikj 
thine  ! 

19 

Ere  the  good  scetl  can  give  its  fniit  in 

S])ain. 
The    light    must    shine    on    that    !►«'• 

darken'd  land,  no 

And  Italy  must  break  her  ])ai>al  chain. 

Ere  the  soil   answer  to  the  howcr"* 

hand  ; 
For,  till    the   sons   their   fathers'  fault 

rejx^nt, 
The  old  error  brings  its  direful  punUh- 

mcnt. 

20 
Hath  not  experience  bade  the  wiw  man 
see 
Poor  hope  from  innovations  prrnia- 
ture? 
All  sudden  change  is  ill ;  slow  growa  th* 
tree 
Which  in  its  strength  through  a^fw 
shall  endure. 
In  that  ungrateful  earth  it  long  may  li«* 
Dormant,   but  fear  not    »»>*«    •!»•>  i**^! 
should  die.  *'° 


730    THE   POET'S   PILGRIMAGE  TO  WATERLOO 


21 

Falsely  that  Tempter  taught  thee  that 
the  past 
Was  but  a  blind  inextricable  maze  ; 

Falsely  he  taught  that  evil  overcast 
With  gathering  tempests  these  pro- 
pitious days, 

That  he  in  subtle  snares  thy  soul  might 
bind, 

And  rob  thee  of  thy  hopes  for  human- 
kind. 

22 

He  told  thee  the  beginning  and  the  end 

Were  indistinguishable  all,  and  dark  ; 

And,  when  from  his  vain  Tower  he  bade 

thee  bend 
Thy  curious  eye,  well  knew  he  that 

no  spark  130 

Of    heavenly    light    would    reach    the 

baffled  sense. 
The  mists  of  earth  lay  round  him  all  too 

dense. 

23 

Must  I,  as  thou  hadst  chosen  the  evil 
part, 
Tell  thee  that  Man  is  free  and  God  is 
good  ?  [heart : 

These  primal  truths  are  rooted  in  thy 
But  these,  being  rightly  felt  and  under- 
stood. 

Should  bring  with  them  a  hope,  calm, 
constant,  sure, 

Patient,  and  on  the  rock  of  faith  secure. 

24 

The  Monitress  Divine,  as  thus  she  spake, 
Induced  me  gently  on,  ascending  still. 
And  thus  emerging  from  that  mournful 
brake  141 

We  drew  toward  the  summit  of  the 
hill,  [fair 

And  reach' d  a  green  and  sunny  place,  so 
As  well  with  long-lost  Eden  might  com- 
pare. 

25 
Broad  cedars  grew  around  that  lovely 
glade ; 
Exempted  from  decay,  and  never  sere, 
Their    wide-spread   boughs    diffused    a 
fragrant  shade ; 
The  cypress  incorruptible  was  here. 


With    fluted  stem   and  head   aspirin 

high. 
Nature's  proud  column,  pointing  to  th: 

sky.  15 

26  i 

There  too  the  vigorous  olive  in  its  pride 

As  in  its  own  Apulian  soil  uncheck'd 

Tower' d  high,  and  spread  its  glaucou, 

foliage  wide  : 

With  liveliest  hues  the  mead  beneatl 

was  deck'd, 

Gift  of  that  grateful  tree  that  with  ife 

root 
Repays  the  earth  from  whence  it  feedf 
its  fruit. 

27 
There  too  the  sacred  bay  of  brighter 
green  ' 

Exalted  its  rejoicing  head  on  high  ; 
And  there  the  martyr's  holier  palm  was 
seen 
Waving   its  plumage  as  the  breeze 
went  by.  160 

All    fruits    which    ripen    under    genial 

skies 
Grew  there  as  in  another  Paradise. 

28 
And  over  all  that  lovely  glade  there! 
grew 
All  wholesome  roots  and  plants  of 
healing  power  ; 
The  herb  of  grace,  the  medicinal  rue. 
The  poppy  rich  in  worth  as  gay  in 
flower ; 
The  hearts-ease  that  delighteth  every 

eye,_ 
And  sage  divine  and  virtuous  euphrasy. 

29 
Unwounded  here  Judaea's  balm  distill'd 
Its  precious  juice  ;  the  snowy  jasmine 
here  170 

Spread  its  luxuriant  tresses  wide,  and 
fill'd 
With  fragrance  the  delicious  atmo- 
sphere ! 
More  piercing  still  did   orange-flowers 

dispense 
From  golden  groves  the  purest  joy  of 
sense. 


aUBe 


IfcSi: 
I     it 


m 
Ik 

let 
h 

h 

\ 
i 


THE   SACRED   MOUNTAIN 


30 

^.  low  it  lurk'd  the  tufted  moss  bet  ween, 
The  violet  there  its  modest  perfume 

shed, 
;ke  humble  virtue,  rather  felt  than  seen: 
And  here  the  Rose  of  Sharon  rear'd  its 

head, 
K"  glory  of  all  flowers,  to  sense  and  sight 
iclding     their    full     contentment     of 
delight.  i8o 

31 
gentle  river  wound  its  quiet  way 
Through     this     sequester'd     glade, 

meandering  wide  ; 
aiooth  as  a  mirror  here  the  surface  lay, 
Where  the  pure  lotus,  floating  in  its 

pride, 
njoy'd  the  breath  of  heaven,  the  sun's 
warm  beam,  [stream, 

.nd   the  cool  freshness  of  its  native 

32 

lore   o'er  green   weeds,  whose  tresses 

waved  outspread,  [run  ; 

'  With  silent  lapse  the  glassy  waters 
lere  in  fleet  motion  o'er  a  pebbly  bed 
eliding  they  glance  and  ripple  to  the 

sun ;  190 

Che  stirring  breeze  that  swept  them  in 

its  flight 
i^aiscd    on    the    stream    a    shower    of 

sparkling  light. 

33 

And  all  sweet  birds  sung  there  their  lays 
of  love ; 
The   mellow   thrush,    the   black-bird 
loud  and  shrill, 

The  rapturous  nightingale  that  shook 
the  grove, 
Made  the  ears  vibrate  and  the  heart- 
strings thrill  ;  [sky, 

The  ambitious  lark,  that,  soaring  in  the 

Pour'd  forth  her  lyric  strain  of  ecstasy. 

34 
Sometimes,    when     that    wild    chorus 
intermits, 
The  linnet's  song  was  heard  amid  the 
trees,  200 

A  low  sweet  voice  ;    and  sweeter  still, 
at  fits,  [breeze  ; 

The  ring-dove's  wooing  came  upon  the  i 


31 


While  with  the  wind  which  moved  the 

leaves  amonp. 
The  murmuring  waters  join'd  in  under- 
song. 

3,1 
The  hare  disjKjrtod  here  and  fcAr'd  no  ill, 
For  never  evil  thing  that  gl»do  CAOxii 

rr^.        ,"'«'» 5  l»ill. 

The  sheen  were  free  to  wander  at  ihnr 

As  needing  there  nocarthlyuhcphcrdi 

eye  ; 
The  bird  sought  no  concealment  (or  her 

nest, 
So    perfect   was    the   ])oaco    wherewith 

those  bowers  were  blest.  aio 

30 

All  blending  thus  with  all  in  one  delight. 
The  soul  was  soothed  and  satiulicd  and 

fiU'd  : 
This  mingled  bliss  of  sense  aod  sound 

and  sight 
The  flow  of  boisterous  mirth  might 

there  have  still'd, 
And,  sinking  in  the  gentle  spirit  drop. 
Have  touch'd  those  strings  of  joy  which 

make  us  weep. 

37 
Even  thus  in  earthly  gardens  had  it 
been. 
If  earthly  gardens  might  with  the«o 
compare  ; 
But  more  than  all  such  intluenci*.  I  ween 
There  was  a  heavenly  virtue  in  the  air. 
Which  laid  all  vain  i)cq)lexing  thoughts 
to  rest.  Ml 

And  heal'd  and  ealm'd  and  purified  the 
breast. 

38 
Then  said  I  to  that  guide  divine.  My 
soul 
When  here  we  entcr'd.  waa  o'ercharifrd 
with  grief, 
For  evil  doubts  which  I  could  not  con- 
truul 
B<  i«.t     my     troubled     ■pint.     Thk 
relief,  .  . 
This  change,  .  .  whence  arc  ihey?    Al- 
most it  might  iic«m 
I  never  live*!  till  now  ;  .  .  all  ebc  had 
bei-n  a  d ream. 


732     THE   POET'S   PILGRIMAGE   TO   WATERLOO 


39 
My  heavenly  Teacher  answer' d,  Say  not 
seem  ;  .  . 
In  this  place  all  things  are  what  they 
appear ;  230 

And  they  who  feel  the  past  a  feverish 
dream 
Wake  to  reality  on  entering  here. 
These  waters  are  the  Well  of  Life,  and  lo  ! 
The  Rock  of  Ages  there,  from  whence 
they  flow. 

40 
Saying  thus  we  came  upon  an  inner  glade, 
The  holiest  place  that  human  eyes 
might  see ; 
For  all  that  vale  was  like  a  temple  made 
By    Nature's    hand,    and    this    the 
sanctuary  ; 
Where  in  its  bed  of  living  rock,  the  Rood 
Of   Man's  redemption,   firmly  planted, 
stood.  240 

41 

And  at  its  foot  the  never-failing  Well 
Of  Life  profusely  flow'd  that  all  might 

drink. 
Most  blessed  Water !    Neither  tongue 

can  tell 
The  blessedness  thereof,  nor  heart  can 

think, 
Save  only  those  to  whom  it  hath  been 

given 
To  taste  of  that  divinest  gift  of  Heaven. 

42 

There  grew   a  goodly  Tree  this  Well 

beside  ;  .  .  [here. 

Behold  a  branch  from  Eden  planted 

Pluck' d  from  the  Tree  of  Knowledge, 
said  my  guide. 
O  Child  of  Adam,  put  away  thy  fear, . . 

In  thy  first  father's  grave  it  hath  its 
root ;  251 

Taste  thou  the  bitter,  but  the  whole- 
some fruit. 

43 

In   awe   I   heard,    and   trembled,   and 

obey'd  : 

The  bitterness  was  even  as  of  death  ; 

I  felt  a  cold  and  piercing  thrill  pervade 

My  loosen' d  limbs,  and,  losing  sight 

and  breath, 


To  earth  I  should  have  fallen  in  n 

despair, 
Had  I  not  clasp' d  the  Cross  and  bet 

supported  there. 

44 
My  heart,  I  thought,  was  bursting  wit' 
the  force 
Of  that  most  fatal  fruit ;    soul-sic 
I  felt,  2( 

And  tears  ran  down  in  such  continuoi 
course, 
As  if  the  very  eyes  themselves  shoul 
melt.  [sa} 

But  then  I  heard  my  heavenly  Teache 
Drink,  and  this  mortal  stound  will  pa6 
away. 

45 

I  stoopt  and  drank  of  that  divinest  Well! 

Fresh  from  the  Rock  of  Ages  where  i 

ran  ; 

It  had  a  heavenly  quality  to  quell  ; 

My  pain  :  .  .  I  rose  a  renovated  man, ; 

And  would  not  now,  when  that  relief  wai 

known. 
For  worlds  the  needful  suffering  have 
foregone.  2'jf. 

46  I 

Even  as  the  Eagle,  (ancient  story-ers  say),  i  I 
When  faint  with  years  she  feels  hei'  * 

flagging  wing. 
Soars  up  toward  the  mid  sun's  piercing 

ray, 
Then  fill'd  with  fire  into  some  living 

spring 
Plunges,  and,  casting   there   her   aged 

plumes, 
The  vigorous  strength  of  primal  youth 

resumes  : 

47 
Such  change  in  me  that  blessed  W^ater 
wrought ; 
The  bitterness,  which  from  its  fatal 
root 
The  Tree  derived  with  painful  healing 
fraught, 
Pass'd  clean  away ;    and  in  its  place 
the  fruit  280 

Produced  by  virtue  of  that  wondrous 

wave 
The  savour  which  in  Paradise  it  gave. 


'0. 


THE    SACRED   MOUNTAIN 


7:i:{ 


48 
ow,   said    tho   heavenly    Muse,    thou 
>  ,  mayst  advance, 

Fitly  prepared  toward  tho  mountain's 
"height. 
'  Child  of  Man,  this  necessary  tranoo 
Hath  purified  from  flaw  thy  mortal 
sight, 
i  :'hat  with  scope  unconfined  of  vision 
free 
'hou  tho  beginning  and  tho  end  mayst 
see. 

49 

he  took  me  by  the  hand  and  on  we 

went, 
Hope  urged  me  forward  and  my  soul 
was  strong  ;  290 

Vith  winged  speed  we  scaled  the  8t<jep 
^  ;  ascent, 

if  Nor  seem'd    the   labour   difficult   or 
long, 
Cre  on  the  summit  of  the  sacred  hill 
,'praised  I  stood,  where  I  might  gaze 
my  fill. 

50 
3elow  me  lay,  unfolded  like  a  scroll, 
The  boundless  region  where  I  wan- 
der'd  late, 
\Vhere  I  might  see  realms  spread  and 
oceans  roll, 
And    mountains    from    their    cloud- 
surmounting  state 
Dwarf' d  like  a  map  beneath  the  excur- 
sive sight, 
So  ample  was  the  range  from  that  com- 
manding height.  300 

51 
Eastward  with  darkness  round  on  every 
side 
An  eye  of  light  was  in  the  farthest 
sky. 
Lo,  the  beginning  !  .  .  said  my  heavenly 
Guide  ; 
The   steady  ray,   which    there    thou 
canst  descry. 
Comes  from  lost  Eden,  from  the  primal 

land 
Of    man    '  waved    over    by    the    fiery 
brand '. 


52 


Look  now  toward  th«  end  !    no  mbu 

ol»<cure, 
Nor    clouds    will    thero    im\Kflt,    tho 

strengtlion'd  wi^'ht  ; 
Unblench'd   thino  oyo  tho  vi«ion   m*y 

endure. 
I  look'd,  .  .  surrounded  with  cflulRrnl 

light  3,0 

More  glorious  than  all  glorioua  hue*  o( 

even. 
The  Angel  Death  stood  there  in  tho  open 

Gato  of  Heaven. 


IV.   THE   HOPES   OF    MAN 


Now,  said  my  heavenly  Teacher,  all  i^ 

clear  !  .  . 
Bear  the  Beginning  and  the  End  in 

mind. 
The  course  of  human  things  will  then 

appear 
Beneath  its  pro|)cr  laws  ;    and  thou 

wilt  find. 
Through  all  their  seeming  labyrinth,  the 

plan 
Which  '  vindicates  the  ways  of  God  to 

Man'. 


Freo  choice  doth  Man  poeaeas  of  good 
or  ill, 
All    were    but    mockery   eUe.     From 
Wisdom's  way 
Too  oft  perverted  by  the  tainted  will  9 
Is  his  rebellious  nature  drawn  a«tray  ; 
Therefore  an  inward  monitor  ia  given, 
A   voice   that    answers    to   the   law   o( 
Heaven. 

:j 

Frail  as  he  is,  and  a.s  an  infant  weak, 
Tho  knowledge  of  his  weakncM  in  hk 

strength  ; 
For  succour  is  vouchsafed  to  thoee  who 

seek 
In  humbli'  faith  hincrn* ;    ai»d,  when 

at  len^'th 
Death  wts  the  difM-nil>o<lir<l  spirit  (nrr. 
According  to  their  dccdjt  ibnr  lot  iball 

be. 


734    THE   POET'S   PILGRIMAGE   TO   WATERLOO 


Thus,  should  the  chance  of  private  for- 
tune raise  19 
A  transitory  doubt,  Death  answers  all. 

And  in  the  scale  of  nations,  if  the  ways 
Of  Providence  mysterious  we  may 
call, 

Yet,  rightly  view'd,  all  history  doth 
impart 

Comfort  and  hope  and  strength  to  the 
believing  heart. 


For  through  the  lapse  of  ages  may  the 
course 
Of   moral  good  progressive   still   be 
seen, 

Though  mournful  dynasties  of   Fraud 
and  Force, 
Dark   Vice   and  purblind   Ignorance 
intervene  ; 

Empires  and  Nations  rise,  decay  and 
fall. 

But  still  the  Good  survives  and  perse- 
veres thro'  all.  30 

6 
Yea,  even  in  those  most  lamentable 
times, 
When,  every  where  to  wars  and  woes 
a  prey, 
Earth  seem'd  but  one  wide  theatre  of 
crimes, 
Good    unperceived    had    work'd    its 
silent  way. 
And  all  those  dread  convulsions  did  but 

clear 
The   obstructed   path   to  give  it  free 
career. 


But  deem  not  thou  some  over-ruling 
Fate, 
Directing    all    things    with    benign 
decree, 

Through  all  the  turmoil  of  this  mortal 
state. 
Appoints  that  what  is  best  shall  there- 
fore be ;  40 

Even   as  from   man  his  future  doom 
proceeds, 

So  nations  rise  or  fall  according  to  their 
deeds. 


8 

Light  at  the  first  was  given  to  hum' 

kind, 

And  Law  was  written  in  the  hum 

heart.  [mir 

If  they  forsake  the  Light,  perverse 

And  wilfully  prefer  the  evil  part. 
Then  to  their  own  devices  are  they  le 
By  their  own  choice  of  Heaven's  supp( 
bereft. 


The  individual  culprit  may  sometimes 
Unpunish'd  to  his  after  reckoning  g 
Not  thus  collective  man,  .  .  for  pub  i 
crimes 
Draw   on   their   proper   punishme 
below ; 
When  Nations  go  astray,  from  age  to  aj 
The  effects  remain,  a  fatal  heritage. 

10 
Bear  witness,  Egypt,  thy  huge  mon- 
ments 
Oi  priestly  fraud  and  tyranny  auster<  ' 
Bear   witness,  thou  whose   only  nan! 
presents 
All  holy  feelings  to  religion  dear,  .  . 
In  Earth's  dark  circlet  once  the  precioi 
gem  i 

Of  living  light, . .  O  fallen  Jerusalem !  «i 

11  i 

See  barbarous  Africa,  on  every  side     j 

To  error,   wretchedness,  and  crimtl 

resign' d  !  i 

Behold  the  vicious  Orient,  far  and  wid! 

Enthrall' d  in  slavery  !  As  the  huma 

mind  i 

Corrupts    and    goes    to    wreck,    Eart:! 

sickens  there,  ■ 

And  the  contagion  taints  the  ambient  all  I 

12 

They  had  the  Light,  and  from  the  Ligh 

they  tum'd  ;  [lost 

What  marvel  if  they  grope  in  darknes 

They  had  the  Law  ; .  .  God's  natural  lav 

they  scorn' d,  [cost 

And,  chusing  error,  thus  they  pay  th< 

Wherever    Falsehood    and    Oppressioi 

reign,  7 

I  There  degradation  follows  in  their  trair 


■0 

^'0 


iBt^l 


THE    HOPES   OF   MAN 


735 


13 


^  :  hat  then  in  these  late  days  had  Europe 

been,  .  . 
-  iThia    moral,    intellectual     heart     of 
i  I         earth.  .  .  [sin 

*  ifom  which  the  nations  who  lie  dead  in 

•  Should    one    day    yet    receive    their 

second  birth,  .  . 
J  what  had  she  been  sunk,  if  brutal 
Force 
,  ad    taken    unrestrain'd    its    impious 
course  ! 


U 


this 


16  Light  had  been  extinguished 

be  sure 
The    Orst     wise    aim    of    conscious 

Tyranny,  8o 

/hich  knows  it  may  not  with  the  Light 

endure  : 
But    where   Light   is   not,    Freedom 

cannot  be  ;  [is  ; ' 

Where  Freedom  is  not,  there  no  Virtue 
There  Virtue  is  not,  there  no  Happiness. 

15 

f  among  hateful  Tyrants  of  all  times 

For  endless  execration  handed  down 

»ne  may   be  found  surpassing   all   in 

crimes. 

One  that  for  infamy  should  bear  the 

crown, 

I'apoleon  is  that  man,  in  guilt  the  first, 

,'re-eminently  bad  among  the  worst.    90 

'  16 

''or  not,  like  Scythian  conquerors,  did 

he  tread 
i  From  his  youth  up  the  common  path 
I  of  blood ;  [bred 

^or  like  some  Eastern  Tyrant  was  he 
In  sensual  harems,  ignorant  of  good ; . . 
Their  vices  from  the  circumstance  have 

grown. 
His  by  deliberate  purpose  were  his  own. 

17 

N^ot  led  away  by  circumstance  he  err'd. 

But  from  the  wicked  heart  his  error 

came :  [ferr'd. 

By  Fortune  to  the  highest  place  pre- 

He  sought  through  evil  moans  an  evil 

aim,  100 


mcMUTM   wero 


And    all    his    ruthless 
design' d 

To  enslave,  degrade,  and  brutAliic  man- 
kind. 

18 

Some   barbarous  dream   of  cmpirr   t  > 

fultil.  ' 

Those     iron     agea    he    would    have 

restored. 
When  Law  was  but  the  ruffian  Roldirr'a 

will. 
Might  govem'd  all,  the  8ccptr<»  waa 

the  sword, 
And  Peace,  not  elsewhere  finding  where 

to  dwell. 
Sought  a  sa<l  refuge  in  the  convcnt-c««ll. 

10 
Too  far  had  he  succeeded  I   In  hin  mould 
An  evil  generation  had  been  franu-d. 
By  no  religion  tempcr'd  or  controul'd. 
By  foul   examples  of  nil  crimes  in- 
flamed, tia 
Of    faith,    of    honour,    of    companion 

void  ;  .  . 
Such  were  the  fitting  agents  heemploy'd. 

20 

Believing  as  yon  lying  Spirit  taught. 
They   to   that   vain   philosophy   held 

fast. 
And  trusted  that,  as  they  l)opan  from 

nought. 
To  nothing  they  should  neoiLs  return 

at  last  ; 
Hence   no   restraint   of  conscience,   no 

remorse, 
But    every    baleful    passion    took    ita 

course.  »» 

21 
And,  had   they  triumph'd.  Earth   had 
once  again, 
To   Violence  subdued,   and   impioua 
Pride, 
Verged  to  such  atato  of  wick««dn«a.  a« 
when 
The  (Jiantrj-  of  old  their  CJod  defied. 
And  Heaven,' impatient  of  a  world  like 

this, 
Open'd  it^  llootl-gatee,  and  broke  op  lb« 
abyse. 


736     THE   POET'S   PILGRIMAGE   TO   WATEPvLOO 


That  danger  is  gone  by.     On  Waterloo 
The  Tyrant's  fortune  in  the  scale  was 
weigh' d,  .  . 
Hi3  fortune  and  the  World's,  .  .  and 
England  threw 
Her  sword  into  the  balance  .  .  down  it 
sway'd ;  130 

And,  when  in  battle  first  he  met  that  foe, 
There  he  received  his  mortal  overthrow. 

23 

0  my  brave  Countrymen,  with  that  I 

said. 
For  then   my  heart   with   transport 

overflow' d, 
0  Men  of  England  !  nobly  have  ye  paid 
The  debt  which  to  your  ancestors  ye 

owed. 
And     gather' d     for     your     children's 

heritage 
A  glory  that  shall  last  from  age  to  age  ! 

24 
And  we  did  well,  when  on  our  Mountain's 
height 
For   Waterloo   we  raised   the  festal 
flame,  140 

And  in  our  triumph  taught  the  startled 
night  [name, 

To  ring  with  Wellington's  victorious 
Making  the  far-ofif  mariner  admire 
To  see  the  crest  of  Skiddaw  plumed  with 
fire. 

25 

The  Moon,  who  had  in  silence  visited 

His  lonely  summit  from  the  birth  of 

time, 

That  hour  an  unavailing  splendour  shed, 

Lost  in  the  effulgence  of  the  flame 

sublime,  [stood. 

In   whose   broad   blaze   rejoicingly   we 

And    all    below    a    depth    of    blackest 

solitude.  150 

2^ 

Fit  theatre  for  this  great  joy  we  chose  ; 
For  never  since  above  the  abating 
Flood 
Emerging,  first  that  pinnacle  arose, 
Had    cause    been    given    for   deeper 
gratitude, 


For    prouder    joy    to    every    English  j 

heart,  :^\' 

When  England  had  so  well  perform'd 
her  arduous  part.  ; 

27  J,- 

The    Muse   replied    with    gentle    smile   : 
benign,  .  . 
Well  mayst  thou  praise  the  land  that 
gave  thee  birth. 
And  bless  the  Fate  which  made  that 
country  thine  ;  | 

For  of  all  ages  and  all  parts  of  earth  y    , 
To  chuse  thy  time  and  place  did  Fate 

allow,  i6r    - 

Wise  choice  would  be  this  England  and 
this  Now. 


28 
From  bodily  and  mental  bondage  there  ; 
Hath    Man    his    full    emancipation 
gain'd  ; 
The  viewless  and  illimitable  air 

Is  not  more  free  than  Thought ;    all 
unrestrain'd, 
Nor  pined  in  want,  nor  sunk  in  sensual 

sloth. 
There  may  the  immortal  Mind  attain 
its  growth. 


29 
There  under  Freedom's  tutelary  wing, 
Deliberate  Courage  fears  no  human 
foe ;  170 

There,  imdefiled  as  in  their  native  spring. 

The  living  waters  of  Religion  flow  ; 
There   like   a   beacon   the   transmitted 

Light 
Conspicuous    to    all    nations    burneth 
bright. 

30 

The  virtuous  will  she  hath,  which  should 
aspire 
To  spread  the  sphere  of  happiness 
and  light ; 

She  hath  the  power  to  answer  her  desire, 
The    wisdom    to    direct    her    power 
aright ; 

The  will,  the  power,  the  wisdom  thus 
combined. 

What  glorious  prosj>ects  open  on  man- 
kind !  180 


THE   HOPES   OF   MAX 


737 


perfj  §ehold  !    she  cried,  and  lifting  up  her 
hand. 
The    .shaping    elements    obcy'd    her 

will ;.  . 

vapour  gathered  round  our  lofty  stand, 

Roll'd    in    thick    volumes    o  er    the 

hn/liM.  ►^^acred  Hill, 

^ "descending  then,  its  surges  far  and  near 

ill'd  all  the  wide  subjacent  atmosphere. 


32 


?tony 


kS  I  have  seen  from  Skiddaw's 

height 
The  fleecy  clouds  scud  round  me  on 

their  way, 
Jondense  beneath,   and  hide  the  vale 

from  sight. 
Then    opening,    just    disclose    where 

Derwent  lay  190 

uniish'd   with  sunshine  like  a  silver 

shield, 
r   old    Enchanter's   glass,    for   magic 

forms  fit  field  ; 


33 

at  her  will,  in  that  receding  sheet 
Of    mist,   wherewith  the   world   was 
overlaid, 
\.  living  picture  moved  beneath  our  feet. 
A  spacious  City  first  was  there  dis- 
play'd, 
iii^^prhe    seat    where    England    from    her 

ancient  reign 
,riii^)oth  rule  the  Ocean  as  her  own  domain. 

34 


m 


In  splendour  with  those  famouscitiesold. 
Whose  power  it  hath  surpass'd,  it  now 
might  vie  ;  200 

Through   many  a  bridge  the   wealthy 
river  roll'd  ; 
Aspiring  columns  rear'd  their  heads 
on  high,  [gave 

Triumphal  arches  spann'd  the  roads,  and 
Due  guerdon  to  the  memory  of  the  brave. 

35 

\A   landscape   follow'd,   such   as   might 

compare  [toil : 

With  Flemish  fields  for  well-requited 

The   wonder-working   hand   had   every 

where  [soil ; 

Subdued  all  circumstance  of  stubborn 


In  fen  and  moor  reclaim'd  rich  gMdaoa 

smiletl. 
And  populous  Immleta  ran?  Amid  the 

wild. 


1  licre  the  old  .seaman  on  hi.s  native  nhore 
Enjoy'd  the  comiH'tence  do«ervc<l  m 
well  : 
The  soldier,  hia  dread  occupation  o'er. 

Of  well-rewarded  .serviec  lovo<l  to  l«ll ; 
The   grey-hair'd  labourer   tliep*.  whose 

work  was  done. 
In  comfort  saw  the  day  of  liff  ^o  down. 

37 
Such  was  the  lot  of  eld  ;    for  childhood 
there 
The  duties  which  belong  to  life  waa 
taught : 
The  good  seed,  early  sown  and  nursed 
with  care, 
This  bounteous  harvest  in  its  ncasoD 
brought ;  no 

Thus  youth  for  manhood,  manhood  for 

old  age 
Prepared,    and    found    their    weal    in 
every  stage. 

38 
Enough  of  knowledge  unto  all  wa.s  jfivon 
In  wisdom's  way  to  guide  their  Hte|xj 
on  earth, 
And  make  the  immortal  spirit  fit  for 
heaven. 
This  needful  learning  was  their  right 
of  birth  ; 
Further  might  each  who  chose  it  perw- 

vere  ; 
No  mind  was  lost  for  lack  of  culture 
here. 

30 
And  that  whole  happy  region  Hwarm'd 
with  life.  .  . 
Village  and  town  ;  .  .  a.H  bujiy  b«<«  in 
spring  »J» 

In  sunny  days  when  sweet«rt  nowtn 
are  rife, 
Fill    fields   and   ganlcnii   with    their 
murmuring. 
Oh  joy  to  HOC  the.'^tfttr  in  jK-rfect  hrallhl 
Her  nunilxrH  were  her  prjdo  and  \x>W9g 
and  wealth. 


B  b 


738    THE   POET'S   PILGRIMAGE    TO   WATERLOO 


40 
Then  saw  I,  as  the  magic  picture  moved, 
Her  shores  enrich' d  with  many  a  port 
and  pier  ; 
No  gift  of  liberal  Nature  unimproved. 
The  seas  their  never  failing  harvest 
here  [fed 

Supplied,  as  bounteous  as  the  air  which 
Israel,  when  manna  fell  from  heaven  for 
bread.  240 

41 

Many  a  tall  vessel  in  her  harbours  lay. 
About  to  spread  its  canvass  to  the 

breeze, 
Bound  upon  happy  errand  to  convey 
The  adventurous  colonist  beyond  the 

seas, 
Toward    those    distant    lands,     where 

Britain  blest 
With  her  redundant  life  the  East  and 

West. 

42 

The  landscape  changed ;  .   .   a  region 

next  was  seen. 

Where  sable  swans  on  rivers  yet  un- 

found  [green ; 

Glided  through  broad  savannahs  ever 

Innumerous   flocks   and   herds   were 

feeding  round,  250 

And     scatter' d     farms     appear' d     and 

hamlets  fair 
And  rising  towns,  which  made  another 
Britain  there. 

43 

Then,  thick   as   stars    which  stud   the 

moonless  sky,  [seen  ; 

Green  islands  in  a  peaceful  sea  were 

Darken' d  no  more  with  blind  idolatry, 

Nor  curst  with  hideous  usages  obscene, 

But    heal'd    of    leprous    crimes,    from 

butchering  strife 
Deliver' d,  and  reclaini'd  to  moral  life. 

44 
Around  the  rude  Moral,  the  temple  now 
Of  truth,  hosannahs  to  the  Holiest 
rung :  260 

There  from  the  Christian's  equal  mar- 
riage-vow, 
In    natural    growth    the    household 
virtues  sprung ; 


Children    were    taught    the    paths    1 

heavenly  peace. 
And  age  in  hope  look'd  on  to  its  releasi 

45 

The  light  those  happy  Islanders  enjoy' < 

Good   messengers  from   Britain  ha 

convey' d  ; 

(Where  might  such  bounty  wiselier  t 

employ' d  ?) 

One  people  with  their  teachers  wei 

they  made. 

Their  arts,   their  language,   and   the: 

faith  the  same. 
And  blest  in  all,  for  all  they  blest  tb 
British  name.  zf 


46 


Then  rose  a  different  land,  where  lofties  3 

trees  f 

High   o'er   the   grove   their   fan-liki 

foliage  rear  ; 
Where  spicy  bowers  upon  the  passinij 

breeze 
Diffuse  their  precious  fragrance  fa 

and  near ; 
And,  yet  untaught  to  bend  his  massiv' 

knee. 
Wisest  of  brutes,  the  elephant  roams  free 

47 
Ministrant  there  to  health  and  publi 
good, 

The  busy  axe  was  heard  on  every  side 

Opening  new  channels,  that  the  noxioui 

wood 

With  wind  and  sunshine  might  be 

purified,  281 

And  that  wise  Government,  the  genera! 

friend, 

]\Iight   every   where  its   eye   and   arm 
extend. 

48 

The  half-brutal  Bedah  came  from  his 
retreat. 

To  human  life  by  human  kindness 

won ; 

The  Cingalese  beheld  that  work  complete 

Which  Holland  in  her  day  had  well 

begun ;  [reign, 

The  Candian,  prospering  under  Britain's  J 

Blest  the  redeeming  hand  which  broke 

his  chain. 


THE    HOPES   OF   x^L\N 


'39 


49 
olours  and  castes  were  heeded  there  no 

more  ; 

Laws  whicli  depraved,  degraded,  and 

oi)prest,  290 

re  hiid  aside,  for  on  that  liappy  shore 

All  men  with  etiual  Hherty  were  bU\^t ; 

iid  througli  the  kind  the  breeze  upon 

its  swells 
ore  the  sweet  music  of  the  sabbath 
bells. 

50 
\ia  the  picture  changed  ;   those  Isles 

I  saw 
With   every  crime   thro'    three   long 
centuries  curst, 
\liile  unrelenting  Avarice  gave  the  law; 
Scene  of  the  injured  Indians'  sufferings 
first, 
'hen    doom'd,    for    Europe's    lasting 

shame,  to  see 
'lie  wider-wasting  guilt  of  Slavery.   300 

51 

'hat  foulest  blot  had  been  at  length 
effaced  ; 
Slavery  was  gone,  and  all  the  power 
it  gave, 
V  hereby  so  long  our  nature  was  debased, 
Baleful  alike  to  master  and  to  slave. 
>  lovely  Isles  !   ye  were  indeed  a  sight 
Lo  till  the  spirit  with  intense  delight ! 

52 

•'or  willing  industry  and  cheerful  toil 
Perform' d  their  easy  task,  with  Hope 
to  aid  ; 
\nd  the  free  children  of  that  happy  soil 
Dwelt    each    in    peace    beneath    his 
cocoa's  shade  ;  .  .  310 

A  race,  who  with  the  European  mind. 
The  adapted  mould  of  Africa  combined. 

53 

Anon,    methought   that  in   a   spacious 
Square, 
Of  some  great  town  the  goodly  orna- 
ment, 
Three   statues    I    beheld,  of   sculpture 
fair: 
These,  said  the  Muse,  arc  they  whom 
one  consent 


Shall  there  doom  worthy  of  the 

fame  ;  .  . 
Knowest  thou  who  bo«t  iiuch  gntitudo 

may  claim  ? 


M 


whom  to 


Clarkson,  I  answer'd,   lirnt 

have  soon 
And  known  in  social  hours  may  U  my 

pride,  j^ 

Such  friend.ship  being  praise  ;    and  onr, 

1  ween,  (niiip. 

Is  ^^■ilbe^force.  |)lace<i  rlRhtly  at  his 

Whose  eloquent  voice  in  tijat  gront  caune 

was  henrd 
So  oft  and  well.     But  who  shall  bo  the 

third  ? 


Time,  said  my  Teacher,  will  reveal  the 

name 
Of  him  who  with  these  worthies  shall 

enjoy 
The  equal  honour  of  enduring  fame  ;  .  . 
He  who  the  root  of  evil  shall  destroy. 
And    from    our    Laws    shall    blot    the 

accursed  word 
Of  Slave,  shall  rightly  stand  with  them 

preferr'd.  jjo 

50 
Enough  !   the  Oodde.'w  criwl  ;   with  thai 
the  cloud 
Obey'd,  and  closed  ujjon  the  ma^'c 
scene  : 
Thus  much,  quoth  she,  is  to  thine  hoiicfl 
allow'd ; 
Ills  may  impede,  delays  may  inter- 
vene. 
But  scenes  like  these  the  coming  a^c  u  ill 

bless, 
If   England   but  pursue   the  counw  of 
rightcousnes-s. 


On  she  must  go  nrogreiwively  in  t'o«««i. 

In  wisdom  and  in  weal,  .  .  or  »hv  nui'-t 

wane.  (tltK«l. 

Like  Ocean,  .she  may  havp  hrr  rhb  and 

But  stagnates  not.   Ami  now  her  pmlh 

is  plain  :  *^ 

Heaven's  tirst  command  ahe  Buy  fulfil 

in  |)oaoe, 
Replenishing  the  earth  with  hrr 


740     THE   POET'S   PILGRBIAGE   TO   WATERLOO 


58 
Peace  she  hath  won,  .  .  with  her  victori- 
ous hand 
Hath     won     through     rightful     war 
auspicious  peace  ; 
Nor  this  alone,  but  that  in  every  land 
The  withering  rule  of  violence  may 
cease.  [crown' d  ! 

Was  ever  War  with  such  blest  victory 
Did    ever    Victory    with    such    fruits 
abound  ! 

59 
Rightly  for  this  shall  all  good  men  re- 
joice. 
They  most  who  most  abhor  all  deeds 
of  blood  ;  350 

Rightly  for  this  with  reverential  voice 
Exalt    to    Heaven    their    hymns    of 
gratitude ; 
For   ne'er   till   now   did    Heaven    thy 

country  bless 
With  such  transcendent  cause  for  joy 
and  thankfulness. 


60 
If  they  in  heart  all  tyranny  abhor,         ^^'^'^^ 
This  was  the  fall  of  Freedom's  direstlf^ 
foe; 
If  they  detest  the  impious  lust  of  war, ; 
Here  hath  that  passion  had  its  ov^'' 
throw  ;  .  . 
As  the  best  prospects  of  mankind 

dear, 
Their   joy   should   be   complete,    tl 
prayers  of  praise  sincere. 

61 

And  thou  to  whom  in  spirit  at  this  houi 
The  vision  of  thy  Country's  bliss  it 

given,  , 

Who  feelest  that  she  holds  her  trustee 

power 
To  do  the  will  and  spread  the  worcjfti>[»'iJ 

of  Heaven, 
Hold  fast  the  faith  which  animates  thj 

mind, 
And  in  thy  songs  proclaim  the  hopes  o; 

humankind.  ojsos: 


Hj  heart 


MISCELLANEOUS  POETICAL  REMAINS. 


FRAGMENTARY  THOUGHTS 

OCCASIONED  BY  HIS  SON'S  DEATH. ^ 

Thy  life  was  a  day,  and,  sum  it  well, 
life  is  but  a  week  of  such  days, — with 
how  much  storm,  and  cold,  and  dark- 
ness !  Thine  was  a  sweet  spring  holiday, 
— a  vernal  Sabbath,  all  sunshine,  hope, 
and  promise. 

and  that  name 
In  sacred  silence  buried,  which  was  still 
At  morn  and  eve  the  never- wearying 

theme 
Of  dear  discourse. 


1  Letter  to  Mr.  W.  Taylor,  March,  1817. 
'  I  have  begun  a  desultory  poem  in  blank 
verse,  pitched  in  a  higher  key  than  Cowper's, 


IOiieelu 

He  to   whom   Heaven  in  mercy  hatl 

assign' d 
Life's  wholesome  wormwood,  fears  m  . 

bitterness  when 
From  th'  hand  of  Death  he  drinks  th« 

Amreeta  cup. 


Beauties  of  Nature, — the  passion  of  mj 

youth. 
Nursed  up  and  ripen' d  to  a  settled  love 
Whereto  my  heart  is  wedded. 


Feeling  at  Westminster,  when  sum  , 
mer  evening  sent  a  sadness  to  my  heart  | 

and  in  a  wiser  strain  of  philosophv  ^than    ?;^^  ^  «f^  P^^^^g  ^«F  8^^^^  ^^^f^'  ^^S 
Young's;   but  as  yet  I  have  not  recovered  I  banks  of  flowers,  and  runnmg  streams 
heart  enough  to  proceed  with  it ;   nor  is  it !  — °^  dreaming  of  Avon  and  her  rockf  | 
likely  that  it  will  be  published  during  my    and  woods, 
life.'  ' 


FRAGMENTARY   THOUGHTS 


U 


No  more  great  attempts,  only  u  few 
itumnal    tlowcrs,    like    second    prim 
k  |>ses,  &c 


^^  "hey  who  look  for  me  in  our  Father's 
kingdom 
^ill  look  for  Him  also  ;    inseparably 
all  we  be  so  remembcr'd 


The  (Jrave  the  house  of  Ho|)e  : 
is  the  haven  whither  we  are  bound 
n  the  rough  sea  of  life,  and  thenee  she 
lands 
tBi  her  own  country,  on  the  immortal 
shore. 

Come,  then, 
^ain  and  Intirmity — appointed  guests, 
[y  heart  is  ready. 


My  soul 

Jeeded  perhaps  a  longer  discipline, 
)r  sorer  penance,  hero. 


respite  something  like  repose  is  gain"d 
Vhile  I  invoke  them,  and  the  troubled 

tide 

Of  feeling,  for  a  while  allay'd,  obeys 
tranquillising  influence,   that  migiit 

seem 

By  some  benign  intelligence  dispensed, 
Who  lends  an  ear  to  man. 

They  are  not,  though, 
Mere  unrealities  :    rather,  I  ween, 
The  ancient  Poets,  in  the  graceful  garb 
Of    fiction,    have    transmitted    earliest 

truths, 
111    understood ;      adoijiing,     as    they 

deem'd. 
With     mythic     talcs     things     erringly 

received. 
And  mingling  with  primeval  verities 
Their  own  devices  vain.    For  what  to  us 
Scripture   assures,    by   searching  proof 

conlirm'd, 
And  inward  certainty  of  sober  Faith, 
Tradition  unto  them  dcliver'd  down 
Changed  and  corrupted  in  the  course  of 

time. 
And  haply  also  by  delusive  art 
Of  Evil  Powers. 


IMAGINATION  AND  REALITY 

The  hill  waa  in  the  HumiLiiic  j-ny  a«i| 

gnt'n, 

Th<-  vale  below  could  not  bo  accn  ; 

A  cloud  hunj;  over  it, 

A  thin  white  elouii.  tlmt  Dcarvo  wm 

seen  to  fly, 

.So  slowly  did  it  Hit  ; 

Yet  cloud  methiiikH  I  err  in  calling  it. 

It  spread  so  evenly  alon^  the  nky. 

It  gave  the  hills  beyond  a  huo 

So  beautiful  nnd  blur, 

That  I  stood  loitering'  for  the  vi«w  :  lo 

Loitering  and  nuLsinK  lhouKl»t(ully 

stood  I, 

For  well  those  hills  I  know. 

And  many  a  time  had  travell'd  them 

all  o'er  ; 

Yet  now  such  change  the  hazy  air  had 

wrought. 

That  I  could  well  have  thought 

I  never  had  beheld  the  nccno  before. 

But  while  I  gazed  the  cloud  waa 

pa.ssing  by  ; 

On  the  slow  air  it  slowly  travell'd  on, 

Eftsoon  and  that  deceitful  haze  waa 

gone, 

\\  Inch  had  beguiled  me  with  its 

mockery ;  «> 

And  all  things  seemVl  again 'the  ihingn 

they  were. 
Alus  I   but  then  they  were  not  half  mo 

fair 
As  I  had  shaped  them  in  tho  Laiy  air  ! 


ADDITIONAL    FRACJMENT 

OCCASIONED   BY  THE   DEATH  OP  lUS  SOS 

Dauguteiis  of  Jove  and  of  >' •  'm*. 

Pierian  sisters,  in  wIio-h*;  h-i 

From  my  youth  up  iUvan.-  ■;  t 

have  trod  ; 
Ye  who  with  your  uwukeninK  in:   . 

warm'd 
My  youthful   heart .  diwlaininK  not  to 

accept 
The  tirst  fruitu  of  an  oll»  rin^  iimwatur. . 
And   who  into  my   riinr  Mtmna  havr 

breathwl 
Truth,  knowlodtjo,  life,  and  tmmorUlity; 
An  earthly  berilago  ioddeMible  t 


742       MISCELLANEOUS   POETICAL   REMAINS 


Assuring  to  me  thus,  with  Bards  of  old, 
With  the  blind  Grecian  of  the  rocky  isle. 
The  Mantuan,  and  the  Tuscan;   and, 

more  dear 
To   me   than   all   of   elder  Rome   and 

Greece, 
My  honour' d  master,   who   on  Mulla's 

side, 
Mid  the  green  alders,  mused  his  heavenly 

lay; 
Be  with  me,  0  ye  Nymphs  of  Castaly 
Divine,  be  with  me  now  ;  ye  who  so  oft 
Have  given  me  strength,  and  confidence, 

and  joy, 
0  give  me  comfort  now  ! — to  you  I  look 
In  sorrow,  who  in  gladness  heretofore. 
Yet  never  but  with  deepest  faith  devout, 
Have  wooed  your  visitation.     For  no 

strain  22 

Of  querulous  regret  I  ask  your  aid. 
Impatient  of  the  chastening  hand   of 

Heaven ; 
But    rather    that    your    power    may 

discipline 
Thoughts  that  will  rise — may  teach  me 

to  control 
The  course  of  grief,  and  in  discursive 

flight 
Leading  my  spirit,  sometimes  through 

the  past. 
Sometimes  with  bold  yet  not  irreverent 

reach 
Into  the  region  of  futurity,  30 

Abstract  her  from  the  sense  of  present 

woe. 


iI0 


Short  time  hath  pass'd  since  from  my 

pilgrimage 
To  my  rejoicing  home  restored  I  sung 
A    true    thanksgiving    song    of    purei 

delight.  ; 

Never  had  man  whom  Heaven  would' 

heap  with  bliss 
More  happy  day,  more  glad  return  than 

mine  ; 
Yon  mountains  with  their  wintry  robei 

were  clothed 
When,   from   a   heart   that   overflow'd 

with  joy, 
I  pour'd  that  happy  strain.    The  snow 

not  yet 
Upon  their  mountain  sides  hath  disap- 
pear'd  4ot 
Beneath  the  breath  of  spring,  and  in  the  ,. 

grave  f^''' 

Herbert  is  laid,  the  child  who  welcomed  HjjjVs 

me 
With    deepest   love   upon   that    joyfi 

day; 
Herbert,   my    only    and    my    studiov 

boy. 
The     sweet    companion    of    my    dai 

walks. 
Whose  sports,  whose  studies,  and  wh< 

thoughts  I  shared. 
Yea  in  whose  life  I  lived,  in  whom  I 
My    better  part   transmitted   and 

proved. 
Child  of  my  heart  and  mind,  the  flowc 

and  crown 
Of  all  my  hopes  and  earthly  happine 


APPEXDIX 

A  LIST  OF  POEMS  NOT  REPRINTED  IN  THE  PRESENT  EDITION 
{(i)  Poems  published  in  the  collected  edition  of  1837-8. 


fOAN  OF  Arc. 

taE  Vision  of  tue  Maid  of  Orleans. 

HE  Triumph  of  Woman. 

Vat  Tyler. 

Poems  Concerning  the  Slave  Trade. 
Six  Sonnets. 

To  the  Genius  of  Africa. 
The    Sailor   who   had   served   in   the 
Slave  Trade. 

Botany  Bay  Eclogues: — 
Elinor. 

Humphrey  and  William. 
John,  Samuel,  and  Richard. 
Frederick. 

Sonnets: — 

I.  '  Go,     Valentine,     and     tell     that 
lovely  maid.' 

II.  '  Think,    Valentine,    as   speeding 
on  thy  way.' 

III.  '  Not  to  thee,  Bedford,  mournful 
is  the  tale.' 

Monodramas  : — 
Sappho. 
Ximalpoca. 
The  Wife  of  Fergus. 
Lucretia. 
La  Cab  a. 


The     Amatory     Poems 
Shufflebottom  : — 
Sonnets. 
Love  Elegies. 


OF    Abel 


Lyric  Poems. 
To  Horror. 
To  a  Friend. 
The  Soldier's  Wife. 
The  Chapel  Bell. 
To  Hymen. 

Written  on  the  First  of  December. 
Written  on  the  First  of  January. 
Written  on  Sunday  Morning. 
The  Race  of  Banquo. 
Written  in  Alcntcjo. 
To  Recovery. 
Youth  and  Ago. 
The  Oak  of  our  Fathore. 
The  Battle  of  Pultowa. 
Translation     of    u    Greek     Ode     on 

Astronomy. 
Gooseberry  Pic. 
To  a  Bee. 

The  Destruction  of  Jerusalem. 
The  Death  of  Wallace. 
The  S[)anish  Armada. 
St.  Bartholomew's  Day. 

Songs  of  the  Amehuan  Indians  : — 
The  Huron's  Addrrsn  to  the  IX-ad. 
The  Pcruvian'H  Dirge  Over  iho  Body 

of  his  Father. 
Song    of    the    Araucans    during    • 

Thunderstorm. 
Song  of  the  ClukkaMali  Widow. 
The  old  Chikkaiiah  to  hia  Gi 

Oc(»ASi<iNAi,  PiKtrsr  — 
The  I'aujHT'M  Funerd. 
The  Soldier' 8  FunoraL 


744 


APPENDIX 


i^.^ 


Occasional  Pieces  {continued) 

On    the  Death  of    a  Favourite    Old 

Spaniel. 
Autumn. 
The  Victory. 

English  Eclogues: — 
The  Grandmother's  Tale. 
The  Sailor's  Mother. 
The  Witch. 

The  Last  of  the  Family. 
The  Wedding. 

Nondescripts  : — 

Written  the  Winter  af  t«r  the  Installa- 
tion at  Oxford,  1793. 

SnufiF. 

Cool  Reflections  during  a  Midsummer 
Walk. 

The  Pig. 

The  Dancing  Bear. 

The  Filbert. 

Robert  the  Rhymer's  True  and 
Particular  Account  of  Himself. 

Odes. 

Written      during      the      War     with 

America. 
Car^una  Aulica  :  Written  in  1814, 

ON  the  Arrival  of  the  Allied 

Sovereigns  in  England. 
Ode    to    His    Royal    Highness    the 

Prince     Regent     of     the   >  United 

Kingdom. 


Odes  {continued) 

Ode     to      His     Imperial     Majesty  ?f- 

Alexander   the   First,  Emperor  o 

All  the  Russias. 
Ode     to     His     Majesty,     Fredericl 

William     the     Fourth,     King     o 

Prussia. 
On  the  Battle  of  Algiers. 
On  the  Death  of  Queen  Charlotte. 
Ode  for  St.  George's  Day. 
Ode  Written  after    the   King's  Visii- 

to  Ireland. 
Ode  Written  after   the  King's  Visiv 

to  Scotland. 
The  Warning  Voice. 
On  the  Portrait  of  Bishop  Heber 

Ballads  and  Metrical  Tales. 
Old  Christoval's  Advice. 
King  Charlemain. 
The  King  of  the  Crocodiles. 
King  Ramiro. 
Gonzalo  Hermiguez. 
The  Surgeon's  VVaming. 

All  for  Love. 

The  Pilgrim  to  Compostella. 

Carmen  Nuptiale — The  Lay  of  the 
Laureate. 


fcor.: 


A  Vision  of  Judgement. 


{h)  Poems  published  in  '  Oliver  Newman :    With  Other  Poetical 
Remains'   (1845). 
Oliver  Newman 

Short  Passages  of  Scripture,  Rhythmically  Arranged  or  Paraphrased. 
Madrigal,  Translated  from  Luis  Martin. 
Mohammed  ;    a  Fragment  Written  in  1799. 


" 


(c)  Poems  published  in  '  Robin  Hood  ...  a  Fragment.  By  the  late  Robert 
Southey  and  Caroline  Southey.  With  Other  Fragments  and  Poems  by  R.  S. 
and  C.  S.'  (1847). 

Robin  Hood.  Part  I. 
The  Three  Spaniards. 
March. 


APPENDIX  745 


Apart  from  the  poems  mentioned  in  tlic  foregoing  list  there  were  nuuiy  eviv 
)ieces  which  Southey  did  not  see  lit  to  republish  in  18:17-8.  The  rorioualn  mcA 
natters  may  search  for  them  over  the  Bignatnre  *  Hion  '  jn  l',^ms  6y  RtArri 
'jOVcU  and  liobcrt  Southey,  1795;  in  Thi  Annual  A nthoUnjy  for  I7m»  atid  IHQO-* 
knd  in  Letters  from  Spdin  and  Portwjal,  1797.  Throo  or  four  \MM>m»  ■mt  by 
k)uthey  to  Daniel  Stuart,  editor  of  The  Mnrniiuj  Post,  ar«  to  be  found  imntrd 
n  Litters  from  the  Lake  Poet^>,  ed.  E.  H.  Coleridge.  1880;  and  n  few  »«tr«v>rrw« 
ie  scattered  among  the  volumes  of  liis  i)uhliHlie<l  corrt\HiK)ndenrf.  S«iutlirv*« 
jontribution  to  The  Fall  of  Jiobispierre  (\1*M)  may  be  found  printo<l  i-   '     '  '.  •» 

Poetieal  Works,  ed.  J.  Dykes  Camj)bell.  pp.  21«')  225.     Of  tliat  »,.  .» 

tloleridgc  was  responsible  for  the  iirst  Act;    the  second  and  third  'n 

by  Southey  in  two  days,  '  as  fast  as  newsj)apers  could  be  put  int«)  blank  vcrnc' 
A  poetical  address  to  Amos  Cottle  appeared  in  the  latter'^  volume  of  Ir,htnd%e 
\Poetry,  1707.  There  arc  probably  other  verses  contribut<Ml  by  Southey  to 
The  Morning  Post,  The  Courur,  and  other  newspapers  still  lying  unclnimetl  ond 
uncollected  in  the  columns  in  which  they  first  saw  the  light.  IJut  the  bulk 
of  the  pieces  which  he  did  not  republish  are  to  be  found  in  the  volumm 
mentioned  above. 

1  In  The  Annual  Anthology  Southey's  contributions  are  to  bo  foiuiil  M)mrtiiii<-.s  dvit 
bis  own  name,  soinetiines  over  the  signatures  K.  S., — K., — U.  S.  Y., — 8., —  Hrthusyo, — 
Theoderit, — Abel  ShufTlobottom, — or  Byondo  ;  and  occasionally  without  anv  hignature 
at  all.  Of  (he  unsigned  pieces  a  few  were  reprinted  in  the  coUerted  edition  of  Iuh  rortiml 
VNorks,  in  1837-8.  According  to  Alexander  Dyce's  MS.  notes  in  the  two  voliirnos  of  Tk« 
Annual  Anthology  formerly  belonging  to  Southey  (now  in  tho  Dyce  colhvtion  at  th#» 
Victoria  and  Albert  Mu<?eum),  Southev  was  also  the  anilior  of  th»»  verses  which  app««r 
without  a  signature  in  vol.  i,  pp.  22,  36,  52,  134,  137,  139,  145,  206. 


n  b:^ 


NOTES 

N.B.  In  the  references  in  these  Notes,  Life  =  The  Life  aiid  Correspondence 
of  Robert  Southey  (edited  by  his  son,  Cuthbert  Southey,  6  vols.,  1849,  1850); 
Warter  =«  Selectioiis  jrom  the  Letters  of  Robert  Southey  (edited  by  J.  W.  Waiter, 
4  vols.,  1856). 

THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 

Written  July  1799-July  1800 ;  published  in  two  volumes,  12mo,  by  Longman  ^ 
and  Rees,  in  1801.     A  second  edition  was  published  by  Longman  in  1809.     This  I 
edition  is  more  heavily  stopped  than  that  of  1801,  to  the  great  improvement  || 
of  the  sense  ;   and  the  variations  from  the  1801  text  are  numerous  and  important. 
The  mottoes  to  the  different  books  also  appeared  first  in  the  1809  edition,  and  ' 
the  notes  were  much  amplified  and  placed  at  the  end  of  each  book,  instead  of 
at  the  bottom  of  the  page.     A  third  edition  appeared  in  1814,  differing  from  ) 
the  last  only  in  having  the  stanzas  numbered,  and  in  the  lapidary  an'angement  |! 
of   the   lines.     Southey   introduced   many   minor   corrections   when   he   finally 
revised  the  poem  for  publication  in  1837. 

I  am  indebted  to  the  kindness  of  Mr.  E.  H.  Coleridge  for  permission  to  print 
the  following  extract  from  a  letter  from  S.  T.  Coleridge  to  Daniel  Stuart,  editor 
of  The  Morning  Post.     The  letter  bears  date,  Sept.  19,  1801  :— 

'  Have  3'ou  seen  the  Thalaba  ?  It  is  not  altogether  a  poem  exactly  to  my 
taste ;  there  are,  however,  three  uncommonly  fine  passages  in  it.  The  first  ^ 
in  Volume  1st,  beginning  (page  130)  at  the  words,  "It  was  the  wisdom  and  the 
will  of  Heaven,"'  continued  to  the  end  of  the  3rd  line,  page  134  :  then  omittmg 
the  intermediate  pages,  pass  on  to  page  147,  and  recommence  with  the  words 
"Their  father  is  their  priest",  to  the  last  line  of  page  16G,  concluding  with 
the  words  "  Of  Thalaba  went  by"'.  This  would  be  a  really  good  extract,  and 
I  am  sure  none  of  the  Reviews  will  have  either  feeling  or  taste  to  select  .  ,  . 

'  The  next  extract^  is  in  Volume  2,  page  12G,  beginning  at  the  words,  "All 
waste, no  sign  of  life,"  &c.,  to  page  131,  ending  with  the  words,  "She  clapped  her 
hands  for  joy." 

'The  third  passage  ^  is  very  short,  and  uncommonly  lyrical;  indeed,  in  versi- 
fication and  conception,  superior  to  anything  I  have  ever  seen  of  Southey's. 
It  must  begin  at  the  third  line  of  page  142,  Volume  2nd,  and  be  entitled 
"  Khawla"',  or  "The  Enchantress's  Incantation'".  "Go  out,  ye  lights,  quoth 
Khawla,"'  &c. — and  go  on  to  the  last  words  of  page  143." — Letters  frotn  the 
Lake  Poets,  pp.  20-2. 

Page  23.  Book  I,  Stanza  1.  As  an  illustration  of  the  way  in  which  Southey 
altered  and   improved  his  poems  aft^r  their  first  publication,  it  is  interesting 

1  See  Book  III,  Stanzas  16-25. 

2  See  Book  VIII,  Stanzas  22-30. 

3  See  Book  IX,  Stanza  0  to  the  end  of  Stanza  9,  line  2. 


NOTES  74 


1  noto  the  changes  introauced  into  the  opening  aUnza  of  ThaJaba,     In  Uio  Unl 
lition  the  stanza  ran  as  follows: — 

How  beautiful  is  night  ! 
A  dewy  freshness  fills  the  silrnt  air. 

No  mist  obseures,  no  little  cloud 
Breaks  the  whole  sc^rone  of  heaven  : 
In  full-orbed  j,dory  the  inajestie  iiumjh 
Rolls  thro'   the  dark   blue  (U-pths 
Beneatli  her  stojuly  ray 
The  desert  cirelo  spreails. 
Like  the  round  ocean,  girdUvl  with  [nv  >kv. 
How  beautiful  is  nii,'lit  ! 
The  stanza  first  appeared  in  its  present  form  in  the  »econd  oditioo  of  the  porm. 
V\r.E    27.     ]iook    I,    1.    24().     The    hunUr    Afri.      So   viiu.    1837-8.      1    h«%r 
ttained  this  readitig  with  hesitation,  suspecting  it  to  be  a  miitpriul  for  'The 
umter  African'  of  edd.  1801,  1800. 

Vxc.E  33,  II.  OoH,  G57.  'The  angel  of  death',  s^iy  the  lUbbiR.  'holdcth  hu 
-udid  in  his  hand  at  the  betl's  head,  having  on  tlio  end  thcn-of  thrr«>  dro|i« 
.f  izall;  the  sick  man,  spying  tiiis  deadly  Angel,  oi>cneth  hi.s  mouth  with  (cat, 
uil  then  those  drops  fall  in,  of  which  one  killeth  him,  tho  uccond  makoth  him 
[I  ik',  the  third  rotteth  and  puritieth.' — Purchas.     (S.) 

I'age  35.  Book  II,  11.  105-70.  '  These  lines  contain  the  variouB  oninicmn  of 
the  Mahommedans  respecting  tho  intermediate  state  of  the  BIc^mxI.  till  the 
Day  of  Judgement.'     (S.) 

Zi  mzem-ivcU.  According  to  Mahommedan  tra<lition  Ishmacl,  when  a  new- 
born babe,  made  a  way  for  a  spring  to  break  forth  by  dancing  with  hi-  ''"i- 
feet  upon  the  ground.  But  the  water  came  forth  with  such  abundan' 
violence  that  Hagar  could  not  drink  of  it.  Abraham,  coming  to  th<  , 
stayed  the  force  of  tho  spring,  and  made  Hagar  and  Ishmael  drink.  *  Thu  »-»*.i 
si)ring  is  to  this  day  called  Scmsem,  from  Abraham  making  uac  of  that  word  to 
slay  it' — Olearius.     (S.) 

Page  58.  Book  V,  1.  72.  City  of  Peace.  Almanzor.  the  foundor  of  B«(;dAd. 
named  his  new  city  Dar-al-Salan;,  tho  City  of  Peace.     (S.) 

I.  78.     Thy  founder  the  Victorioiu!.    'Almanzor  aignitica  tho  Vicloriou 

Page  01, 1.  282.     '  The  Mussulmauns  use,  like  the  Roman  Catholicn,  a  r.. 

h'jads,  called  Tusbah,  or  implemeut  of  praise  .  . .'— Not*j  to  thu  BaharDoxiu 

'age   02,   11.   297-9.     'The  Mahummedans  believe  that  thr  dccrwl  r-.rui^ 
very  man's  life  are  impressed  in  divine  characters  on  lii«  (orrhcid.  thuuK'b 
ii"i  to  be  seen  by  mortal  eye.' — Note  to  the  Bahar-Danii.sh.     (S) 

I.  307.      'Zohak   was  the  lifth    Kitig  of  the   I'i.sth.ladian  dynasty.  : 
'1<  -cended  from  Shedad,  who  perished  with  the  triln:  of  Ad.     /«.hak  nn. 
hi-    predecessor,   and   invented    the  punishment*  of   the  tTo««j  and  ol 
aUve.     The  Devil,  who  had  long  served  him.  nHjuested  nt  !«"».  »■•  a  r»^'«' 
permission  to  kiss  his  shoulders;    immediately  two  mi  i 
fed   upon   his  flesh,   and   endeavoured    to  got   at    hia    I 
suggested  a  remedy,    which    was    to    (|uiet    them    by    ^.i^m.     " 
the   brains  of    two   men.   killed    for  that    purpoN- :     this  f\r:u.iiv  . 

till  a  blacksmith  of  Ispahan,  whose  children  had  been  ii.atl\   all 
the  King's  serpents,   raised   his  leather  apron   an  the  hlan.lard  ol   i.  ^« 
deposed  Zohak.     Zohak,  say  the  Persians,  ia  atill  U\ iu^  ux  ihu  cave  ol  bia  i 
meut.' — D'Herbelot.     Olettrius.     (S.) 


748  NOTES 


Page  69.  Book  VI,  11.  287-96.  '  In  the  Caherman  Nameh,  the  Dives  havi ; 
taken  in  war  some  of  the  Peris,  imprisoned  them  in  iron  cages  which  they  hu ; 
from  the  highest  trees  they  could  find.  There,  from  time  to  time,  their  co 
panions  visited  them  with  the  most  precious  odours.  These  odours  were  t: 
usual  food  of  the  Peris,  and  procured  them  also  another  advantage,  for  th 
prevented  the  Dives  from  approaching  or  molesting  them.  The  Dives  cot 
not  bear  the  perfumes,  which  rendered  them  gloomy  and  melancholy  whence !  i> 
they  drew  near  the  cage  in  which  a  Peri  was  suspended.' — D'Herbelot.     (S.)    I  ii'- 

Page  74.  Book  VII,  1.  184,  Zaccoum's  fruit  accurst.  According  to  t 
Koran  the  Zaccoum  is  a  tree  which  issues  from  the  bottom  of  Hell.  Its  fri 
is  to  be  eaten  by  the  damned.     (S.) 

1.  194.  The  Arabian  women  '  of  the  tribe  of  Himiar,  or  of  the  Homerit( 
are  early  exercised  in  riding  the  horse,  and  in  using  the  bow,  the  lance,  and  t' 
javelin.'  — Marigny. 

Page  75,  1.  264.  The  Paradise  of  Sin.  'The  story  is  told  by  many  writei 
but  with  such  difference  of  time  and  place  as  wholly  to  invalidate  its  truth,  evt; 
were  the  circumstances  more  probable.'  (S.)  Southey  quotes,  among  other 
a  long  account  from  Sir  John  Maundeville. 

Page  85.     Book  VIII,  Stanza  36.     '  How   came   Mohareb  to  be  Sultan 
this  island  ?     Every  one  who  has  read  Don  Quixote  knows  that  there  are  alwa^^' 
islands  to  be  had  by  adventurers.     He  killed  the  former  Sultan,  and  reigne 
in  his  stead.     What  could  not  a  Domdanielite  perform?     The  narration  wou] 
have  interrupted  the  flow  of  the  main  story.'     (S.) 

Page  91.  Book  IX,  11.  413-16.  '  A  thicket  of  balm  trees  is  said  to  haA 
sprung  up  from  the  blood  of  the  Moslem  slain  at  Beder,'  (S.)  Southey  in  h 
note  ad  loc.  quotes  Pausanias  and  other  writers  as  speaking  of  vipers  whic 
were  rendered  innocuous  by  feeding  on  the  juice  of  the  balsam-tree. 

Page  92, 1.  492.  That  most  holy  night.  '  The  night,  Leileth-ul-cadr,  is  considere 
as  being  particularly  consecrated  to  ineffable  mysteries.  There  is  a  prevailin 
opinion,  that  a  thousand  secret  and  invisible  prodigies  are  performed  on  th 
night;  that  all  the  inanimate  beings  then  pay  their  adoration  to  God;  tha 
all  the  waters  of  the  sea  lose  their  saltness,  and  become  fresh  at  these  mysteriou 
moments;  that  such,  in  fine,  is  its  sanctity,  that  prayers  said  during  this  nigh 
are  equal  in  value  to  all  those  which  can  be  said  in  a  thousand  successive  month; 
It  has  not,  however,  pleasedGod  ...  to  reveal  it  to  the  faithful . . .' — D'Ohsson.  (S. 

Page  93.  Stanzas  44  and  45.  These  stanzas,  together  with  stanza  1  c 
Book  X,  replaced  in  1809  a  passage,  unhappy  alike  in  conception  and  i: 
execution,  which  had  appeared  in  the  first  edition.  This  cancelled  passag 
consisted  of  126  lines — 109  in  Book  IX,  and  17  in  Book  X.  In  it  Mohare 
and  Khawla  have  learnt  of  Maimuna's  treachery.  To  further  their  reveng 
they  resolve  to  secure  '  the  deadliest  poison  that  the  Devils  know  ',  namely- 
the  last  foam  on  the  lips  of  a  red-haired  Christian  who  has  been  beaten  t< 
death.  Accordingly,  on  the  following  morning,  Maimuna  and  Thalaba  watc] 
from  the  latter' s  prison  the  execution  of  the  Christian  victim.  Khawla  catche 
the  poison  m  a  bowl.  The  bowl  bursts,  and  from  the  poison  which  falls  upoi 
the  ground  springs  the  Upas  Tree  of  Death.  Khawla  and  Mohareb  flee  awa;" 
in  a  whirlwind.  The  prison  walls  fall  witli  a  crash  :  and  Maimuna  and  Thalabi 
are  borne  in  the  Chariot  of  the  Winds  to  the  former's  cave. 

Page  102.  Book  XI,  Stanza  11.  '  "  Simorg  Anka",  says  my  friend  Mr.  Fox 
in  a  note  to  his  Achmed  Ardebeili,  "  is  a  bird  or  griffon  of  extraordinary  strengtl 
and  size  (as  its  name  imports,  signifying  as  large  as  thirty  eagles),  which,  according 


siiavtito  the  Eastern  writers,  was  sent  by  Iho  Supronio  Boinp  to  mjIkIuc  ^t^,\  .  h^.iiZ 
enaiftho  rebellious  Dive*;.  It  was  supposed  lo  p()ss*»s,s  nitioiuil  fncuhu^  «ti.|  •  - 
'^^o[  speech."  .  .  ."     (S.) 

N     Page   KXI.     Book    XT,   11.   ni;7-7:{.     '  So.ne   trftvcllrr..   mnv   :--' 
to  know  that  the  sjjriri;^  from  which  this  dcsfriptio 


1'"""  ^*"'*  *  '  -.1 

/"Jabout  a  mile  from  Stokes-Croft  turnpike,  an«l  knowii  by  tin-  i  ^^ 

jMWeU.     Other  and  larger  springs  of  the  sjuii.^  kind,  calkil  ibp  IJMiy  I'ooU.  wi 

''■'   near  Shobdon,  in  Herefordshire.'     (S.) 

Page  115.     Book  XIl,  1.  401.      '  Araf  is  a  place  betwwn  the  TnriMliiip  and 

'Hthe  Hell  of  the  Mahommedans  ;  some  deem  it  a  veil  of  H».parntion.  w>mr  «  utrvma 
wall.  Others  hold  it  to  be  a  Purgatory,  in  which  tho.se  U'lievc-m  will  rt>main. 
whose  good  and  evil  works  have  been  so  cipial.  that  they  wen'  neither  virtuoum 
enough  to  enter  Paradise,  nor  guilty  enough  iu  be  condemned  to  the  in.-  .,( 
Hell  .  .  .'— D'Herbelot.     (S.) 


THE  CURSE  OF  KEHAMA 

Written  May  1801-Nov.  1800  :  published  in  one  volume,  4to,  by  Ixingman 
in  1810.  In  the  Hrst  edition  the  stanzas  were  unnumbere<l  and  diffrrrntly 
divided.  The  variations  in  the  text  of  the  lirst  and  later  editi<in.s  are  com- 
paratively few  and  unimportant.     A  fourth  edition  was  publishe*!  in  IHIH 

There  is  a  MS.  of  this  poem  in  Southey's  handwriting  in  the  liriti«l»  .Muwum 

(No.  36,485).     A  note  appended  by  Southeys  biother.  Captain  Thojims  S^.uthry, 

R.N.,  states  that  this  MS.  'was  written  for  me  and  sent  slieet  by  >■  .n*, 

the  greater  part  of  which  were  received  on  board  His  Majesty'.^  J'  nfl 

^  the  coast  of  France  in  1809'.     The  British  Museum  Catalogue  n.i>.-..     ii..    i.-xt 

I   in  many  passages  differs  from  that  of  the  poem  as  printi-il,  agreeing  penernlly 

[gl   with  the  original  form  as  found  in  an  autograph  copy,  begun  May  28,    Ibw't, 

^    now  ill  possession  of  Miss  Warter,  the  poet's  granddaughter,  the  corrcctiooa 

jjj    made  in  which  were  embodied  in  the  printed  text.' 

In  the  British  Museum  MS.  there  is  no  list  of  characters  and  no  preface.  Tho 
motto,  '  Curses  are  like  young  chickens,  &c.  .  .'  is  attribute<l  to  *  I'ncle  U  illiam  *, 
and  there  is  no  Greek  version  of  it.  The  motto  in  (juestion  v,an  a  >;;■•••  ' 
Southey's  uncle  William,  a  half-witted  brother  of  Mis.s  Tyler,  with  \ 
lived.  The  Greek  version  and  its  mysterious  reference  are  due  to  (  ■ 
Southey  has  described  \\  illiam  Tyler  under  the  name  of  Williara  Ltovc  in 
The  Dodor,  dc.  Chapter  X,  P.  I.  and  passim. 

There  is  another  MS.  of  The  Curse  of  Kehnna,  bound  up  with  a  MS.  of  Rodrrick, 
in  the  Victoria  and  Albert  Museum  (number  480  in  the  Catalogue  of  .Mn*^.,  in 
the  Forster  Collection).  These  MSS.  were  sent  by  Southev  to  \\ .  S.  I^juuior  in 
sections,  as  the  composition  of  the  two  poems  proceeded.  The  MS.  of  The  (  urmt 
of  Kehama  contains  no  list  of  characters,  ])refacc.  or  mottoofl.  Tho  whole  ol 
it  from  Section  VII  onwards  is  in  Southey's  handwriting.  Tho  lirrt  ncclion  U 
dated  May  28,  180<i,  and  thus  represents  tho  original  tlraught  m  it  "tocwl  «>n>r 
two  years  before  Southey  first  met  Landor.     The  ending  of  tlu* y-  •'•J 

with  that  in  the  British  Museum  MS.  ;— see  note  on  St-ction  XM \ 

In  an  unpublished  letter  to  Landor,  now  in  the  Victoria  and  Am  .  >;  ^i  •  urn, 
written  at  the  end  of  the  MS.  of  the  first  section  of  luxhncl-.  niu\  dai.xl  hc^iirk. 
July  14,  1810,  Southey  speaks  of  The  Cur^c  of  Kihavui  aw  foilown  : 

'The  structure  of  the  poem  is  its  main  merit— in  this  i.oinl  it  w  Ur  wiprrior 
to  Thalaba,— in  most  other  resi)ects  I  am  afraid  I  niVHeU  do  not  »«»  »*  M"»J» 
80  well,  and  am  well  assured  that  moat  persona  will  lUio  it  ovoo  lc«,-oc  in 


^50  NOTES 


The' 


plainer  language  will  dislike  it  more.  About  this  I  am  perfectly  indifferent 
It  is  a  work  sui  generis,  which  like  Gcbir  will  find  its  own  admirers,  and  I  hav' 
always  sincerely  echoed  your  original  preface  upon  that  point.' 

See  also  Landor's  Wor/cs  and  Life,  by  J.  Forster  (1870),  vol.  i,  p.  110. 

Page  139.  Section  VII,  1.  197.  The  lute  of  Nared.  In  Hindoo  legend  Nared 
a  divine  son  of  Brahma,  invented  the  Vina,  or  Indian  lute.     (S.) 

Page  151.  Section  X,  1.  262.  Ms  Dragon  foe.  Ra'hu,  a  dragon-like  monster 
according  to  Hindoo  legend  strives  during  eclipses  to  wreak  vengeance  on  thi 
Sun  and  Moon  for  having  denounced  a  fraud  which  he  had  practised  on  th« 
gods.     (S.) 

Page  162.  Section  XIII,  1.  131.  Voomdavee.  The  wife  of  Veeshnoo,  th( 
goddess  of  the  earth  and  of  patience.     (S.). 

Page  163,  11.  175-6.  '  "  The  Hindoo  poets  frequently  allude  to  the  fragrant 
juice  which  oozes,  at  certain  seasons,  from  small  ducts  in  the  temples  of  the 
male  elephant,  and  is  useful  in  relieving  him  from  the  redundant  moisture 
with  which  he  is  then  oppressed  ;  and  they  even  describe  the  bees  as  allured 
by  the  scent,  and  mistaking  it  for  that  of  the  sweetest  flowers."  Wilfordjl'lff*^ 
Asiatic  Researches.'     (S.)_ 

Page  191.  Section  XXI,  1.  84.  that  strange  Indian  bird.  'The  Chatookee. 
They  say  it  never  drinks  at  the  streams  below,  but,  opening  its  bill  when  it 
rains,  it  catches  the  drops  as  they  fall  from  the  clouds.' — Periodical  Accounts 
of  the  Baptist  Missionaries,  vol.  ii,  p.  309.     (S.) 

1.  88.     the  footless  fowl  of  Heaven  :  sc.  the  bird  of  Paradise,  which  travellers  p 
said  was  to  be  found  in  the  Molucca  Islands,  born  without  legs.     (S.) 

Page  207.  Section  XXIV.  In  the  British  ^Museum  MS.  the  poem  ends 
as  follows  after  Stanza  23  : — 

'  Thus  hath  the  will  of  destiny  been  done,' 

Then  said  the  Lord  of  Padalon. 
'  Thus  are  the  secret  ways  of  Heaven  made  known 
And  justified.     Ye  neirs  of  heavenly  bliss, 
Go  to  the  Swerga  Bowers, 
And  there  recall  the  hours 
Of  endless  happiness. 
For  thee,  Ladurlad,  there  is  yet  in  store 
One  glorious  task.     Return  to  Earth — restore 
Justice  and  Peace,  by  Tyranny  put  down. 
Then  shalt  thou  have  thine  everlasting  crown. 
And  join  thy  best-beloved  for  evermore.' 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS 

Written,  Dec.  2,  1809-July  14,  1814 :  published  in  one  volume,  4to,  by 
Longman,  in  1814.  The  text  of  1838  differs  only  in  a  few  unimportant  jiarticulars 
from  that  of  the  first  edition.  The  mottoes  from  Tacitus  and  The  Excursion 
first  appeared  in  the  second  edition,  published  in  1815.  The  poem  reached 
a  fourth  edition  early  in  1816. 

There  is  in  the  Victoria  and  Albert  Museum  a  MS.  of  the  first  eighteen  sections 
of  Roderick, — as  they  were  sent  successively  by  Southey  to  Landor, — bound 
up  with  the  corresponding  MS.  of  The  Curse  of  Kehama — (No.  480  in  the  Catalogue 


NOTES  7,^1 


:^rSS.  in  the  Forstcr  Collection).     Every  section  wive  tho  firM  i,i  ,n  Souihcv'a 

tndwriting.     At  the  end  of  Sections  I,  II,  VI.  VII.  IX.  X,  XII     \"'     v  (\f 

KVI,  and   XV'II   are  letters  or  postscripts,  all  siK'neil   with'sixr  \u 

\cept  the  first,  which  is  si^ncil  in  full.     The  letter  to  Iwtndnr    .  '    ;  n| 

-,( tion  I  is  dated   Keswick,  dulv  14.  1810.     The  pontmark  on  the  Iam  ^^^>au^ 

Will)  bears  (i;ite.  Sept.  2i>,  18U.  ■•»*«• 

In  this  MS.  the  poem  is  called  '  I'elayo  ',  for  it  wa.-^  Southf\'  •  ..^i 

that  Pelayo  should  be  its  hero.     As  the  work  pro^resMHJ.  he  -^ 

of   Roderick   assumed   a   more  and   more   preilominating   in, .,..,,ui- 

iiiijlv.  in  sending  Section  VI  to  Lander,  Southey  writes  to  hitn'un  ia\  unnubliabcd 
k'ttcr)  as  follows  (Sept.  11,  1812)  :—  '  * 

•  The  next  book  is  nearly  (inishe<l.  I  believe  I  must  po  hack  to  thi«  fifth. 
and  interpolate  a  pas-sage  introductory  of  Egilona.  who8««  death  I  think  of  brinRtnir 
totward  in  Book  8.  and  in  whose  character  I  must  wvk  for  muh  a  n«llUtioti 
i)f  the  rape  of  Florinda  as  may  make  Roderick's  crime  not  ro  al.Hohitrly  Incom- 
jiatibie  with  his  heroic  qualities  as  it  now  appears.  The  truth  \h  that  in  rcn*^ 
c|uence  of  having  begun  the  story  with  Roderick  I  have  imi>ercrptiMy  \>r^n  \et\ 
t(i  make  him  the  prominent  personage  of  the  poem,  and  have  piven  him  virtuon 
wliich  it  will  be  very  difticult  to  make  consistent  with  his  fall.' 

The  description  of  Egilona.  Section  V,  11.  124-44,  was  Bubfvqucnlly  Inlf^- 
polated  with  the  object  described  above. 

Southey  justly  regarde<l  Jiodcrick  as  his  highest  achievement  an  a  port, 
H.  Crabb  Robinson  writes  in  his  Diary  for  Sept.  IT),  181«).  *()f  hi«  own  worka 
ho  (Southey)  thinks  Don  Roderick  by  far  the  best.'  And  this  statrmont  in  corro- 
1. orated  by  a  letter  from  Southey  to  Dr.  Cooch.  datetl  Nov.  :{(».  1814.  in  which 
\\c  says,  '  You  have  in  Roderick  the  best  which  I  have  done,  and.  prr)hahly. 
the  best  that  I  shall  do,  which  is  rather  a  melancholy  feeling  for  thw  author' 
(Life,  vol.  iv,  p.  90). 

Southey  gives  the  following  lively  description  of  his  feelings  on  the  completion 
of  this  poem  in  an  unpublished  letter  to  his  brother.  Captain  Thomaji  Soulhrj, 
R.N..  dated  Thursday,  14  July,  1814,  now  in  the  Hritish  Mumnim:— 

'  Monday  came  and  I  continued  at  my  ta.sk.  still  writing  like  a  Lion — It  wm» 
like  going  up  a  mountain,  the  termination  seemed  to  rece<lo  an  I  wlvancrd. 
So  I  was  still  at  it  on  Tuesday  middlcday,  when  in  came  a  I^krr  to  interrupt 
me.  .  .  .  This  morning  I  went  again  to  work,  and  ju.st  at  diim«'rtinir  fini«h«l 
a  poem  which  was  begun  2  December  1809.  The  last  l>ook  hajt  eiton«lMl  to 
580  lines,  and  the  whole  work  to  7,0()0.  some  twenty  mort«  or  l.««i».— Hourra  f 
your  Serene  Highness  !  O  be  joyful  St.  Helen's,  Auckland,  and  (Jrrta  Hall !  .  .  . 
i  do  not  feel  exactly  as  Tlibbondid,  who  knew  that  it  waj*  imiK»iiHjhlr  for  him 
ever  to  execute  another  work  of  equal  magnitude  with  his  gn-nl  history  ;  for 
I  neither  want  subjects  nor  inclination  for  fresh  attempt.H.  But  thi«  porm  ha« 
been  4i  years  on  hand,  and  had  been  thought  of  as  manv  year*  brforr  it  wa« 
begun  :"  and  it  is  impossible  not  to  feel  how  vcr\'  doubtful  it  in  whrthrr  I  may 
ever  again  compleat  one  of  equal  extent,  or  of  etpial  merit.— tho'  n«'vrr  at  any 
part  of  my  life  better  dispo.sed  for  it  in  will  or  in  jjowor  than  at  the  prrwnt  timr. 

It  may  be  well  to  add  here  Charles  Lamb's  appreciation  (»f  the  |>orm.  aa  ct<i- 
veyed  to  Southey  in  a  letter  of  May  ('».  ISlo: — 

'  The  story  of  the  brave  Maccabec',  he  wrote,  '  waii  alrc«dv.  you  may  br  mrr. 
familiar  to  me  in  all  its  parts.     I  have,  since  the  receipt  of  your  yrvm<nU  rrmd 

it  quite  through  again,  and  with  no  diminishefl  plea«un' The  part*  I  hw 

been  most  pleased  with,  both  on  first  and  second  p-  .  ' .-•'»-  ■   «-      .nn.ua 

palliation  of  Roderick's  crime,  confes.«*'d  to  him  r 

the  Palayos  (sic)  family  lir.st  discovered— hi.>*l>eint'  '  '* 


752  NOTES 

one  form  must  serve  more  solemn  for  the  breach  of  old  observances.'''     Roderick's 
vow  is  extremely  fme,  and  his  blessing  on  the  vow  of  Alphonso : 

Towards  the  troops  he  spread  his  arms, 

As  if  the  expanded  soul  diffused  itself. 

And  carried  to  all  spirits  with  the  act 

Its  effluent  inspiration. 
*  It  struck  me  forcibly  that  the  feeling  of  these  last  lines  might  have  been 
suggested  to  you  by  the  Cartoon  of  Paul  at  Athens.     Certain  it  is  that  a  better 
motto  or  guide  to  that  famous  attitude  can  nowhere  be  found.     I  shall  adopt 
it  as  explanatory  of  that  violent  but  dignified  motion.' 

The  Letters  of  C.  Lamb,  ed.  Ainger,  vol.  i,  pp.  290-2. 

Page  210.  Section  I,  1.  30.  the  name  of  thy  new  conqueror.  '  Gibel-al-Tarif, 
the  mountain  of  Tarif,  is  the  received  etymology  of  Gibraltar :  Ben  Hazel, 
a  Granadan  Moor,  says  expressly,  that  the  mountain  derived  its  name  from  this 
general.'     (S.) 

1.  69.     '  Guadalete  had  been  thus  interpreted  to  Florez.     {Espana  Sagrada, 
t.  ix,  p.  53.)'     (S.) 

Page  221.  Section  III,  11.  99-105.  '  Tlie  Roman  Conimbrica  stood  about 
two  leagues  from  the  present  Coimbra,  on  the  site  of  Condeyxa  Velha.  Ataces, 
king  of  the  Alanes,  won  it  from  the  Sueves,  and,  in  revenge  for  its  obstinate 
resistance,  dispeopled  it,  making  all  its  inhabitants,  without  distinction  of  persons, 
work  at  the  foundation  of  Coimbra,  where  it  now  stands  .  .  .  Ataces  was  an 
Arian,  and  therefore  made  the  Catholic  bishops  and  priests  work  at  his  new  city, 
but  his  queen  converted  him.'     (S.) 

Page  223,  1.  189.  Diogo's  amorous  lute.  *  Diogo  Bemardes,  one  of  the  best 
of  the  Portugueze  poets,  was  born  on  the  banks  of  the  Lima,  and  passionately 
fond  of  its  scenery  .  .  .'     (S.) 

Page  226,  1.  326.  The  collected  edition  of  1838  and  the  one-volume  edition 
reprinted  from  it  read  '  Yet '  as  the  first  word  of  this  line, — clearly  a  misprint 
for  the  '  Yea '  of  1814,  which  has  been  restored  in  the  present  edition. 

Page  254.  Section  X.  In  sending  this  Section — perhaps  the  finest  in  the 
whole  poem — to  Landor,  Southey  thus  writes  (in  an  unpublished  letter)  of  the 
difliculty  which  he  had  experienced  in  its  composition  :  '  Y^ou  have  here  a  part 
of  the  poem  so  difficult  to  get  over,  even  tolerably,  that  I  verily  believe,  if  I  had 
at  first  thought  of  making  Roderick  anything  more  than  a  sincere  penitent, 
this  difficulty  would  have  deterred  me  from  attempting  the  subject.  There 
will  probably  be  much  to  amend  in  it  hereafter, — but  I  think  it  is  in  the  right 
strain,  and  that  the  passion  is  properly  made  diffuse.'     (March  3,  1813.) 

It  may  be  added  that  the  changes  eventually  made  in  the  original  draught 
of  this  section  as  it  had  been  sent  to  Landor  were  comparatively  few  and  unim- 
portant. 

Page  277.  Section  XV.  In  a  letter  to  G.  C.  Bedford,  of  August  8,  1815 
[Warter,  ii,  420),  Southey  thus  anticipates  an  obvious  criticism  upon  this 
and  other  portions  of  the  poem: — 

'  The  strongest  objection  which  has  or  can  be  urged  against  the  poem  is, 
that  Roderick  should  not  be  recognized  ;  but  the  fact  is  strictly  possible.  A  friend 
of  mine  (poor  Charles  Danvers),  after  a  fortnight's  absence,  during  which  he 
had  been  very  exposed  to  weather,  sleeping  out  of  doors,  and  in  an  open  boat, 
and  liad  endured  the  greatest  anxiety  (in  assisting  a  man  to  escape  to  America, 
who  would  have  been  hanged  for  high  treason,  if  he  had  been  taken),  was  so 


NOTES  7^:^ 


Jtercd  as  literally  not  to  bo  rocomii/.ctl  at  the  end  of  that  time  hy  nn  oW 

if  the  family.     Think,  also,  what  a  dilTereneo  prey  Imir.H  »i;; 

oon  ijrief  will  jjroiluce  this  ehaii^'  lins  oftrn  luvn  wvn.     W 

France  was  nuinlered,  her  hair  was  i>erfeotly  white.  ThiH  I  Im  . 
Roderick;  I  have  also  made  his  mother  reoo^Muze  him  \.\ 
d  Swerian  also.     As  for  .Julian,  it  is  nowiu'n*  implie<|  thj»t 

loderick  ;   on  the  contrary.  Africa  was  his  home.' 

Page  294.     Section  XVTII,  1.   107.     ornnj :—' a  acarf  or  tippot  to  U 

apon  the  shoulders  .  .  .'     (S.) 

1.   109.     '  Precious  or  auriphrygidtc.     **  Mitrae  .  .  .  triplex  ♦-•!  w|wt<-n-  tina 

quae  pretiosa  dicitur,  quia  gemmis  et   lapidihus  pntinsJM.    \    *   '  .  .,^ 

vel   argenteis  contexta  esse   solet  ;     altera   aiiriphryK'int;i   .sii  -.o 

laminis  aureis  vel   argenteis:     sed   vel  aliijuihus   parvi*   mai^.....  ■», 

vel  ex  serico  albo  auro  intermisto,  vel  ex  tela  aurea   hi?npliri  on  o| 

margaritis ;    tertia,    quae    simi)lex    vocatur    sine    auro,    .    .    ."     '  At 
Episcoporum,  1.  1,  c.  17.'     (S.) 

Page  315.  Section  XXI,  11.  424-34.  '  The  imago  of  the  clomN  and  tha 
moon  I  saw  from  my  chamber  window  at  Cintra  when  goini;  to  IkmI.  and  n<»l«l 
it  down  with  its  application  next  morning.  I  have  it  at  thia  moment  dintinrtljr 
before  my  eyes  with  all  its  accompanving  earth-seenerv.' 

Letter  from  R.  S.  to  C.  W.  \\.  'Wynn.  March  9.  "1815.     Li/r,  iv,  |».  107. 

Page  321.  Section  XXIII,  1.  31.  '  The  humma  is  a  fabulous  »)inl :  the  hmd 
over  which  its  shadow  once  passes  will  assuretUy  be  encircled  with  a  crown.* 
—Wilkes,  S.  of  India,  v.  i,  p.  423.     (S.) 


SELECTED  mNOR  POEMS 

Page  344.     The  Dead  Friend.     This  poem  was  writtrti  iu  mniuw  ,  i 

Seward,  of  Balliol  College,  Oxford,  who  died  in  .June.  179.'3.     Sfwani  •■.t> 

of  the  little  band  who  originally  entered  upon  the  scheme  of  I'ant.         .  u! 

he  had  soon  realized  that  the  plan  was  visionary  and  impracticahlr.  and  had 
ceased  to  support  it.  Southey  writ'CS  as  follows  to  CJ.  C.  lio<ifonl.  on  .lun«'  15, 
1795:  'Bedford, — he  is  dead;  my  dear  Edmund  Sewani  !  after  nix  wcrka 
suffering.  These,  Grosvenor,  are  the  losses  that  gradually  wean  ua  from  life. 
May  that  man  want  consolation  in  his  hust  hour,  who  would  n>b  tlip  i»ur\ivoc 
of  thelDclief,  that  he  shall  again  beliold  his  friend  !  You  know  tjot.  (ir«»«\njor, 
how  I  loved  poor  Edmund:  he  taught  me  all  that  I  have  of  g*"-!  '  /'''',  i, 
p.  240.)     And  in  a  letter  to  J.  Rickman  of  Oct.  6.  1807.  he  dr-  'I 

as  having  been  his  '  nearest  and  dearest  friend  '  ( WarUr,  ii.  20).     Tl  <  •  r 

allusion  to  the  sorrow  of  this  loss  in  the  '  Hymn  to  the  I'enute.'j',  hn<     :  •-  --  i 

Page  345.     Funeral  Song  for  the  Pritice.sM  Charhtte  of  Wnh*.     'V  I-  •    -'^ 

Charlotte,  daughter  of  Oeorge  IV  (then  Prince  Regent),  and  hrir  j  :•  *»^« 

to  the  throne,  married  Prince  Leopold  of  Saxe-Coburg  in  I8Ui.  and  <l.'  1  .  ilJ- 
birth,  Nov.  5,  1817. 

Page  340,  11.  110-24.     During  the  building  of  a  mauHolcum  tmdrr  St.  ^♦<***^ 

Chapel,  Windsor,  an  accidental  opening  was  made  by  X\w  ••  '****k!^ 

Henry  VIII  vault.     Three  coffins  were  visible  in  the  vault.-  •  '»  *«*• 

of  Henry  VIII  and  Jane  Seymour;  and, as  there  was  «nmr  i\m  "^t" 

place  of  King  Charles  I,  owing  to  a  passaire  in  I>>rd  Chr-u  ;  ^ 

Rfhellion  (iii.   Part  I,   p.   393  [Oxford.    1807]).   «hi.  h   .t.;ii.-.   •  d 

search  was  made  for  the  body  shortly  after  the  Koetoratioii.  ihc  1  < 


754  NOTES 


ordered  that  the  third  coffin  in  the  vault  should  be  examined  and  the  doubtful 
point  set  at  rest. 

The  examination  was  made  on  April  1,  1813,  in  the  presence  of  the  Prince 
Regent,  the  Duke  of  Cumberland,  Count  Miinster,  the  Dean  of  Windsor,  Benjamin^ 
Charles  Stevenson,  Esq.,  and  Sir  Henry  Halford,  the  King's  physician.  The 
coffin  was  covered  by  a  black  velvet  pall,  and,  when  this  was  removed,  waa 
seen  to  bear  the  inscription,  'Charles  I,  1648.'  When  the  wrappings  of  the^ 
body  were  removed  and  the  face  exposed,  the  pointed  beard  and  lower  half 
of  the  countenance  were  found  to  be  perfect,  and  one  eye  was  visible  at  the 
first  moment,  though  it  disappeared  immediately ;  the  nose,  however,  waa 
defaced.  The  loose  head  was  taken  out  and  held  up  to  view  :  the  hair  at  the 
back  was  thick  and  of  a  dark- brown  colour,  while  the  beard  was  of  a  more  reddish 
brown.  The  muscles  at  the  back  of  the  neck  showed  the  traces  of  a  heavy 
blow  from  a  sharp  instrument. 

The  head  was  then  replaced,  and  the  coffin  closed ;  and,  after  a  cursory  examina- 
tion of  the  coffins  of  Henry  VIII  and  Jane  Seymour,  the  vault  was  closed. 

The  above  particulars  are  drawn  from  a  pamphlet  in  the  Royal  Library  at 
Windsor,  by  Sir  Henry  Halford,  entitled,  '  An  Account  of  what  appeared  on 
Opening  the  Coffin  of  King  Charles  the  First  in  the  Vault  of  King  Henry  the 
Eighth  in  St.  George's  Chapel  at  Windsor,  on  the  First  of  April  1813.'  I  am 
indebted  for  this  information  to  the  kindness  of  the  Honourable  John  Fortescue, 
Librarian  of  the  Royal  Library,  Windsor. 

Page  347.  My  days  among  the  Dead  are  past.  Cuthbert  Southey,  in  quoting 
these  lines  in  his  Life  of  his  father,  adds  the  following  interesting  note  : — 

'  I  have  an  additional  pleasure  in  quoting  these  lines  here,  because  Mr. 
Wordsworth  .  .  .  once  remarked  that  they  possessed  a  peculiar  interest  as  a  most 
true  and  touching  representation  of  my  father's  character.  He  also  wished 
three  alterations  to  be  made  in  them,  in  order  to  reduce  the  language  to  correctness 
and  simplicity.  In  the  third  line,  because  the  phrase  "casual  eyes"  is  too 
unusual,  he  proposed — 

"  W^here'er  I  chance  these  eyes  to  cast." 
In  the  sixth  line,  instead  of  "  converse  ",  "  commune  ",  because,  as  it  stands,  the 
accent  is  wrong. 

'In  the  second  stanza,  he  thought — 

"  While  I  understand  and  feel,  .  .  . 
My  cheeks  have  often  been  bedewed  " 
was  a  vicious  construction  grammatically,  and  proposed  instead, — 

"  My  pensive  cheeks  are  oft  bedewed." 
These  suggestions  were  made  too  late  for  my  father  to  profit  by  tliem.' — Life, 
V,  110,  n. 

Page  348.  The  Cataract  of  Lodore.  The  origin  of  this  poem  is  thus  described 
in  a  letter  from  Southey  to  his  brother  Thomas,  dated  October  18, 18U9  ( Warier,  ii, 
168)  :— 

'  I  hope  .  .  .  you  will  approve  of  a  description  of  the  water  at  Lodore,  made 
originally  for  Edith,  and  greatly  admired  by  Herbert.  In  my  mind  it  surpasses 
any  that  the  tourists  have  yet  printed.  Thus  it  runs — "  Tell  the  people  how  the 
water  comes  down  at  Lodore  ?  Why  it  comes  thundering,  and  floundering,  and 
thumping,  and  flumping,  and  bumping,  and  jumping,  and  hissing,  and  whizzing, 
and  dripping,  and  skipping,  and  grumbling,  and  rumbling,  and  tumbling,  and 
falling,  and  brawling,  and  dashing,  and  clashing,  and  splashing,  and  pouring, 
and  roaring,  and  whirUng,  and  curhng,  and  leaping,  and  creeping,  and  sounding. 


NOTES 


Mul  bounding,  and  clnttoring,  and  chattorinir,  with  n  dn>adful  uprmr  —and  ik.i 
way  tlie  water  comes  down  at  I^dorc."  '  i-       •        w  loai 

i  lie  doggoirl  tlnis  first  composed  hy  Sonthoy  for  the  nmu^Mnrnt  cil  hi.  rll^ 
,liuu'hter  was  develojKMl  nUo  tlie  poem  hm  we  now  kn..w  it  (..r  tlm  licuHil  nIhL 
youngest  child,  Tuthhert.  more  than  twelve  years  later,  in  lH'2'2(\i  arUf    m  ai'L 

There  is  a  .MS.  of  this  poem  in  the  Hritisi,"  Museum  (hUi.  MMWi).  a«d  ^ih«^ 'L 
the  museum  at  Keswick.  The  latter  is  an  .-arly  draught.  The  (..rmrr  U  .UimI 
lSJ-_\  and  begins  with  the  line  '  Here  it  lies  darkling  '.  It  inrlu.l.-.  m^^rt^^^  <«m. 
linos  instead  of  yeventy-nine,  as  in  the  corresiM.uding  ix.rtion  ..f  tl.r  ,-«-m  m 
|,iinted.  and  there  are  a  few  unimportant  variant.^.  The  foI!..w,n^.  lmr»  lo 
;uUlition  tothe  first  forty-two— are  wanting  in  the  MS. — 17  fiO.  (.o.iil.  71.  andlO  • 
aiul  in  some  cases  the  order  of  the  lines  is  slightly  ditTerent.      '      '      •      •  • 

Paoe  350.  Inscripfion  II.  EpHapf,.  The  Kmma  of  thi^  opit*ph  wm  thi>  fir«l 
wife  of  Soutliey's  friend.  (Jeneral  Peachey.  who  HvjhI  on  Vioar'H  Uliuid  in  lVr«ml- 
water.  She  had  been  a  Miss  Charter,  of  Bishop's  Lydeard,  near  Taunton,  .sh© 
(lied  in  1809  {Life,  ii,  304  ;    Warter,  ii,  liK")). 

Page  351.  InMripiion  III.  At  nnrrn.«n.  Lieut-Oenenil  CJrahiifn  (»ft<TWMtU 
lord  Lynedoch)  defeated  the  French  army  under  Victor  at  Harrojia  on  March  5 

isu. 


Page  352.  Imcripfion  V.  Epitaph.  This  ei.itai)h  very  probablv  may  rrfrr 
I  I  the  death  of  Southcy's  eldest  son,  Herbert,  who  die<l  "on  April  17.  iHlrt.  in 
I  .!-■  tenth  year  of  his  age.  See  Notes  on  '  The  Pcx't's  I'ilgrimage  to  Watrrltio  '  and 
on  the  '  Fragmentary  Thoughts  occasionetl  by  his  Son's  Death  '.  pp.  7ti2,  7il3. 

Page  353.     Dedication  of  the  Author  s  ('oltoqitift  on  Ihr  Vr,  '  Pro^f^fU 

(, I  Society.    The  Rev.  H.  Hill  was  Southcy's  maternal  uml<-.     ^  I  indrvd 

tdund  him,  as  he  says,  'more  than  father.'  Mr.  Hill  had  j.ii  .  •...  .ji-ni«i  tA 
hi-  education  at  Westminster  and  at  Oxfortl.  and  took  him  to  l.jitiMm  with  him 
in  1795.  He  encouraged  Southey — on  the  occasion  of  the  lattor'H  Brmnd  vinii 
i<)  Portugal  in  1800 — to  undertake  the  writing  of  a  Histor>-  of  !'■  •  <l, 

until  he  himself  returned  to  England  in  1S07,  continmni  to  fumi-  w 

with  Spanish  and  Portuguese  materials  for  that  work.     Vrmu  that  •  !i 

until  his  death  he  constantly  corresjmiuled  with  Southey  with  r.  ■ 
lalter's  literarj'  employments.     On  his  retuni  to  England.  Mr.  Hill  j..-  --:.d 

held  successively  the  livings  of  Staunton-on-\\'ye  and  Strentham.  t'nr  ot  hm 
sons,  Herbert,  married  Bertha  Southey  in  1839,  ami  t^litwl  S)Ulhry'a  iHtrrr 
Newman  :   With  other  Poeliced  Remains,  in  1845. 

Page  357.     Ode  written  diirinej  the  Ne(/otinlion.«  u-tlh  liuomi parte .  in  Jnnwvy, 
1814.    The  greater  part  of  this  ode  was  originally  include<l  in  the  ^ 
phale.     In  deference  to  the  advice  of  J.  \\'.  (Yoker  and  Hickman  S- 
out  from  the  Carmen  five  stanzas  which  were  thought  t<K)  vigoroim  n-r  v 
poem  by  the  Poet  Laureate  :    to  these  he  ad<le<l  three  other  »tan«a«,   » 
the  whole  a8  a  separate  ode  to  The  Courier. 

There  is  a  MS.  of  this  ode  in  the  pos.'^ession  of  the  Rov.  Canon  IUirn«W»y  1  »»»• 
MS.  ends,  as  did  the  version  first  printe<l  in  Th  Counrr,  with  thr  two  follow ihk 
lines,  subsequently  cancelled, — 

Pluck  from  the  UpstArt's  head  thy  BulHcd  crown, 
Down  with  the  Tyrant!     With  the  murderer  dowm  ' 
Professor Dowden  has  well  characterized  this  ode  a«  *  jjcrhar"  t»:r  Mtl^  rKaoni 
of  political  invective,  inspired  by  moral  indignation,  whir!  \ 

And  he  observes  further:  *  Southey  stood  erect  in  the  i 
he  believed  to  be  immoral,  defied  it  and  execrated  it.    'i  i -n  i  •  'i- 


756  NOTES 


how,  in  driving  the  ploughshare  of  Revolution  across  Europe  of  the  old  regime. 
Napoleon  was  terribly  accomplishing  an  inevitable  and  a  beneficent  work,  may 
have  been  an  error  ;  but  it  was  an  error  to  which  no  blame  attaches,  and  in  his 
fierce  indictment  he  states,  with  ample  support  of  facts,  one  entire  side  of  the 
case.  The  ode  is  indeed  more  than  a  poem  ;  it  is  a  historical  document  expressing  ,|j ; 
the  passion  which  filled  many  of  the  highest  minds  in  England,  and  which  at  '\: 
a  later  date  was  the  justification  of  Saint  Helena.'  {Poems  by  Robert  Southey,  , 
'  Golden  Treasury'  Series,  Introd.,  pp.  xxiv,  xxv.)  i 

Page  360.  The  March  to  Moscoiv.  This  doggerel  march  is  included  here 
among  the  Selected  Minor  Poems,  both  as  being  eminently  characteristic  of  the  > 
writer  and  as  in  some  ways  complementary  to  the  '  Ode  written  during  the  i 
Negotiations  with  Buonaparte'.  Southey  wrote  it  to  amuse  his  children.  When  i 
it  was  originally  published  in  The  Courier  the  present  fourth  stanza  was  suppressed,  ; 
and  the  fifth  stanza  was  added  later.  ;i| 

Stanza  4,  1.  2.  He  frightened  Mr.  Roscoe.  William  Poscoe  (1753-1831),  his-  k 
torian,  banker,  and  Whig  M.P.  for  Liverpool  1806-7,  was  a  strong  advocate  ui 
of  peace  with  France,  and  published  several  pamphlets  between  1793  and  1810  i 
in  support  of  such  a  policy.  i 

Page  366.    The  Old  Woman  of  Berkeley.    There  is  a  MS.  of  this  ballad  in  the 
British  Museum.     It  is  in  Mrs.  Southey' s  handwriting,  dated  Martin  Hall,  Oct.  5    i 
(1798),  and  was  enclosed  in  a  letter  to  Thomas  Southey,  in  which  Southey  says    r 
of  it,  '  I  like  the  ballad  much.' 

Page  378.  Inscription  for  a  Coffee-Pof.  These  lines,  written  in  1830,  or  early 
in  1831,  explain  themselves.  They  were,  of  course,  never  published  by  Southey, 
but  were  printed  in  a  note.  Warier,  iv,  pp.  203,  204.  It  turned  out,  when  the 
coffee-pot  had  been  chosen,  that  there  was  not  room  on  it  for  the  proposed 
inscription. 

Page  385.  The  Widow.  These  lines  are  here  printed  as  having  given  rise  to 
one  of  the  most  famous  parodies  in  the  language.  '  The  Friend  of  Humanity 
and  the  Knife- Grinder  '  was  written  by  Canning  and  Frere,  and  appeared  in  No.  II 
of  The  Anti- Jacobin  on  Nov.  27,  1797. 

The  Old  Man's  Comforts.     These  lines  are  chiefly  notable  as  the  original 
of  Lewis  Carroll's  brilliant  parody  in  Alice  in  Wonderland. 

Page  386.  To  a  Spider.  Charles  Lamb's  criticism  of  this  poem  is  of  interest. 
Writing  to  Southey  on  March  20,  1799,  he  says  : — 

'  I  am  hugely  pleased  with  your  "  Spider",  "  your  old  freemason,"  as  you  call 
him.  The  first  three  stanzas  are  delicious  ;  they  seem  to  me  a  compound  of 
Burns  and  Old  Quarles,  the  kind  of  home- strokes  where  more  is  felt  than  strikes 
the  ear ;  a  terseness,  a  jocular  pathos,  which  makes  one  feel  in  laughter.  The 
measure,  too,  is  novel  and  pleasing.  I  could  almost  wonder  Robert  Burns  in  his 
lifetime  never  stumbled  upon  it.  The  fourth  stanza  is  less  striking,  as  being  less 
original.  The  fifth  falls  off.  It  has  no  felicity  of  phrase,  no  old-fashioned  phrase 
or  feeling. 

Young  hopes,  and  love's  delightful  dreams 
savour  neither  of  Burns  nor  Quarles ;    they  seem  more  like  shreds  of  many 
a  modem  sentimental  sonnet.     The  last  stanza  hath  nothing  striking  in  it,  if 
I  except  the  two  concluding  lines,  which  are  Burns  all  over.' 

The  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb,  ed.  Ainger,  i,  104,  105. 

Page  394.  To  Margaret  Hill.  Margaret  Hill,  to  whom  this  poem  is  addressed, 
was  Southey' s  favourite  cousin.  He  appears  to  have  himself  defrayed  the 
expenses  of  her  illness,  which  lasted  for  more  than  a  year  {Warter,  \,  164).  She 
died  of  consumption  not  long  after  Southey' s  return  from  Portugal  in  1801. 


NOTES 


Page  396.      Written   immcdifitdy  afltr  reading  the  Sptaek  of  JtVJW- 

Robert  Emmot  (1778-1803),  a  luombor  of  the  I'nitH  T-'  '  - 
L:amst  the  English  CJovornment  in  Ireland,  intending 
to  hold  the  Viceroy  aa  a  hostage.     The   rising  t<K.k  i 
was  easily  snpjjressed  ;    not,   however.   befon>  the  ru.tcrw  had 
Kilwarden  and  Colonel  Brown,  whom  tlu>y  met  on  their  mnrch.     I 
in  horror  at  the  violence  of  his  followers,  hut  was  arn'Ni««<|  «  n,, 
|for  high  treason  on  Sept.  11),  sentenced  to  death,  and  e.\rou(<H|  on  f  . 

Page  402.     To  Charles  Lamb.     These  lines  were  not  intl 
edition  of  1837-8.  but  are  jninted  in  the  present  edition  1m  « 
as  a  link  in  the  relations  between  Soutiiey  and  Chnrle.s  I^nib.     i 
in  reply  to   a  contemjituous  review  of  Lamb's  .I//<t/f;i    \',r3rjt  ir 
which  appeared  on  July  10.  1S30,  in  the  Litcrnry  C'azillr,  of  whi«  ! 
Jerdan  was  editor.    The  review  in  ([uestion  containe<l  the  folhiwu  •  || 

anything  could  prevent  our  laughing  at  the  present  collation  c!  •  \  it 

would  be  a  lamentable  conviction  of  the  blinding  and  enyronsing  imturv  o{  s*nity. 
We  could  forgive  the  folly  of  the  original  composition,  but  eamiot  hut  mi»rv«.|  mi 
the  egotism  which  has  preserved,  and  the  conceit  which  has  pubhMlu««l.'    - 
lines  were  published  in  The  Times  on  Aug.  0,  1830.    They  were  hi'*  : 
utterance  concerning  Lamb  since   the   misunderstandinj;   iK-twren   ti  ■ 
had  arisen  out  of  Southey's  allusion   to  the  E^Kaya  of   Klin   in   th' 
Bevicw  for  January,  1823 — Lamb's  famous  open  letter  to  him  of  tin 
October — and    their   speedy  reconciliation,  so  honourable  to  both   llu-  huinis. 
Lamb  was  much   touched,  and  wrote   to   Bernard   Barton  on  Au>^.  W.  IH30 : 
'  How  noble  in  Robert  Southey  to  come  forwanl  for  an  old  friend,  who  had 
treated  Mm  so  unworthily  ! '     (See  E.  V.  Lucas,  Life  of  Charles  Lamb,  one- vol.  ed. 
(1907),  pp.  508-14,  025  and  626.) 

Page  403.  The  Retrospect.  CJorston  (called  Alston  in  the  poom  m  oriirinaJly 
published)  is  '  a  small  village  about  three  miles  from  Bath,  a  litt!-  ••■  •'  -  '-  '•  ■  ' 
the  Bristol  road'.  Southey  passed  a  year  there  (1781-2)  at  a 
one  Thomas  Flower.  His  reminiscences  of  tiie  time  sj)ent  then- 
in  his  Life  and  Correspondence,  i,  46-58.  He  says  of  it.  'Here  ttuv  \vmt  ui  tay 
life  was  spent  with  little  profit,  and  with  a  good  deal  of  suffering.  There  could 
not  be  a  worse  school  in  all  respects.' 

Page  405,  II.   141  sqq.     These  lines  describe  a  visit   which  Southey  paid  to 
Corstx)n  in  1793,  after  the  house  had  ceased  to  be  uaod  as  a  Hchool. 

Page  409.    Ilpnn  to  the  Penates,  I.  146.     Ai^(fa.-<  sculjAurtd  f'fm.    *On*>c4  %hm 
ways  and  means  of  the  tyrant  Nabis.     If  one  of  his  subjeit-^ 
money,  he  commanded  him  to  embrace  his  Ai)ei:a  ;    the 

woman  so  formed  as  to  clasp  the  victim  to  her  breast,  b  whun  »  r« •  ••-»»   • 

was  concealed.'    (S.) 

II.  173-5.     When  that  false  Florimel .  .  .  Dissohxd  aicay.     See  Spcincr.  F^** 

Queene,  Book  V,  Canto  iii.  Stanza  24.  »«    i      j  i.>-^_^  • 

1.  203.     Edmund  Seward  died  in  June,  1795.    See  NotciJ  to  *  The  Dead  t  titma  . 

Page  410,  11.  236,  237.      The  soicmn  f>^tival  whosr  happiest  ntts  KmhUmd 
equality.     The  Saturnalia  (S.). 

Page  420.     The  DeviVs  Walk.    The  genesis  of  these  lin.i*.  oricit»an\  ' 
'  The  Devil's  Thoughts',  is  told  by  Southey  him«-lf  in  stanw*  T,  ••     ' 
in  a  note  in  the  1829  edition  of  his  jxjemH.  states  that  stan/Jin  I.  - 
dictated  by  Southey.     The  remaining'  stanzas  of  the  ..rigmnl  >• 
sumably  written  in  collaboration.    The  verses  onginally  «|iiHvire.l  » -^.-V 


758 


NOTES  ^ 


Post  of  Sept.  6,  1799.  The  text,  as  then  published,  is  printed  in  J.  Dykes  Camj 
bell's  edition  of  Coleridge's  Poetical  Works,  pp.  621,  622.  This  first  versio 
included,  sometimes  in  a  modified  form,  stanzas  1,  2,  6,  7,  8,  9,  10,  14,  15,  16,  11 
18,  19,  and  57,  of  the  poem  as  finally  printed  by  Southey  in  1838. 

The  squib  had  a  great  circulation.  In  1812  Shelley  published  his  imitation; 
'The  Devil's  Walk,'  and  in  1813  Byron  published  his  'The  Devil's  Drive.' 
In  1826  Caroline  Bowles  urged  Southey,  in  view  of  the  confident  assertions  tha 
Porson  was  the  author,  to  publish  the  verses  as  his  own,  and  so  to  set  all  doubt 
at  rest.  Southey  was  thus  unfortunately  moved  to  expand  the  lines  until  the^ 
reached  their  present  form.  Further  particulars  may  be  found  in  Dykes  Camp 
bell's  edition  of  Coleridge's  Poetical  Works,  loc.  cit. 

Page  422, 11.  65,  66.  Richard  Brothers,  a  crazy  enthusiast,  published  A  Revealec 
Knowledge  of  the  Prophecies  and  Times  (1794),  and  other  similar  works.  He  diec 
in  1824. 

1.  96.     That  new  Scotch  performer.     Edward  Irving,  subsequently  foundei 
of  the  Catholic  Apostolic  Church,  began  to  preach  in  London  in  1822.  j 

Page  423.  Stanza  30.  Richard  Lalor  Shell  (1791-1851),  dramatist  audi 
politician  ;  Daniel  O'Connell  (1775-1847) ;  Sidney  Smith  (1771-1845)  ;  Joseph 
Hume  (1777-1855),  a  prominent  Radical  M.P.  from  1818  to  1855  ;  Lord  Brougham^ 
(1778-1868)  ;  Jeremy  Bentham  (1748-1832)  ;  Peter,  seventh  Baron  King  of; 
Ockham  (1776-1833);  and  James  Warren  Doyle  (1786-18.34),  Roman  Catholici 
bishop  of  Kildare  and  Leighlin,  are  here  grouped  together  chiefly  as  having  been! 
prominent  advocates  of  Catholic  Emancipation.  ! 

Page  425.    Stanza  57.     '  If  any  one  should  ask  who  General meant,  the 

Author  begs  leave  to  inform  him  that  he  did  once  see  a  red-faced  person  in  [ 
a  dream  whom  by  the  dress  he  took  for  a  General ;  but  he  might  have  been 
mistaken,  and  most  certainly  he  did  not  hear  any  names  mentioned.  In  simple ; 
verity,  the  author  never  meant  any  one,  or  indeed  any  thing  but  to  put  a  con- 
(Coleridge's  note  in  1829). 


INSCRIPTIONS 

Page  429,  xi.  Juan  of  Padilla,  a  nobleman  of  Toledo,  commanded  the  forces 
of  the  Comuneros,  who  rebelled  against  the  government  of  Charles  V  in  1520. 
He  was  captured  at  Villalar  on  April  23,  1521,  and  was  put  to  death  on  the 
following  day  (see  The  Cambridge  Modern  Ilidory,  i,  372-5). 

Page  432,  xvii.  Sir  Arthur  Wellesley  defeated  the  French  under  de  Laborde 
at  Rolissa  on  Aug.  17,  1808,  in  his  first  battle  in  the  Peninsula. 

xviii.    On  Aug.  21,  1808,  Sir  Arthur  Wellesley  defeated  the  French  under 
Junot  at  Vimeiro. 

Page  433,  xix.    The  battle  of  Coruna  was  fought  on  Jan.  16,  1809. 

Page  434,  xxi.  Paul  Burrard  was  a  cousin  of  Caroline  Bowles,  who  furnished 
Southey  with  some  particulars  about  him.  In  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Hughes  of  Dec.  31. 
1827,  Southey  says,  writing  of  Caroline  Bowles,  '  The  late  Sir  Harry  Burrard  was 
her  uncle,  and  I  suspect,  was  to  have  stood  in  another  degree  of  relationship  to 
her,  if  the  battle  of  Corunna  had  not  put  an  end  to  all  her  dreams  of  life.  She  has 
never  expressly  told  me  this,  but  that  it  was  so  I  have  no  doubt '  {Warter,  iv,  82). 

Page  435,  xxii.  Sir  Arthur  Wellesley  effected  the  passage  of  the  Douro  in  the 
face  of  Soult's  army  on  May  12,  1800. 


NOTES 


769 


\.    Page  43(i,  xxiii.    On  July  27  and  28,  180U,  Sir  Arthur  WollcmJry  dclmtcd  ihm 

irsJuiFreucli  uiidcr  Victor  at  Talavera.  ^ 

6,i;  xxiv.     Masat'ua  attacked  Wclliii;:toirB  i>o«ition  on  the  hcif{ht«  of  Humcw  <« 

Sept.  27,  1810,  and  was  rcpulsotl  with  a  \o»n  of  ov.-r  4.IMK)  killed.  Mounded 
tioi  and  missing.  At  tlio  loftiest  summit  of  tlio  niountnm  ridgo  w««  «'ooovoal  d 
ire  Carmelites,  where  Wellington  had  ii.xed  his  liciuiciuurt^ru. 


'     Page  438,  xxvi.    Masscna  ovncuatiHl  Santarcm  on  March  5,  IRH. 

xxvii.    WcUinrrton  defeated  Massena  at  Kucntes  D'Onon'i  on  M*y  ft,  I8I1. 
xxviii.    The  Battle  of  Albuhcra  was  fought  on  .May  1»'»,  1811.  * 

Page  440.  xxx.    Wellington  stormed  Ciudiul  Kixiri^o  oii  .hui.  19.  I8I2.    M*tar- 

[General  Craufurd  (17»>4-1812)  had  won  a  grwit  renutntion  an  Imdcr  of  ihr  lighl 

!''*'division  in  the  Peninsula.     He  was  shot  through  tite  \hh\\  nt  tho  vrry  IxTjinninn 

''*'jof  the  assault  on  Ciudad  Rodrigo,  and  died  on  Jan.  21."    He  wa«  biihctl  in  ih© 

breach  itself. 

i      Page  441,  xxxii.     General  (afterwards  Sir  Rowland  and  finall\    ^  "I ill, 

I  commanding  a  force  of  British  and  Sjianish  tr(H)ps,  surpriM^I  thr   1  .f 

Diil  General  CJirard  at  Arroyo  Molinos  in  the  wirly  morniny  of  Oct.  i-..   . o<1 

pli|  drove  them  from  the  village  with  the  loss  of  considerably  more  than  half  ihcir 
number  in  killed,  womided,  and  prisoners. 

Page  442,  xxxiii.     Barrc  Charles  Roberts  (1780  1810).  second  »on  of  }-I<lward 
l\  Roberts,  clerk  of  the  pells  in  the  excheiiucr,  gnuiuated  H.A.  at  C'hri-(  Hi'ir-  h  in 
1808.     He  was  a  keen  anticjuarian,  and  made  a  line  collection  of  !  «, 

now  in  the  possession  of  the  trustees  of  the  British  Museum.     In  i  Im 

contributed  to  the  first  number  of  the  Qiuirtirbj  Rninc  a,  review  ot  I'lnk-  :\"u'§ 
Es.'ntnj on  Medals.  He  was  seized  with  consumption  in  1807,  and  die«l  on  J«n.  I, 
1810.  In  1814  tiiere  appeared  LdUr.s  and  M isccllancou-'i  fa/xM  of  Barrc  CKatU* 
Rbbcrts,  irith  a  Memoir  of  hi'i  Life,  by  a  friend  ;  and  the  volume  waa  noticod  by 
Southey  in  the  Quarterly  lievieic  for  Jan.,  1815. 

Page  443,  xxxv-xxxvii.  The  Caledonian  Canal  was  completed  on  Oct,  30. 
1822. 

Page  453.  Epistle  to  Allan  Cunningham.  This  poem  was  written  oxprcaily 
for  The  Anniversary,  of  which  annual  Allan  Cuiuiingham  was  editor. 

11.  32-30.  Michael  Angelo  Taylor  (1757-1834),  M.P.  ISOO  1K02.  and  con- 
tinuously from  1800  to  1834,  introduced  in  1821  a  Bill  (subse<picntly  |uiMtcd) '  for 
giving  greater  facility  to  the  Prosecution  and  AI)atoment  of  Nui.^arK c*  Ari«in|; 
from  Furnaces  used' in  the  working  of  Steam  Enj^ines'.  He  \a  now  i  hwriy 
remembered  in  connexion  with  '  The  Metropolitan  Paving  Act.  1817*.  eonuuonly 
known  as  'Michael  Angelo  Taylor's  Act'. 

I.  138.  In  the  summer  of  1825  Southey  was  laid  up  for  thrr-*'  wwkj*  under 
the  surgeon's  care  at  Leyden.  The  Biklerdijka  took  him  inl<i  their  houjw  and 
showed  him  the  greatest  kindness.  Southey  revisit*-*!  them  in  tho  followinii 
summer,  and  continued  to  corres})ond  with  them  aftiTwanin.  Bildcrdijk'n  wifo 
had  translated  Roderick  into  Dutch  verse  (sec  Southey's  Prefaev  U>  tho  ninth 
volume  of  the  1837-8  ed.  of  his  Poems,  supra,  p.  W). 

In  1838  Southey  printed  at  the  end  of  this  epihlle  tho  inn-m  bv  IliWrnlijk 
which  had  suggested  it  to  him.  It  has  not  been  thought  worth  whik'  to  rrpnnt 
the  Dutch  original  in  the  present  edition. 

II.  252  sqq.  The  following  extract  from  a  letter  from  Southry  t"  Hamlin* 
Bowle.s,  dated  Jan.  1,  1829,  gives  some  explanation  of  tin*  i»<»rtrjiil«  ?  -- 

'  To  assist  you  in  the  collection  of  portrait.s  I  must  tell  you  what  m 

and  what  not.     The  first  was  engra\cd  hi  the  Europtun  i/o^ofiM,  auu  is  UvA 


760  NOTES 


a  picture  by  Edridge.  The  Landlord  exists  only  as  a  miniature  here  by  poor 
lyiiss  Betham.  The  Evangelical  is  in  the  New  Monthly  JIagazine,  and  the  French 
and  German  copies  are  of  course  not  attainable  in  this  country,  bir  tSmug  ig 
poor  Nash's  miniature.  Sir  Smouch  belongs  to  the  Percy  Anecdotes.  Smouch 
the  Coiner  is  published  for  one  shilling  by  a  fellow  named  Lombard  in  the  Strand. 
And  the  IMinion  is  the  mezzotint©  from  the  villainous  picture  by  Phillips. '  {The 
Corresyondence  of  Robert  Soiithey  ivith  Caroline  Bowles,  p.  15L) 

The  picture  by  Edridge  here  referred  to  is  presumably  the  pencil  drawing 
made  in  1804,  formerly  in  the  possession  of  G.  C.  Bedford,  and  now  in  the 
National  Portrait  Gallery. 

IVIADOC 

Begun  1794  (autumn)  :  finally  revised  in  the  autumn  of  1804  :  published  in 
one  vol.,  4to,  by  Longman  in  1805.  A  second  edition  appeared  in  1807  and 
a  fourth  in  1815. 

A  MS.  of  '  3Iadoc  in  Wales'  in  Southey's  writing,  dated  Oct.  29,  1804,  is  in  the 
possession  of  Canon  Ra%vnsley :  the  second  volume  of  this  MS.,  containing 
'  Madoc  in  Aztlan ' ,  is  in  the  Keswick  Museum. 

Page  461.  Part  I,  Section  I,  1.  43.  Aberfraiv.  '  The  palace  of  Gwynedd,  or 
North  Wales.  Rhodri  Mawr,  about  the  year  873,  fixed  the  seat  of  government 
here.'  ...     (S.) 

Page  467.  Section  III,  1. 19.  Dinevavyr.  '  Dinas  Vawr,  the  Great  Palace,  the 
residence  of  the  Princes  of  Deheubarth,  or  South  Wales.  This  also  was  erected 
by  Rhodri  Mawr.'    (S.) 

1.  24.  '  I  have  taken  some  liberties  here  with  the  history.  Hoel  kept 
possession  of  the  throne  nearly  two  years ;  he  then  went  to  Ireland  to  claim  } 
the  property  of  his  mother,  Pyvog,  the  daughter  of  an  Irish  chieftain  ;  in  the  ■ 
meantime  David  seized  the  government.  Hoel  raised  all  the  force  he  could  to  W 
recover  the  crown,  but  after  a  severe  conflict  was  wounded  and  defeated.  He  i 
returned  to  Ireland  with  the  remains  of  his  arm}^  which  probably  consisted  i 
chiefly  of  Irishmen,  and  there  died  of  his  wounds. — {Cambrian  Biography).'    (S.) 

Page  475.    Section  IV,  1.  184.    Gwenhidicy.    A  mermaid.    (S.) 

Page  481.     Section  VI,  1.  131.     '  Islets  of  this  kind,  with  dwelling  huts  upon  | 

them,  were  common  upon  the  Lake  of  Mexico.' — Gavigero.    (S.) 

Page  496.     Section  XI,  1.  13-17.     '  By  the  principles  of  the  Order  a  bard  was 

never  to  bear  arms,  nor  in  any  other  manner  to  become  a  party  in  any  dispute, 

either  political  or  religious.  .  .  . — Owen's  Llywarc  Hen.'    (S.) 

Page  537.  Part  11,  Section  VI,  1.  192.  '  Snake-worship  was  common  in 
America.' — Bemal  Dias,  p.  3.  7.  125.  .  .  . 

*  It  can  scarcely  be  necessary  to  say  that  I  have  attributed  to  the  Hoamen  such 
manners  and  superstitions  as,  really  existing  among  the  savage  tribes  of  America, 
were  best  suited  to  the  plan  of  the  poem.'    (S.) 

Page  545.  Section  IX,  1.  16.  Elmur  and  Aronan.  Bards  who  had  borne  arms. 
Aronan  was  one  of  three  known  as  '  the  three  Bards  of  the  Ruddy  Spear.'    (S.) 

Page  547,  11.  99-106.  'Tezcalipoca  was  believed  to  arrive  first,  because  he  was 
the  youngest  of  the  Gods,  and  never  waxed  old.  .  .  .'    (S.) 

1.  107.  Mexitli,  icoman-horn.  '  The  history  of  Mexitli's  birth  is  related  in 
the  poem,  Part  II,  Section  XXL'     (S.) 

1.  111.    Quetzalcoal.    ^  God  of  the  Winds.'     (S.) 


f: 


tecryi 


-NOTES  7ei 

Page  550.    Section  X.  1.  (id.  Coatlaulom.  '  "The  molhcr  of  MniUi  wl»«. 
mortal  woman,  was  made  immortal  for  her  aon's  hhIv,  and  ftuiiuinu. 
>f  all  herbs?,  iiower^j,  and  trees."— Clavigcro.'     (S.)  I'I'^«m»« 

Page  55G.    Section  XII,  1.  85.    Tlalocan.    '  The  I'aradi.'v  of  TUIoc*    (R) 

Page  567.     Section  XV,  1.  94.     '  "  An  old  prieM  of  the  Tl««-i ^Sr©  Umv 

were  at  war  with  the  Mexicans,  advist«d  them  to  drink  tho  1,.  'n  b«fara 

they  went  to  battle  ;    this  was  made  by  n\ ashing  the  Stono  of  >  Uw  \hm 

drank  Hrst,  and  then  all  his  chiefs  and  wjldierH  in  order:  it  u»*do  Uma  mm 
and  impatient  for  tlie  tight." — Torquuimdu,  I.  ii,  c.  58.'     (S.) 

Page  002.  Section  XXVII.  II.  3.V4S.  '  My  excuw  for  thin  tn^fpaficMil 
agency,  as  I  fear  it  will  be  thoupht,  must  bo  that  the  fact  it«rlf  \n  hinfnrWIty 
true;    by  means  of  this  omen  the  Azteeas  were  induccxi  to  quit  t'  rr, 

after  a  series  of  calamities.    Tlie  leader  who  had  addre.s.s  enough  to  v.  /tn 

was  Huitzitou,  a  name  which  I  have  alteretl  to  Vuhidlhit<»n  fcr  i.i.  -v...  ol 
euphony  ;  the  note  of  the  bird  is  expressed  in  Spanish  and  IiaIuu  lbu»,  /lAai  ; 
the  cry  of  the  peewhit  cannot  be  better  expressed.'     (S.) 


BALLADS  AisD  METRICAL  TALES 

Page  636.  St.  Giialbcrto.  George  Burnett  (1776  ?-18lI)  wm  a  frieod  ol 
Southeyat  Balliol,and  one  of  those  who  joined  hi  the  scheme  of  '  |MUiliKKraej '. 
His  erratic  disposition  made  his  life  '  a  series  of  unHUcces»ful  attompt^i  in  ouuiy 
professions'.     He  published  in  1807  a  View  of  the  PrcMtnt  Stntr  rf  Pf^nrt'i.  •nd 

9\so  edited  Specimcm  of  Ewjlish  Prose  Writcru  {\%iyi)  i\i\i\  a  x'l'  ''• 

Prose  Works  (1809).     For  the  last  two  years  of  his  life  his  fi  u« 

saw  and  heard  nothing  of  him,  and  he  die<l  in  tho  Maryh-t?»>ii.-  iiin.iii*i>    m 
Feb.,  1811. 

Page  644.  Roprccht  the  Bobber.  There  is  a  MS.  of  this  balUd  (lUMUtod)  io 
the  British  Museum,  and  another  in  tho  po6.>H.'6aion  of  Canon  R4Viuiey. 


A  TALE  OF  PARAGUAY 

This  poem  was  begun  in  1814,  laid  aside  for  long  intcrval.-s  and  oni>  m 
Feb.  24,  1825.    It  was  published  by  Longman  in  one  volume.  I2mo.  ml"'. 

Page  657.     Dedication,  11.  6-14.      Southcy  first   made    t! 
John  May  at  Lisbon  in  1795-6,  and  thus  Ix^gan  a  lifelong  fri.  ■ 

1.  18.     Southey's  eldest  child,  Margaret,  died  ui  Auguat  1^-. 

quite  a  year  old. 

Page  672.     Canto II,  1.  249.    And  Father  iixis hit  namr.    'Tup«-     f •  -  • 
and  Guarani  name  for  Father,  for  Thunder,  and  for  the  Suprvmr  I- 

Page  681.     Canto  III,  11.  168-71.      In   1822  S^      '    '      ' 
mother,  was  still  living  at  Greta  Hall,  had  puMi 

suggestion)   a   translation  in  three  volumes  of    L^:  ._: 

AbipoTi&s. 


762  NOTES 


THE  POET'S  PILGRBIAGE  TO  WATERLOO 


PiG! 


This  poem  was  published  by  Longman  in  one  volume,  12mo,  in  1816.  Southey 
had  toured  in  Holland  and  Belgium  in  Sept.-Oct.,  1815,  with  Mrs.  Southey,  thein 
eldest  daughter  Edith,  Edward  Nash,  the  artist,  and  one  or  two  other  friends. 
The  Southeys  reached  Greta  Hall  on  their  return  on  Dec.  6,  1815  ;  and  a  melan- 
choly interest  attaches  to  the  Proem  to  '  The  Poet's  Pilgrimage',  in  which  that 
joyous  homecoming  is  so  feelingly  described.  Herbert,  Southey' s  only  boy,  the 
very  light  of  his  eyes,  was  taken  ill  in  the  following  March,  and  died  on  April  17, 
1816.  He  was  in  the  tenth  year  of  his  age.  Southey  never  recovered  from  this 
blow.  '  The  head  and  flower  of  his  earthly  happiness '  had  been,  as  he  said,  'cut 
off.'  And  a  fresh  bitterness  must,  if  possible,  have  been  added  to  his  sorrow  by 
the  fact  that  he  was  obliged  at  the  time  to  occupy  himself  in  correcting  the  proofs 
of  this  poem,  which  had  been  written  in  such  joy  and  thankfulness  of  heart. 

Cp.  the  'Fragmentary  Thoughts  occasioned  by  his  Son's  Death',  and  the 
*  Additional  Fragment,'  pp.  740-2. 

Page  699.  Proem,  1.  51.  Her  twin-like  comrade.  Sara  Coleridge,  who  was 
bom  in  1802,  and  had  been  brought  up  at  Greta  Hall. 

Page  700,  1.  109.  The  aged  friend  serene.  Mrs.  Wilson.  She  had  been  house- 
keeper to  Mr.  Jackson,  the  former  owner  of  Greta  Hall,  and  continued  to  live 
there  until  her  death  in  1820. 

1.  112.    The  aunts.    Mrs.  Coleridge  and  Mrs.  Lovell. 

Page  701.  Part  I,  i,  1.  13.  Charles  Martel  defeated  the  Saracens  at  Tours  on 
Oct.  10,  732. 

Page  702,  1.  38.  Ourique's  consecrated  field.  Alfonso,  count  or  duke  of 
Portugal,  is  said  to  have  completely  defeated  the  Moors  at  Ourique  on  July  25, 
1139,  and  then  to  have  been  hailed  the  first  king. 

1.  55.  that  old  siege.  Ostend  was  besieged  by  the  Spaniards  from  July,  1601, 
to  Sept.,  1604,  when  it  honourably  capitulated. 

Page  704,  1.  181.     That  sisterhood.     The  Beguines.     (S.) 

Page  705,  1.  211.  And  one  had  dwelt  icith  Malahars  and  Moors.  Edward 
Nash,  the  artist.  Southey  made  his  acquaintance  in  Belgium  in  1815,  and  they 
were  on  terms  of  close  intimacy  until  Nash's  death  in  Jan.,  1821.  Nash  drew  the 
Portrait  of  the  Author  and  the  Sketch  of  the  Bust  published  in  the  one-volume 
edition  of  The  Doctor,  dc.,  the  picture  of  Bertha,  Kate,  and  Isabel  Southey 
prefixed  to  vol.  v  of  Southey' s  Life  and  Correspondence,  and  seven  of  the  illustra- 
tions in  the  first  edition  of  The  Poefs  Pilgrimage  to  Waterloo. 

1.  223.  A  third  wlw  from  the  Land  of  Lakes  with  me  Went  out.  .  .  . 
Henry  Koster,  author  of  Travels  in  Brazil.  Southey  had  become  acquainted 
with  him  at  Lisbon  in  1800. 

Page  706,  1.  246.  In  1583  the  English  garrison  of  Alost  delivered  up  the  town 
to  the  Spaniards  in  consideration  of  receiving  from  them  their  pay,  which  had  been 
withheld  by  the  States.  It  is  fair  to  add  that  the  Dutch  had  not  only  refused  to 
give  them  their  pay,  but  had  also  threatened  '  to  force  them  out,  or  else  to  famish 
them'  (Grimestone,  Hist,  of  the  Netherlands,  833,  quoted  by  Southey  in  his 
note  ad  loc).  ■ 

1.  247.     Afflighem,  by  ruin  rent.     '  This  magnificent  Abbey  was  destroyed    m^ 
during  the  Revolution,  ...  an  act  of  popular  madness  which  the  people  in  its   W^ 


NOTES 


^t 


it  inity  now  spoke  of  with  unavailing  regret    The  library  «m  at  <ma  ikm^  iK. 

idlest  in  Brabant.'      (S.)  ^  ■—  mot  mot 

Page  707,  11.  70-2.  *  Ono  of  our  coachmen,  wjjo  had  l>c«n  vrnplorcd  tVkm 
A]  his  fraternity)  in  rcmovuig  the  wounde^l,  a>tk«i  un  what  «iui  !\Z  mmnkoM 
)t  tlio  English  word  O  Lord!  for  thus,  he  Haid,  the  wouiulwl  *»rrr  ctjottou^ 
•lying  out.'     (8.)  ' 

Page  708,  11.  10-24.  Charles  II  of  Spain  niarrioci  a«  hia  firvt  »if«  MaH» 
,.niise,  nicco  of  Louis  XIV.    His  death  in  171K)  without  iasuo  1«1  to  the  War  of  Uw 

>l)anish  Succession. 

P\GE  709,  11.  (>.")-().  When  MarlhoroiKjh  hcrt,  virtoritin  in  I  '  f 
rrcncJi.  .  .  .     'A  detachment  of  the  French  wa«entren<-h<«<l  i 

A  ;_ust  1705,  when  the  Duke  of  ^larlborouj^h  advanml  to  ,  rr,K-ii 

iriny  at  Over  Ysche,  and  this  detachment  waH  destroy.il  wi-  vightar 

r.rhnrd's  Gazetle(r).  .  .  .  Marlborough  was  preventtMl' by  tli.     '  nf  |Im» 

tes  from  pursuing  his  advantage,  and  attacking  the  enemy,  at  «  iimp  wl>m  he 

ni;ulc  sure  of  victory. — Hist,  dv  V Kminrcur  ('harks  VI.  t.  ii.  p.  IK).'  (S.) 

Page  710,  1.  115.    The  young  Nassau.    The  Prince  of  Orange. 

Page  714,  1.  290.    Howard's  corse.    Sec  Childc  Harold.  Canto  i.i. 
and  30.     The  Hon.  Frederick  Howard  (1785-1815).  thinl  w.n  of  t  I 

of  Carlisle,  was  killed  at  Waterloo  late  in  the  evening  in  a  fuial  cliar.  :i 

^.|uare  of  the  French  Guard. 

Page  719,  1.  249.  The  Priussians  huivy  hand.  'Wherever  «•.  «<;.:  «o 
luard  ono  cry  of  complaint  against  the  Prussianw,  except  at  Ligny.  whrm  tho 
])t  oplc  had  witnessed  only  their  courage  and  their  sufTeringH.  Thin  i-^  tVr  rfTrrt 
of  making  the  military  spirit  predominate  in  a  nation.    The  eon<ln< '  n 

was  imiversally  extolled  ;   but  it  required  years  of  exertion  and  of  h  r* 

L'lnl  Wellington  brouglit  the  British  army  to  its  ])resenf    •    •      •■    ' 

■  Wliat  I  have  said  of  the  Prussians  relates  solely  t<»  t)  •  •! 

' 'uitry  ;    and  I  must  also  say  that  the  Prussian  oflicei. ....  -.iiO 

"\  fortune  to  associate,  were  men  who  in  every  resiuTt  did  honour  in  thru 
fossion  and  to  their  country.  But  that  the  general  conduct  of  thrir  tmr^i^  ui 
_'ium  had  excited  a  strong  feeling  of  disgust  and  indignation  we  1;  '  i 

1  indisputable  testimony.     In  France  they  had  old  wrong«  to  r.  -I 

ii  lyiveuess  of  injuries  is  not  among  the  virtues  which  are  taught  in  r.nnj-       (.-v) 

J'age  723,  1.  169.  Navarre's  heroic  chii  f.  Miiia.  a  celrbmt*-*!  gurrnlla  chW. 
u  ho  harassed  the  French  troops  in  Navarro  during  tho  I'eninMular  War. 

Page  726,  1.  70.  Fkurus  later  navir.  The  French  under  Jourdaa  dcfe^leJ 
the  Austrians  at  Fleurus  on  June  25,  179 1. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POETICAL  KE.MAINS 

Page  740.     Fragmentary  TJunighfs,  ocrasinnrd  hy  hin  Son*  Dfalk.    Th«w  fra^« 

iiK  nts  and  the  two  following  poems  were  published  by  Hrrl«—   »•■!     '-■■■t  -%  • 

<  oiisin  and  son-in-law,  in  1845,  together  with  other  wrtt-t*.  in  a 

twic  of    Oliver  Neirwan  :    A   New-Emjlnnd  Ttih  :   M'lM  • '' ■ 

I  1  the  preface  to  that  volume  Herbert  Hill  tliUH  HjM'ak.-  ■  '^ 

jHirpose  of  these  memorials  of  the  greatost  Horrt>w  of  S  J 

Herbert— of  whom  he  wrote  thus  in  the  Colloquies.  **  1  calkxl  lu  mmd  no  uo^^iM 


764  NOTES 

H.  too,  so  often  the  sweet  companion  of  my  morning  walks  to  this  very  spot,  i 
whom  I  had  fondly  thought  my  better  part  should  have  survived  me, 

With  whom  it  seem'd  my  very  life 

Went  half  away  " — 

died  17th  April,  1816,  being  about  ten  years  old,  a  boy  of  remarkable  genius  am 
sweetness  of  disposition.  These  Fragments  bear  a  date  at  their  commencemeni 
3rd  May,  1816,  but  do  not  seem  all  written  at  the  same  time.  The  Author  at  on 
time  contemplated  founding  upon  them  a  considerable  work,  of  a  meditativ 
and  deeply  serious  cast.  But,  although  he,  like  Schiller,  after  the  vanishing  c 
his  ideals,  always  found  "  Employment,  the  never-tiring  ",  one  of  his  trues 
friends, — yet  this  particular  form  of  employment,  which  seemed  at  first  attractiv 
to  him,  had  not,  when  tried,  the  soothing  effect  upon  his  feeUngs  which  wa 
needful ;  and  in  March,  1817,  he  writes  that  he  "  had  not  recovered  heart  enougl 
to  proceed  with  it".' 


INDEX   OF   FIRST  LINES 


ye 


A  golden  medal  was  voted  to  mo 

A  respite  something  like  repose  is  gain'd 
A   Well  there  is  in  the  west  country    . 
A  wrinkled,  crabbed  man  they  picture  thee 
And  I  was  once  like  this  !    tliat  glowing  cheek 
And  wherefore  do  the  Poor  complain 
Are  days  of  old  familiar  to  thy  mind 
\<  thus  I  stand  beside  the  murmuring  stream 
Athwart  the  island  here,  from  sea  to  sea     . 
Ay,  Charles  !    I  knew  that  tliis  would  tix  thine 

Beware  a  speedy  friend,  the  Arabian  said    . 
Bishop  Bruno  awoke  in  the  dead  midnight 
Bright  on  the  mountain's  heathy  slope 


Callest  thou  thyself  a  Patriot  ?  ...  On  this  field 
Charles  Lamb,  to  those  who  know  thee  justly  dear 
'mKI  was  the  night  wind,  drifting  fast  the  snow  fell 

melius  Agrippa  went  out  one  day    . 
1    ossing  in  miexampled  enterprize 

Daughters  of  Jove  and  of  Mnemosyne 
Divided  far  by  death  were  they,  whose  names 
Do  I  regret  the  past  .... 

Edith  !    ten  years  are  number'd  since  the  day 
'  Enter,  Sir  Knight,'  the  warden  cried 
Enter  this  cavern,  Stranger  !    Here  awhile 

Faint  gleams  the  evening  radiance  through  the  sky 
Fair  be  thy  fortunes  in  the  distant  land 
Fair  blows  the  wind,  the  vessel  drives  along 
I'lir  is  the  rising  morn  when  o'er  tlie  .sky 
Farewell  my  home,  my  home  no  longer  now 
Four  months  Massena  had  his  quarters  here 
From  his  brimstone  bed  at  break  of  day 

Caspar  !    how  pleasantly  thy  pictured  scenes 

Glory  to  Thee  in  thine  omnipotence     . 

Grenville,  few  years  have  had  their  course,  suice  bat 

Happy  the  dwellers  in  this  holy  house 
He  pass'd  unquestion'd  through  th(!  camp 
He  who  in  this  unconsecrated  ground 


rs 

741 


6fi7 
616 
426 

383 
381 
461 
379 
38S 
438 
431 

389 
398 
307 

391 
684 
438 


766 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


t 


He  who  may  chronicle  Spam's  arduous  strife 
Here  cavern' d  Uke  a  beast  Honorius  pass'd 
Here  Craufurd  fell,  victorious,  in  the  breach 
Here  in  the  fruitful  vales  of  Somerset 
Here  Latimer  and  Ridley  in  the  flames 
Here  Sidney  lies,  he  whom  perverted  law     . 
Here  was  it,  Stranger,  that  the  patron  Saint 
High  on  a  rock  whose  castle  shade 
How  beautiful  is  night         .... 
How  darkly  o'er  yon  far-off  mountain  frowns 
How  does  the  Water  .... 

How  many  hearts  are  happy  at  this  hour 

I  marvel  not,  0  Sun  !    that  unto  thee 

I  told  my  tale  of  the  Holy  Thumb 

If  thou  didst  feed  on  western  plains  of  yore 

In  an  evil  day  and  an  hour  of  woe     . 

In  happy  hour  doth  he  receive 

In  its  summer  pride  array' d 

It  is  Antidius  the  Bishop    .... 

It  was  a  little  island  where  he  dwelt 

It  was  a  summer  evening 

Jaspar  was  poor,  and  vice  and  want 
Jenner  !    for  ever  shall  thy  honour' d  name 
John  rests  below.     A  man  more  infamous    . 

Let  no  man  write  my  epitaph  ;    let  my  grave 
Little  Book,  in  green  and  gold    . 
Long  had  the  crimes  of  Spain  cried  out  to  Heaven 
Lord  !    who  art  merciful  as  well  as  just 

Man  hath  a  weary  pilgrimage 

Margaret !    my  Cousin,  .  .  .  nay,  you  must  not  smile 

Mary  !    ten  chequer' d  years  have  past 

Merrily,  merrily  rung  the  bells     . 

Midnight,  and  yet  no  eye 

Mild  arch  of  promise,  on  the  evening  sky    . 

My  days  among  the  Dead  are  past 

Mysterious  are  the  ways  of  Providence 

Nay,  Edith  !    spare  the  Rose ;  .  .  .  perhaps  it  lives 

No  eye  beheld  when  William  plunged 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea 

Not  less  delighted  do  I  call  to  mind 

Not  often  hath  the  cold  insensate  earth 

Not  to  the  grave,  not  to  the  grave,  my  Soul 

Not  upon  marble  or  sepulchral  brass 

0  God  !    have  mercy  in  this  dreadful  hour 

0  Reader  !    hast  thou  ever  stood  to  see 

0  thou  sweet  Lark,  who  in  the  heaven  so  high 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


767 


)ld  friend  !    why  j'ou  seem  bont  on  parUh  duty 

)n  as  I  journey  tlirouuli  tlie  vale  of  yt-ftrn 

)nco  more  1  s«.>o  thee,  SkicUlaw  !    oneo  ai;uin 

)ne  day,  it  matters  not  to  know 

)no  day  to  Helbock  I  had  atroll'd 

)ur  world  hath  seen  the  work  of  war'a  dohato 

^assing  across  a  preen  and  lonely  lano 
Mthj-rian  was  a  Taj^an         .... 
"izarro  here  was  born  ;    a  greater  name 
orlock,  tiiy  verdant  vale  so  fair  to  sight    . 

)ader,  thou  standest  upon  holy  groiuid 
»oprecht  the  Robber  is  taken  at  last 
lotha,  after  long  delays      .... 


Seven  thousand  men  lay  bleeding  on  these  heightn 
She  comes  majestic  witAi  her  swelling  sails 
Slowly  thy  flowing  tide        .... 
>(une  there  will  be  to  whom,  as  here  they  read 
Sometimes  in  youthful  years 
Son  of  an  old  and  honourable  house 
Spaniard  !    if  thou  art  one  ivho  bows  the  kneo 
Spaniard  or  Portugueze  !    tread  reverently    . 
Spider  !    thou  need'st  not  run  in  fear  about 
Stately  yon  vessel  sails  adown  the  tide 
Steep  is  the  soldier's  path  ;    nor  are  the  heights 
Stranger  !    awhile  upon  this  mossy  bank 
Stranger  !    the  Man  of  Nature  lies  not  hero 
Stranger  !    whose  steps  have  reach'd  this  solitude 
Sweet  to  the  morning  traveller    . 


That  was  a  memorable  day  for  Spain 

The  Emperor  Nap  he  would  set  off      . 

The  first  wish  of  Queen  Mary's  heart 

The  fountains  of  Onoro  which  give  name     . 

The  Friars  five  have  girt  their  loins    . 

The  hill  was  in  the  sunshine  gay  and  green 

The  Maiden  through  the  favouring  night 

The  Raven  croak' d  as  she  sate  at  her  nu-al 

The  sky-lark  hath  perceived  his  prison-door 

The  summer  and  autumn  had  been  so  wet 

The  work  is  done,  the  fabric  is  complete     . 

There  once  was  a  painter  in  Catholic  days 

There  was  an  old  man  breaking  stones 

They  suffered  here  whom  Jefferies  doom'd  to  death 

This  is  the  place  where  William's  kingly  power 

This  is  Vimeiro  ;    yonder  stream  which  flows 

This  mound  in  some  remote  and  dateless  day 

This  to  a  mother's  sacred  memory 

Thou  chronicle  of  crimes!    I'll  read  no  men- 

Thou  lingerest,  Spring  !    still  wintry  is  the  Hr<u> 


tAOU 
411 
400 

ffJH 


4U 


v,7 

438 
S8S 

W7 

•  13 

•0 

.10 

JJ» 

4J9 


S6S 

417 
4» 
3fiO 
SM 


360 
642 

438 

374 
741 
6S8 
307 
401 
371 

•  ..'I 

AM} 

i.T 
431 
38ft 
380 


768 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


Thou  who  haat  reach' d  this  level  where  the  glede 
Though  the  four  quarters  of  the  world  have  seen 
Through  all  Iberia,  from  the  Atlantic  shores 
Time  and  the  world,  whose  magnitude  and  weight 
Time  has  been  when  Rolissa  wag  a  name     . 
To  Butler's  venerable  memory     .... 
Turner,  thy  pencil  brings  to  mind  a  day 

Well,  Heaven  be  thank' d  !    friend  Allan,  here  I  am 
When  from  these  shores  the  British  army  first     . 
Where  these  capacious  basins,  by  the  laws 
Who  counsels  peace  at  this  momentous  hour 
Who  is  yonder  poor  Maniao,  whose  wildly-fixed  eyes 
Whom  are  they  ushering  from  the  world,  with  all 
With  many  a  weary  step,  at  length  I  gain 

Yet  one  Song  more !  one  high  and  solemn  strain 
Yon  wide-extended  town,  whose  roofs  and  towers 
You  are  old,  Father  William,  the  young  man  cried 


Oxford:  Horace  Hart,  Printer  to  the  University 


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